Water Lessons (11 page)

The Commodore flipped on the light. "Your new office is where we keep the articles, records of ownership, and the receipts of sale in that file cabinet. It holds records for taxes paid on various vessels. And that one contains all our subchapter-S records and documents of incorporation. In that drawer there you'll find the documents on all the races we'll compete in."

Jim felt his heart rise slightly and fall back in place within his chest. He couldn't recall hearing anything about races. How often would he have to practice on the open water for these?

"And this here's your computer. An Apple, no less! Anyway, on the desktop you'll find a digital rolodex of prospective and past buyers, and in the documents section there's a file on each regional show: the Providence Boat Show in winter, the Newport International, of course, and a few ones in Boston. More on all that later."

Walter clapped his hands once. "I'll give you an introduction on Monday, when everyone's here. I'm ultimately running this venture, but you'll oversee most of it. And of course there are the other men living on the Cape who work here full-time. They help mainly with the labor. You can learn a lot from 'em, but they answer to
you
," Walter said with gravity, pointing at Jim's chest.

"Now get a load of this, sonny boy," Walter motioned to another keypad on the wall.

"Walter, you've got this place rigged tighter than Fort Knox."

"With good reason. Years ago some local cretins burglarized it. They made out with a load of tools, and vandalized the hell out the place. I ratcheted up security after that one, when I built this addition here. Your new digs." The Commodore's hand hovered over the keypad.

"Whatcha got, Commodore?"

"Ten twenty one eight zero five," Walter eyes flashed. "I know you'll get this."

"The Battle of Trafalgar, and the death of England's greatest naval hero, Lord Nelson. His victory reaffirmed Britain as the ruler of the high seas for over a century afterwards."

"
Great
show, my boy!" the Commodore thundered in a much more convincing British accent. "Now, tell me, for a hundred points, and the hand of my daughter in marriage, and for full ownership of the
John Paul Jones
down there… just kidding… in what two liquids was the great Admiral Nelson's body preserved for the trip home to England?"

"Brandy… and wine. Not such a bad way to be honored."

"Excellent! Your most challenging question yet," Walter said as he punched in the code and yanked open the door. "After you, Lieutenant."

Walter flipped the light. The apartment, swept and mopped, was devoid of furniture. Jim smiled at the black marble countertop, refrigerator and well-furnished kitchen. The walls had been painted a neutral white, and were without blemishes. A bay window stretched nearly the entire height of the wall. Two French doors, revealing an exemplary view, opened out onto a balcony. The parking lot and boatyard lay below, and the entire Nantucket sound lay beyond.

"I really like the place! Excellent view," Jim said.

"You'll get used to this just fine," Walter said. "Welcome home. Ya dawn good, sonny bo-ah. Ya dawn good. Now let's get back to the house to see what my sweet girls have in store."

For a second, Jim stood musing on the empty apartment around him. He wondered what the flooded, ruined house of his grandfather looked like. Jim had refused for months to see any photos of the mold, mildew, and gutted ceilings, floors, and walls, the obliterated heirlooms and thus the annihilated family past. His father had sent a team to strip the house, but Jim had several times made it clear he didn't want to hear any details. Freddy had passed on its roof, and the entire edifice might as well be cursed.

Jim followed the old man toward the door and felt the guilt return once more. Jim had survived and flourished. His friend had vanished from the earth, murdered by the storm days after it had passed, and the old Jim had died there on the roof with Freddy.
 

The new Jim was born—and in turn borne up through the air from the city that raised him into the helicopter—and that new Jim had died to the past with its restless travels and struggles for money and been born into a bright new life of many triumphs. But had he betrayed his roots by leaving the city of his birth and heritage at its darkest hour, and abandoned his old life and passions, and forged their replacements in a new land?

As Jim walked out into the sunlight he recalled his father's words from the phone call days before. "One day, sugar, you will wake up and years will have flown by. I'll be gone. Mother will be gone. And it'll be too late to enjoy the rest of your youth and all you could have enjoyed down here."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The mahogany table was laid out with the old pewter flatware of a semi-formal Henretty lunch. Jim sat to the right of the Commodore, who filled his chair at the head of the table. Across from the old man sat Kathleen Henretty. At Kathleen's right hand, and directly across from Jim, sat Maureen.

The two women debated shoe styles. The old Commodore had completely disengaged. He stared past his wife toward the Atlantic, watching the two racing motorboats and farther beyond, the lone sloop.

Jim sipped Sauvignon Blanc and leisurely spooned the heavenly chowder into his mouth. Kathleen prepared the seafood chowder before their arrival, but had gone to the market only for more dill. Jim suspected the old man had been keen to leave Maureen behind at the house by any means so that he and Jim could talk business and Walter would be free to relate a bawdy or gore-filled joke, tale, or pun.

Listening with half an ear, Jim stared at his bowl. The women switched their discussion to jewelry. The contrast in voices caught his attention. Kathleen's Rhode Island accent carried inflections borne of Italian and Portuguese immigration and a location between Massachusetts and New York City. Her voice was more mellow and lower than her daughter's. Maureen's voice was younger and more lilting, but just as authoritative.

Jim shot two successive glances at the duo, taking in their faces, hair, clothes, and positions at the table. He chuckled inwardly as he contemplated that he did indeed harbor some guilty but nevertheless understandable attraction to the mother, a dead ringer for a middle-aged Raquel Welch, with the same nostrils that often flared sensually, the same lynx-like eyes harboring an inner fire. That last feature she had passed on to Maureen.

Kathleen Silva Burgoyne must have wielded that allure when, as a girl of twenty-seven, she snagged Walter, fifty-two, lightly graying, tall and strapping, and newly retired. Half French and the remainder mostly Portuguese with a dash of Wampanoag Indian, Kathleen first met Walter at a coffee breakfast at the Our Lady of the Assumption Catholic Church in Osterville. Jim had forgotten how the rest of it went.

"So Walter, Kathleen," Jim said. "Can someone tell me the story of how you met at church?"

"Well, Walter had just been discharged," Kathleen began, "and had returned to his father's estate here on Cape Cod."

Jim noticed she omitted mentioning Walter's first wife had passed a few years before the move.

"Walter rarely missed Mass, rarely missed an opportunity for a doughnut, so he inevitably found himself in the parish hall, where—"
 

"I was chatting with my new friend, Father Higgins, who suddenly mentions he needs 'to give in to the sin of gluttony and find those doughnuts.' He whispers for me to follow him, that he wants me to meet this young parishioner here for the summer. I see this twenty-something, beautiful, somewhat exotic woman, arranging the doughnut tray on the table. Kathleen starts blushing at me, and—"

"But what did you say to me to make me blush?" Kathleen said.

"Can you help a poor sailor?!" Walter yelled and pounded the table with his fists.

Jim and Walter and Kathleen laughed in unison. Maureen looked at them, from one to another, with an expression of bewilderment.

"Then," Kathleen said, raising her beautifully arched eyebrows, "Father goes, 'This captain returned from a long voyage and needs some breakfast!' I offered Walter a doughnut, and then another one. We spoke of my summer job at this Hyannis boutique and of my Osterville friends I was staying with for the summer. I'd come to the Cape a month before to learn sailing. My father had taught me to motorboat on the Sakonnet and the Narragansett in Rhode Island but I knew little about sailing. I had said the right thing—but as Walter often jokes—I could have said anything."

Jim took another spoonful of the chowder.

"To your liking, eh, Jim?" Kathleen said. "If only you could see your face!"

"I've seen him eat it at two different restaurants in a single day," Maureen said. "But I know Jim and all his funny mannerisms. He's
really
enjoying that right now."

"It's amazing, Mrs. Henretty, really."

"Please call me Kathleen! I'm not that old yet! But Walter?" Kathleen said. "Address him as Mr. Henretty. He's crossed the line into old."

The old man rolled his eyes.

"Now, Jim, which version do you like better?" Kathleen directed her large, dark eyes with their long curled lashes at him. "The white-broth Maine style or the red broth, tomahto-based Rhode Island and Manhattan chowder? And do you prefer seafood, clam, or fish chowder?"

Either Kathleen Henretty's Maine-style dish or her home state would be snubbed. Jim aimed to navigate this discussion with stealth. "I love them all. If I was on a desert island with only one of those to eat, it would be a seafood chowder, Maine style. But my tastes change. Maybe in a few weeks it'll be the red chowder."

"Good answer," Kathleen said.

"Are you smooth! Ever consider law, diplomacy, politics?" Maureen said.

"Couldn't have stated it better," the old man winked. "And don't let her make ya sweat, son. I was watchin' you!"

"Walter,
behave
!" Kathleen said. "Aren't you going to disclose the little surprise you have in store?"

"Well, after lunch, we could sit around. Let this delicious food settle and snooze here at the house. Then we could take a trip out on the water. We'll cap it all off with a little cocktail party. Sharon can hit the grocery for hors d'oeuvres. I can round up some guests."

"That sounds
wonderful
, Walt!" Kathleen said. "As long as I don't cook, that is."

"Or
I
, for that matter," Maureen said.

"Don't worry about cooking." Walter nodded at them. "This meal was
excelente
."

"So, Jim," Kathleen said, "tell me your thoughts on the new job. Excited?" She raised her eyebrows in expectation.

"It was one big, unexpected leap," Jim said. "But I'm definitely hyped. I'm giving it all I've got."

"I bet you liked the shop, Jim," Kathleen said, her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her hands, widening her eyes at him.

Jim shot a glance at the old man, who suddenly seemed ill at ease, almost nervous. "I've got a great setup out there, I really do."

"Don't worry, Walt," Kathleen said, her eyes twinkling. "You can relax. I won't mention that very object of careless expenditure that rests inside that warehouse."

Everyone laughed, including the Commodore.

"So are you liking New England, Jim? Starting to get scared off?" Kathleen said. "Between its fast pace and the winters?"

"I am takin' to it just fine so far, ma'am."

Jim felt himself wince. He didn't know anymore whether or not he was a liar. In a way he had uttered the truth. And in a way, he knew he had said something quite different.

"Please omit the 'ma'am'. I feel like I'm aging two years every time I hear it!"

"Sorry, Kathleen. It's a hard trait of mine to unlearn."

"You call your mother 'ma'am', and even forty-year-old waitresses, am I right?"

"From time to time."

"How are your parents, by the way?"

Jim paused and inhaled slowly, as if stopping before a broad river within his own soul he must traverse. He sensed a fog of sadness descend upon him as the faces of the couple who created him appeared in his mind. Part of him still felt like he had abandoned them, betrayed them.

"They're better, and the same. Saw 'em a few months ago in Folsom, when I went for my truck." Jim loved how, unlike her daughter, Kathleen often asked about his family. "Dad's business was hurting. Hurricane knocked out a good portion of those offshore wells. Mom's still deep into her church functions. She tells me every day how New Orleans—where she's originally from, not Folsom—isn't what it used to be. How depressing things have become, and how depressed many are in that whole area. As for Mississippi, where my father's from—wind damage crushed that whole lower part of the state…"

"You have a brother, right? How's he taking it all?" Kathleen said after a pause. The soft motherly humanity, the genuine concern radiated from her hazel eyes.

Jim remembered working with his brother years ago, and how his brother had hoped they would work together again after the storm, selling home renovations and repairs and working storm insurance claims. The money would have come much easier, but Jim knew he must leave New Orleans…

"Paul and I have at times been at odds, but we were always close. He and my parents, especially my father, haven't gotten along for many years. Now I don't get to speak with him as much. But lots of my New Orleans news I get from Paul. He runs a big roofing operation off St. Charles Avenue. Slate roofs, asbestos, terra cotta roofs, all sorts. He's quite the businessman. Hit the point where he turns business away."

"That's great, Jim. I'm glad they're all right," Kathleen said.

A flurry of images cascaded through his mind—images of the flooded graves of his ancestors in cemeteries and mausoleums across the city and in the surge-leveled graveyards of Waveland on the Mississippi Coast, images of bloated bodies drifting in the dark toxic filth of Mid-City streets, of the teenage boy waking there in the Baton Rouge shelter as Jim laid the wool blanket on him. The submerged horror and pain rose from deep within him like bile.
 

His family emerged unharmed, but the pain and damage wreaked by the storm on that area was incalculable. Was there any evacuee who had prospered more after the storm than he had? Jim knew that he would have to earn his many recent months of good fortune. Surely no one suspected the bitter guilt he felt.