A Commodore of Errors (11 page)

“Seh-kel?” Midshipman Jones said.

“Common sense.”

“Where do you get these words anyhow?”

“You hang around this town long enough you pick up a few expressions.” Mrs. Tannenbaume motioned for Midshipman Jones to hold the Jesus steady. “If you think nailing the Jesus's feet to the cross will help stabilize him, well then, I'll just put a few nails in his feet.”

Mrs. Tannenbaume nailed the Jesus's feet and then held him up around the waist while Midshipman Jones nailed the Jesus's wrists. The papier-mâché Jesus had red paint around the wrists and feet, so, in the end, Mrs. Tannenbaume figured nailing his feet made the whole thing look more authentic. They stood back and admired their handiwork.

“All he needs now is a good coat of varnish,” Midshipman Jones said.

“Varnish?”

“I'll get some marine varnish from the shed on Mallory Pier, back at the academy. A few coats of good Spar varnish and the Jesus'll shed rain like water off a duck's back.”

Mrs. Tannenbaume looked over at Raymond and noticed that he was unusually quiet. He stared at the ground in front of him before turning his glare toward Mrs. Tannenbaume. He then looked to the heavens and shouted, “I was not a part of this!” and dropped to one knee before the Jesus, crying
softly to himself. Mrs. Tannenbaume knelt beside him and patted him on his head. Raymond, it seemed, was just another fearful Catholic. If she'd seen one, she'd seen a hundred—the St. Aloysious was full of them. Putzie, meanwhile, began to stir. Lying flat on his back, he opened his good eye. He heard Raymond crying and saw Mrs. Tannenbaume consoling him. When he moved his head to the right, he saw the mound of dirt. Then he saw the Jesus. His good eye began to blink.

“Oh my goodness, the
goyim
were right after all.”

Mrs. Tannenbaume turned toward Putzie. “What did you say, Mr. Paultz?”

“Jesus on the cross. I can't believe it.”

“You can't believe what?”

“That when a Jew dies, he sees Jesus in heaven.”

“Heaven? You're not in heaven. You've got a little bump on your head. Relax.”

“But what's with the mound of dirt? And why is Raymond crying?”

“He's a good Catholic. He's afraid of committing a sacrilege.”

“What happens when a Catholic commits a sacrilege?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Mrs. Tannenbaume said. “That's what's so great about Catholicism. All you have to do when you commit a sin is go to confession. It's the most convenient religion going.”

Putzie looked at Mrs. Tannenbaume absently, then touched his head and looked at the blood on his hand. “The last thing I remember is running like a surfer. How did I end up here?”

“You ran smack into my tree.”

“And I ran your car smack into Mrs. Tannenbaume's Beetle,” Raymond said. “But I'll fix . . . oh no.” Raymond's hand shot up to cover his mouth. “The Commodore!”

Raymond pointed at the maroon Chrysler LeBaron, the standard government car issued to ranking officers of the academy, rolling to a stop across the street from Mrs. Tannenbaume's house.

“We're not at the store to give him his shirts,” Raymond said. “He'll be very upset.”

The Commodore got out of the LeBaron on the opposite side of Steamboat Road and waited for the cars to pass. When the traffic cleared, he started to cross then stopped. He looked towards the main entrance to the Merchant Marine Academy, a half a block away. The football team, jogging in tight formation, had just departed Vickery Gate and was heading up Steamboat Road for their afternoon run. He decided to wait for them to pass—he liked the way they sang out a greeting to him as they jogged by. The team, however, took an abrupt turn to the left and ran down Stepping Stone Lane. The Commodore stamped his foot on the ground in disappointment, causing the dust on the side of the road to swirl around his pant leg. He slapped at his leg with his hand to rid his uniform of the dust and, in a fit, started across Steamboat Road without bothering to look for traffic.

A cream-colored 1950 Mercedes convertible, artfully restored and with its top down, came to a screeching halt ten feet in front of the Commodore. The driver honked his horn and shook his fist. The Commodore, in response, stood erect and unflinching and stared imperiously at the driver, not an easy thing to do since the afternoon sun threw a glare on the windshield that hid the driver's face. When a cloud passed overhead, the glare on the windshield faded and he was able to make out the face of the driver.

It was the bandleader.

What was going on here? The bandleader was reported to have been missing. What in God's name was this man up to?

Before the Commodore could accost the bandleader, the convertible lurched into reverse, skidded to a stop, then came ahead again, its wheels screeching as it swerved around the Commodore. The Commodore did not move a muscle as the convertible sped past him. He stood still for a moment longer, long enough for the world to witness his dauntlessness, then crossed to the other side of Steamboat Road and strode up Mrs. Tannenbaume's lawn.

“An assassination attempt,” the Commodore said when he reached the others. “You have all borne witness to a brazen attempt on my life.”

“Assassination?” Mrs. Tannenbaume said. “Don't you have to be a world leader to be assassinated?”

A leader of little people such as yourself!

“You walked across the street without looking,” Mrs. Tannenbaume said. “The driver did everything he could to avoid hitting you.”

And I am doing everything I can to avoid accosting you, madam!

“The important thing is that you are Ok, sir,” Raymond said.

“Indeed I am,” the Commodore said, composing himself. “Indeed I am. And you are correct. It
is
important that I have survived this brush with death. For we have work to do. I am reminded of Frost, ‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep/But I have promises to keep/And miles to go before I sleep/And miles to go before I sleep.'”

The Commodore swept his hand as gracefully as a jazz singer as he recited the stanza. He was proud of the improvement he had made in his hand gestures—proof that practice makes perfect. The Commodore looked for signs that the others were impressed with his public speaking ability. When they gave no reaction to his gesticulatory flourish—no visible feedback—he deliberately turned his body and looked over at Putzie.

“Just the man I wanted to see—are you ready for combat, Mr. Paultz? You have clearly been training, sustaining injuries along the way it seems. Not to worry, my good man. As far as I am concerned, an unblemished athlete is simply not trying hard enough.”

Putzie remained seated on the grass. “I can take Mogie any day of the week, as long as I don't get stuck in that chair of his.”

“Well then,” the Commodore said, “we ought to schedule the wrestling match ASAP. I'll have my secretary make the necessary arrangements.”

The Commodore reached out a helping hand and Putzie took it. The Commodore released his grip when Putzie was standing up, only to watch the poor man's knees buckle when he tried to walk. Oh dear. Were his hopes of ridding himself of his nemesis resting on the slight shoulders of this inadequate man? The Commodore watched Putzie wobble toward the Buick. Short, slight, an eye patch over one eye, Putzie wore the hangdog look of the defeated. Perhaps a pep talk was in order.

“Mr. Paultz.” The Commodore called after Putzie. “Do you believe you can defeat Mogie?”

Putzie stopped in his tracks and turned inquisitively toward the Commodore.

“I mean, dear man, at your core, do you believe it? As a core belief ? Do you have the desire to defeat Mogie? A burning desire—not some half-baked notion or flimsy wish, but a red-hot burning desire? Because without a deep belief in your abilities and a burning desire to excel, you relegate yourself to the trash heap of mediocrity.” The Commodore glanced out of one eye to see if the others were listening. When he saw that they were, he strode over to a spot on the lawn where he was able to face them as a group. Now would be the perfect time to practice his pause, scan, and nod technique.

When he finished nodding, he continued with his speech. “It is never too late to start believing in yourself, Mr. Paultz, and that goes for the rest of you as well. It is never too late to hone your desire for excellence. Because, you see, each day that God gives us is simply another day in which to excel. Yes, today is another day in which to excel. Tomorrow is yet
another
day in which to excel. Do you all want to know the secret to success? Do you? Do you sincerely wish to be a success in life? Here then is the key to success.” The Commodore paused, scanned, and nodded, to great effect, he thought. “The secret is ‘mental mapping.' Mr. Paultz, you must form a picture in your mind's eye of defeating Mogie in O'Hara Hall in front of a crowd of midshipmen screaming your name. Think of victory! Think of glory! Think of adulation! Everyone will be looking at you, admiring you, wishing they could be you. It happens to me all the time. When I give my speeches, the crowd nearly carries me away on its shoulders, so great is their love for me. Think of how envious others will be of you. Think of how inadequate you will make them feel. When you win, you see, someone else loses. Think of that. Sometimes you do not even have to win. When someone else loses, I feel like I win. If everyone adopted my philosophy, think of how much better off we would all be. We would all be winners. Don't you see? It is so easy. Choose to not be a loser, Mr. Paultz. Think of others as losers, and you will always be a winner.”

The Commodore finished his speech with his best hand gesture. He made a loose fist with his right hand and draped his thumb over his lightly clenched index finger and pointed it at Putzie. It was the only polite way to point at
someone. He held his thumb point for the perfect amount of time, not too long but not too short either. He was proud of his thumb pointing. He practiced it on his secretary, Miss Lambright, who always jerked her head back whenever he pointed his thumb at her, proof-positive of its effectiveness. Putzie and the others were having a similar reaction as well. They all stood motionless, staring straight at the Commodore, with their heads leaning back ever so slightly. Speechless, in the way that all of the Commodore's audiences fell silent after his leadership speech. The silence of awe. The Commodore allowed the silence to wash over him and cleanse his soul. He always felt healed after his leadership speech, healed of childhood wounds and scars. And he felt affirmed—of not only his greatness, but of the inferiority of others.

Putzie was the first to take his eyes off the Commodore. He looked at Mrs. Tannenbaume, who gave a slight jerk of her head toward the Buick. Putzie nodded and Raymond tiptoed with the two of them to the Buick without so much as a glance at the Commodore.

The Commodore basked in the silence.

After the Buick pulled away, Midshipman Jones gathered his tools. The Commodore tagged along as if he didn't have a thing in the world to do in the middle of a workday. The Commodore was pensive as he watched Midshipman Jones pull Mrs. Tannenbaume's garage door down.

“Midshipman Jones,” the Commodore said, “come with me as I drive to the dry cleaners to pick up my shirts. There is something I wish to talk about with you.”

Midshipman Jones looked at the Commodore with wide eyes. “Have I done something wrong? I've got a liberty pass. I signed out in the MOD's office, I've—”

“No, no,” the Commodore said, “it's nothing like that. I simply want to ask your opinion on a matter.”

“My opinion?”

“Don't sound so surprised. Your opinion matters, does it not?”

“Yes, sir, I guess it does.”

They walked across Steamboat Road to the LeBaron. The Commodore handed the keys to Midshipman Jones. “Here, you drive, young man.” The
Commodore saw that the boy seemed surprised at the offer. Midshipman Jones took the keys and walked over to the driver's side, opened the door, got into the driver's seat, reached over, and unlocked the passenger side door.

The Commodore stood erect outside the car and waited for the midshipman to open the door for him.

“It's unlocked, sir.”

The Commodore made a show of clearing his throat.

Midshipman Jones got the message. He got out of the car and scurried around to the other side, where the Commodore graciously allowed the midshipman to open the door for him.

Midshipman Jones drove haltingly down Steamboat Road, over-braking at every stop sign in his nervousness, but the Commodore was too caught up in his own thoughts to reprimand him. Finally, the Commodore shifted in his seat and turned toward Midshipman Jones. He sighed.

Midshipman Jones gripped the steering wheel tighter and shrunk farther down in his seat.

“Midshipman Jones, what did you think of my hand gestures when I recited Frost's poem.”

“Hand gestures, sir? What hand gestures?”