Water Lessons (34 page)

Jim laid the volume aside and let the warm water run. After removing his clothes, he shut off the faucet, and lowered himself into the water.

The heat welcomed him, coursing along his nerves with a healing effect. But he was not hoping to savor it alone.

"Maureen?" he called with optimism.

"Yes?" she said from her bedroom, beyond the half-open bathroom door.

"I ran us a bath. It feels amazing. Why don't you put that thing down and come on in?"

"I've got to return some emails. Just enjoy it. I'll shower later."

Jim let his chin fall to his chest, and wiped some water onto his face. He was disappointed, but not dejected. He expected as much.

On their first few dates, they had remained abstinent. Despite her involvement with the Boston social scene, she forged the impression she was a conservative girl, albeit an independent and modern one. They even attended Mass at St. Cecilia's on their second date. After a month together, they grew very physical after all the wine consumed one dinner at Number 9 Park. And it had just happened.

She was not much of an imbiber, nor did he aim to get her inebriated. But that night, drink nevertheless brought them over the line. They made love frequently for weeks thereafter, and it was quite good, but the run abruptly died off.

She insisted it was her guilt, and he understood, as he interacted so often with her father. Jim felt increasing guilt himself, as the old man continued to do everything in his power to help him. And with the relationship's new physical dimension, Maureen grew testy. Much of what Jim said or did irritated her. Yet once they ceased having sex, her moods did not much improve.

What is more, in the last few weeks her attitude had deteriorated markedly. What was it? Did she not completely trust him? Had she fallen out of love? She sometimes told him she loved him, when a phone conversation was ending, or when he kissed her goodbye. Yet now that he decided to move back to Boston, as she had desired, she seemed to be pulling away from him.

Jim lowered himself into the water, save for his head. He paused, then sank all the way under. He imagined how it must have been for those who drowned in those murky, vile waters nine months before. A fierce chill shot through him, and he surfaced, blowing the water out of his nostrils and wiping his eyes with his hands.

"Having fun in there?" Maureen said. At least her tone now seemed playful.

"What are your thoughts about tomorrow? If we want to end up at the Cape with everyone else in New England, we'll have to leave in the wee hours of the morning, beat the traffic. Or we could stay here in town, find something to do. We could head west to the Berkshires. Arrowhead is open now, Melville's home over in—"

"Actually, Heidi and some others from work are throwing a cookout in Cambridge. I kind of owe it to her to come, as I missed her birthday party last week."

Jim cringed. He had braved insults in New England, but never so many callous remarks by a previously unknown couple hosting him at a party. He barely escaped her boyfriend Chris' presence without committing an act of assault and battery. Surely Maureen must know the last place he hoped to go on Memorial Day weekend would be to a Cambridge cookout to be further probed and cross-examined by Maureen's circle of haughty friends.

Jim teetered on the verge of objecting, of calling her out on her lack of consideration and emotional intimacy. But he decided not to protest. What was the use? He would find something else to do.

He inhaled and sank once again beneath the comforting warmth of the water.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

At seven that Wednesday morning, Franco departed for the Henretty & Henretty Brokerage. Jim stood at the large window in his black pinstripe suit, sipping his coffee as he gazed out the back of their carriage house apartment.

Commuters sped down Storrow Drive. Just beyond, a smattering of joggers made their way down the grassy Esplanade, where elderly couples strolled the paved pathways. Daysailers skirted about on the Charles River just beyond, their sails swollen with the morning Atlantic winds. Beyond those jogging down Memorial Drive on the opposite bank were Cambridge and MIT's Great Dome. To his left, the Harvard Bridge, covered with all manner of walkers and joggers, spanned the Charles.

Jim clutched his briefcase and stepped down the narrow, brick-paved alleyway toward the asphalt lane behind the carriage house. After he circled around to Exeter Street, he commenced the few blocks' walk toward the John Hancock Tower on Copley Square.

Jim had never taken this exact route, although he was quite familiar with the neighborhood, one of his favorites in Boston. As he swung left off Exeter, up Beacon and toward Dartmouth, he let his eyes crawl around the copper bay windows, the bright red bricks, and the fish-scale slate roofs of the Victorian-era brownstones. He studied the lampposts and the black wrought-iron fences in front of the buildings. He peered down the cobblestone alleys, each marked with a sign bearing a different number.

And though he loved Back Bay, something gnawed at him.

Relocating to Boston had been a mistake. He felt guilty that he could be so pessimistic regarding the future with Maureen.
 

Yet in the deepest corner of his soul, he sensed his time in Boston was somehow past. He was destined to move on, but he was running from his destiny. Maybe he belonged back on the Cape with the boats and the sea. Maybe he belonged elsewhere, in a place he had not yet seen. And what if—just what if—Jim found true love in that novel place, a heart that fully returned his love? And what if he found a pursuit that fit him more than sales and seacraft? He could envision happiness and fulfillment in that land, that realm yet unglimpsed.

Jim crossed Commercial Avenue, or "Comm Ave," as the locals called it. People walked their dogs down its wide green median. He crossed Newbury, glancing to the right and left at the stores of designer clothes and sunglasses, the fine restaurants, the chic lounges. He did not miss the hard edge of the city, the impersonality. But he missed city life, its variety and diversions.

Jim continued up Dartmouth. On his left was a twenty-four hour Seven-Eleven, where he and Patrick had often stopped for hot dogs and sandwiches after long nights clubbing. Homeless men loitered outside the door. One man sat on the filthy pavement, his back against the concrete wall.

Just as Jim passed, the man lifted his eyes from the ground. Sorrow and exhaustion lengthened his sooty face, and his watery blue eyes were full of resignation, of surrender.
 

Jim tightened his grip on his briefcase and walked faster up Dartmouth. The homeless man said nothing as Jim passed him. Moments later, Jim recognized him.

Months ago, in the dead of winter, the man had been sitting at the entrance of a bank. Jim handed him a box of chicken wings. New to Boston, Jim had not yet met Maureen or Walter, Bryce, or Duff. He had just quit his job at the church in New Hampshire.

What had changed within him in Boston? Had he attained a rough edge, an impersonality? He quickened his pace.

Jim reached Boylston. Copley Square stretched before him. On his left rose Trinity Church, the Romanesque treasure of H.H. Richardson. Beyond this loomed the John Hancock Tower. To his right stood the Boston Public Library, the Lenox Hotel, and the many Boylston Street bars and restaurants. Thoughts of the homeless man faded. Memories of long, wild nights rushed in upon him.

The electronic sign signaled to walk. Jim pursued the small group of pedestrians attired in business formal and business casual, surely bound for work. Listening to their iPods or chatting, students heading to Emerson, Suffolk, or Boston University crossed Boylston and diverged right and left, walking half as fast as the suits.

Jim power-walked across Copley Square toward the John Hancock Tower, dispersing a small flock of wandering pigeons. Soon he stared at the elevator door, as he rose toward Henretty & Henretty's offices.

A series of memories flashed, one after the next, on the screen within his imagination. He first met Walter over drinks, blocks away at the bar at Abe and Louie's Steakhouse. His first date with Maureen was at Strega. Weeks later, they made love for the first time at her townhouse.
 

At Salty's at Faneuil Hall, he had introduced himself to Bryce. He envisioned Father Ben with arms outstretched, praying over him at Mass. He first met Duff at the social hour at St. Cecilia's in Back Bay, and helped his newfound blind friend down the stairwell. On those nights when Maureen stayed behind at her place, he wrote and read as he listened to music on his stereo.

Alone in Liam's attic, on the mattress until autumn turned too cold, he had dreamed of New Orleans every night and what he had left, what he had lost. He imagined Freddy gasping his last on that Mid-City roof, his mouth opened wide like a drowning man's. Then there appeared the panorama of his native city as the National Guard chopper and its cord spirited him through the air and over the flood.

The elevator beeped and the doors parted. A new secretary sat behind the lobby desk. He flashed his badge, and then walked forward and held it to the scanner. The glass door slid open.

"Surprise!" The greeting exploded throughout the room. Everyone stood and clapped.

"Welcome back!" a female voice screamed.

"Hey, Jimmy!" a man shouted.

Many wore party hats, as if for a child's birthday. Jim walked toward them, greeting everyone by name. Each one offered him pats on the back, handshakes, a few hugs, or words of welcome delivered in both sincerity and fakery.

Franco appeared, his hand extended. "Good to have you back, man. There's cake in the break room."

"Nice surprise, this welcome here. Your idea?"

"Nah," Franco said. "It was his."

Standing in the doorway of the corner office, above the walls of cubicles, Walter Henretty smiled at Jim. Dashing in a navy blue suit and yellow tie, he leaned against the frame of his doorway, gripping his coffee mug with his left hand.

"'Scuse me a sec, bud," Jim told Franco, and walked toward the corner office.

As Jim rounded the large block of cubicles, the old man maintained the same position against the doorframe, smiling away. "Welcome back, Jim."

"Great to be back, Walter. I appreciate the party."

"They missed ya here, son."

"You got my voicemail on your cell, right, congratulating you on your victory? I knew you'd pull it off."

"Thanks. Come on in, take a seat."

Jim sat in one of the two black leather seats facing the desk, which Walter circled and sat behind.

"That really was my last Figawi. Joints are absolutely killing me." The old man winced and massaged his lower back with one hand. "You all settled in at your new place with Franco?"

"I devoted all of yesterday to moving and touching up some things around the apartment."

"Are you happy with it?"

Jim nodded. "I love the view, too. I'm very indebted."

"Well, you deserve it. We won't forget you down in the shop. But sometimes a man's got to hold fast to his duty. And priorities."

"Very true," Jim said.

The old man made a pensive face and leaned slightly forward. "Maureen confided last night she's been a little off the last few days, still in shock you're back. Getting used to her old life all over again. But I think she's getting happier, Jim."

"That's what I wanted."

"Now, I just rallied the troops before the party here. I'll depart momentarily. Anything I can do? Dewey wants to go over some client files with you. Obviously, your colleagues will keep what you gave them, but we have several other leads and a few current client accounts to provide to help you rise back to the top. Just ease into it. Because your first full week is next week."

Jim leaned back in his chair. Could it really be this easy? "Thank you, Walter."

"Don't mention it. I look forward to our boat trip this weekend."

Jim could feel his own eyes enlarge, just for a moment, at the thought of the open water.

"So, Jimmy, I'll call you tomorrow morning. We'll get it all queued up for the kids and the meeting place and the carpooling and everything else. Now if you'll excuse me, I've just got to meet with one more person."

Walter rose. They shook hands firmly, and Jim headed down the hall toward Dewey.

When lunchtime arrived, Jim left the office for the Copley stop, rode the T to the State Street station, and walked up the stairs to the street. He took heart that friends had answered his texts so quickly.

Jim quickened his pace down State Street, hooked left down Congress, turned right on North, then finally took a left on Union. Jim's heart warmed to see the old four-storied landmark, the oldest restaurant in America. Huge glowing red letters spelled out its name on the roof:
UNION OYSTER HOUSE
. He did not know which he loved more, the small semicircular oyster bar once frequented by Daniel Webster himself, or the second floor, where a French royal had dwelled in exile.

Inside, Bryce, Case, and Duff were seated at the oyster bar next to an empty stool. They sipped water and enjoyed bowls of chowder.

"Hey hey hey!" Jim slapped each on the back. "Great to see y'all again."

"Whoo hoo!" Case cheered.

The others greeted Jim as he sat. Bryce smiled expectantly. Behind his dark sunglasses, Duff listened, facing forward, his kneecaps pressed together to secure his walking stick. Case seemed un-Bostonian as always with his long, shaggy hair and ruffled University of New Mexico t-shirt.

"Y'all sure got here fast," Jim said.

"I cabbed it over here from Franklin Street," Duff said. "I wanted to catch you on your first day back."

"I took the T here. Ride was mere minutes," Bryce said. "Gotta love it."

"I'm a free man!" Case shouted. "For a few hours I'm free from seedy-ass Eastie and my soul-numbing job unloading luggage at
tha Low-gen aya-pawt!
"

Jim laughed at his friend's impression of the working-class Boston accent. Practicing it was one of their most cherished pastimes.