Water Lessons (9 page)

"You're a psychic!" Jim said. "You know me too well. What y'all have put me through! But then again what
I've
put
you
through!"

He was pleased to see her nod and smile. My, she was so sarcastic. He hoped he could endure it. Was there disdain mixed in? Did Maureen truly value him? Jim threw his arm around her neck, pulled her to him, and kissed the side of her head.

"This move, Jim, I just know will be so much better for you. I'm happy for you."

And this move, Jim thought, was a
strange
one indeed. He was leaving the side of his girlfriend to work and live with her father. Jim was shocked she was so fine with the situation—and even first suggested it.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Having both agreed to reach Osterville as soon as possible that morning, Jim and Maureen took the direct route. Yet normally, Jim elected the scenic route on his drive to Cape Cod. How he loved that drive.
 

Last fall, Bryce had taken them in his Jeep on that route to the Wellfleet Oyster Festival. That scenic way would take him from Boston, through the footsteps of John Adams in Quincy, through Scituate and Duxbury, and then through picturesque Plymouth.

There he could once again marvel at its famous rock and how small and insignificant it looked compared to how it had loomed in his mind as a schoolboy. He could pass the stately early eighteenth century homes, along tranquil Manomet Beach with its gently rolling dunes and gnarled crabapple trees, over the Sagamore Bridge, then through charming Sandwich.

The route cut south, away from the Cape's northern coast, through still-thick forests and through Mashpee toward the southern shore, curved east through Santuit and ended in the seaside town of Osterville. Jim anticipated regularly taking the next leg of the route, which wound from Osterville through world-renowned Hyannis, through the beautiful towns of West Yarmouth, Harwich Port, Chatham (with its infamous shoals and the magnificent seaside resort hotel with its porch's rocking chairs). It wound northward through Orleans, Eastham, Wellfleet, and Truro with their horse trails among dunes, crabapple trees, and cranberry bogs.

The road finally ended in Provincetown. There Norman Mailer lived and wrote and, though Jim always told himself he would visit the old man, he knew that he probably never would.

These seaside towns, which combined to form a separate region all of their own, were on Jim's mind as he drove in silence the rest of the way to sleepy Osterville. No doubt he would love life on the Cape. More and more, his days of being broke and feeling desperate after the storm were fading behind into the distance.

When he punched in the keycode at the black wrought-iron gate, Jim's heart leapt into a faster tempo. Jim thought this strange, as he and Walter were already quite friendly and he knew he would undoubtedly thrive at his new position. Besides, Jim had visited the Henretty estate twice since Walter had introduced him to Maureen months ago. He sensed some bold surprise at the end of the winding drive, beyond the great swinging gate and the hovering fog. He pressed the accelerator and eased Betty Sue forward.

Jim steered around the sharp swerves and near-straight lines of the cobblestone drive. He could see maybe fifteen feet ahead of him. All along the lane grew gnarled stubby crabapples and cherries and maples and birches, still bereft of most leaves in the cool April air. Every twenty or so feet stood a large white oak almost as wide as his truck, and a few granite boulders nearly as large. No more than thirty feet to the right of the drive, Jim observed the cairn, perhaps twenty or so stones piled upon themselves.

And just a few feet to the right of the drive stood Commodore Walter Aloysius Henretty, Jr. The old man was clad in faded, slightly wrinkled khakis and a thick gray cable sweater worthy of Papa Hemingway. He drew from his dark brown pipe, grinning as if contemplating a good wisecrack.

Maureen rolled down her window.

"Hey, there, Commodore!" Jim said.

"Good mornin', my boy! Takin' care of my little girl, I trust?"

"You bet."

"I tell ya, son, this ol' beaut' brings back many memories. Ever tell ya that me and an old friend once drove through southern California and Arizona in one of these when we were stationed in Long Beach? He was from New Mexico and this truck was what he and his dad used to—"

"Daddy, he's heard this before!" Maureen sighed, scooting over.

The old man opened the passenger door and settled into the seat beside her. "Ya don't mind my pipe in here, son? We puffed cigars when we rode in here last time."

"Go ahead, Walter," Jim said. "You know I love that smell."

"This blasted fog rolled in here thicker than expected. Proceed with caution," Walter said.

In a few moments the old Volvo station wagon was before them.

"You call yours Betty Sue. Well, remember Miss Maud Adams, the Cape Cod Puritan old maid? I just didn't want you to bump her. Old girl finally died on me this morning when I was about to set out for coffee and doughnuts at Christy's. Need to get her towed."

"You two are the only guys I know who name your cars, and both of them old junkers!" Maureen said.

"Great musicians like B.B. King name their instruments. And people name their boats and ships," Jim said in a plaintive tone.

"Just ease around to the left of her. We can park this baby in front of the garage a ways down."

The truck crept around the station wagon, which showed signs of rust near the left rear wheelwell. Jim turned right and parked before one of the three white garage doors. He yanked the luggage from the truck bed and Walter led them through a door into the garage.

Inside sat the 1982 Ford truck, a black diesel Mercedes from the same era, and an old Triumph motorcycle. Walter had stopped driving the bike years back, though he regularly cleaned it.

Jim remembered the rear wall of the garage, Walter's woodworking area. A faded Moxie Cola and a Narragansett Beer sign both featured a smiling Ted Williams. Pinned to a corkboard were three moth-eaten pennants that looked to be at least half a century old. One read "
Boston College War Eagles
," next to the one that read "
Boston Latin
." Another read, "
Phillips Andover
." Jim spotted the blue and gold flag that read, "
GO NAVY!!
" On the wall below these items hung perhaps thirty tools.

Walter led them through an unlighted hallway into the main house.

"Agh! It's dusty! Mom and Sharon need to do a little cleaning," Maureen said.

At the end of the hall was a vast living room. All around its dark cedar walls hung life preservers (one from the USS Missouri) and vintage nautical tools, such as harpoons and yacht blocks, and paintings and prints of old yachts, sea captains, scenes of Cape Cod and the Elizabeth Islands, Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket. Mixed in with these items were framed photographs of the old man's years at the Academy in Annapolis, in Long Beach and Guam, and in Korea and Vietnam.
 

A framed oil painting of General MacArthur in his bomber jacket, officer's cap and with his corncob pipe hung near the photo from Walter's early business days, showing him on the shores of Marin County, with the Golden Gate bridge in the background. Two framed pennants of the Red Sox and the Boston Braves completed his collection.

At one end of the living room, past the nineteenth century furniture and the tables topped with framed photographs and piles of coffee table books, stretched the bay window, perhaps twenty feet wide, with the four chairs and the sofa arranged for a panoramic view.
 

Jim glanced toward the window with anticipation. On a clear day, one could see miles across the ocean: east to Hyannisport, south to Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket, and all the yachts and boats in between. He was disappointed that not too far beyond the glass hovered that wall of gray fog, defiant in its density.

"You kiddoes come take your seats by the window. I've a fresh pot of coffee. Peet's, your guys' favorite! And Mom is making some excellent seafood chowder for lunch."

"We'll take two coffees when you get a chance," Maureen said. "Daddy, so where is Mom?" She and Jim had taken their seats by the glass, despite the obstructed view.

"Kathleen went down to the market. You know, Maureen, your mother still bars getting me tobacco. I have to stock up, stow it in some nook or cranny here. She even tries to steal it from time to time."

"Oh,
I
know," Maureen said.

Jim suddenly stood up. "Let me help you with that, Commodore!"

"You sit yer ass down, boah!" the Commodore thundered in his best Southern drill sergeant's voice.

Jim relented and took his seat.

"How about cream and sugar, kiddoes?" Walter asked. Jim and Maureen agreed.

Soon the old man returned, bearing a tray with an old pewter pot of coffee and three pewter mugs arranged next to a plate of scones, three tiny plates and a little cup of lemon custard. He set the tray down on a small table between them and poured out their coffee.

"Thanks for the hospitality, sir," Jim said.

"Well, you're welcome, friend. Such good manners!" Walter said with an upbeat tone. "Dig into those scones and the custard."

He turned toward his daughter. "Yeah, Maureen, you young upstarts, you and Davie and Abbey, so many of you guys around here! Frankly, I just don't know where all the manners went."

"Oh, come on, Daddy!" Maureen threw her hands up. "We had to endure my own mother who grew sour and rude. 'Cause she had to put up with me. And I admit, okay, I was ruined: I had to deal with the fact that women my age and many not much older, I mean, once my dad entered any social event or setting, they'd swarm my old father. They'd just fawn on him like he was some Hollywood matinee idol."

Jim had never heard it put in just those terms. He had accompanied Walter to a few after-work cocktail parties. Even when Walter dressed more informally than the men around him, even when there were some just as old or much younger—it made no difference. At happy hours in the lounges and bars of the Financial District, like The Vault and The Good Life, the old man would enter. In less than fifteen minutes, he would have one or two, even three, women flirting with him. Some were in their early forties. Some were thirty-somethings. Even a few were twenty-somethings as young as Maureen. Perhaps they smelled money, power, or a certain class in him.

Jim believed they mainly sensed what he remembered from his days in Spain: Walter possessed
la chispa
, or "the spark." The life force. The Commodore could be nearer to death than any man in the room, but he lived like he was the most energetic, life-loving, vibrant soul on earth, more than many people half his age. Walter lived each day as if, he once told Jim, he was trying to show heaven how very grateful he was for giving him such a long life.

Women implored Walter to dance, and the old man took them up on their offer, but nothing more. Walter always left with Jim or his other brokers, with no phone numbers and no new companion. Walter was a virtuous man, faithful to his second wife, Kathleen, the mother of his children. Maureen had long since prepped Jim to avoid the subject of Walter's first wife, Dianne, who had succumbed to leukemia decades ago.

"How was the drive, son?"

"Not too bad."

"Be honest!" Maureen said. "We almost got run off, or bumped off, the road by a hundred irate drivers. I don't know if it was such a good idea to bring his old jalopy from the swamp onto these eastern Mass interstates."

"So did they show you… the finger, my boy?"

"You've got that right, sir."

Jim loved the old man. Those who served on the minesweepers with him in the Pacific, he thought yet again, must have had loved him even more. No one could ever replace Freddy. But at that moment Walter was close to assuming Freddy's old role: fatherly direction, with great levity, but without the stern demands and expectations from Jim's own father. The old mariner was shepherding him toward what Jim had longed for: proving himself by establishing himself in a happy new life. And at long last, completing the mission, as his father called it.

"So what's the meaning of the pyramid of stones, the cairn, beside the drive out front? Jim said.

"It commemorates Chief Wanomet of the Massachusetts Indian tribe, a great warrior who fell in that very spot in the 1640s, in pitched battle with Governor Bradford's English colonists."

Maureen sighed and folded her arms across her chest.

The old man lifted his solemn face and exploded into a laughing fit. "Nah, son, I buried my collie Lucy there. I fashioned that cairn to memorialize her in the most Scots manner possible, she being of such a Scottish breed. So you still feelin' good about the move, son?"

"No regrets at all."

"You'll take to it just fine. I bet you rather fancy the name of the operation: the Melville Boat Brokerage."

"I do, indeed. Herman Melville's one of my favorites."

"You could have called it 'Queqeeg's Boat Sellers' or 'Cap'n Ahab's Boat Brokers,'" Maureen said. "But that would've been way too corny."

"You might be right," Walter said.

"'Blackbeard's Boats' could have been a possibility," Jim said, knowing he was getting ridiculous. "The slogan could be 'Just Don't Ask Where We Got 'Em.'"

The old man snickered. "The movers did tell me your stuff will be delivered to the condo tomorrow or Sunday. They're professionals who'll take great care of everything. I tip 'em well, and I've used 'em before."

"You used them to haul Billy McTierney's trash to the condo, didn't you?" Maureen raised an eyebrow.

The old man's eyes flashed with irritation. Maureen shuddered with unease, possibly fear. There was a few seconds' pause.

"When I first met Mac, he was a fisherman on Cape Ann, in Gloucester, a hard-working, decent, working-class man, the kind that forms the very backbone of society, that fills our navy and army and our police and fire stations, that keeps us safe. The man just had two problems, which worsened, festered until they destroyed him. Or at least cost him his job and sadly my trust and our friendship."