Water Lessons (20 page)

"Ah, you got me," Jim said, slightly disappointed.

"Hi there." She extended a small hand from behind the doorway with a plastic MGH identification card. "See you in a few."

She faintly smiled and he stood there, unsure of what to say next. The door shut hard. The lock turned slowly and quietly.

Jim hopped in the truck and moved slowly down the lane as he circled the square. He turned left on Mount Vernon, yet another one of downtown Boston's confusing but charming one-way, colonial streets. He turned left down Joy and began the slow, perilous descent, his foot on the brake the entire way, down Beacon Hill toward bustling Cambridge Street. Lining each side were redbrick apartment house after redbrick apartment house, and black-shuttered townhouse connected to black-shuttered townhouse, all dating from the early eighteenth century. This neighborhood originated during the same period as the French Quarter. Yet Beacon Hill displayed a far different style altogether: staid, conservative, English. And like Back Bay, every few feet, behind the row of cars lined bumper-to-bumper against both curbs, stood a tall black iron pole crowned by a black lantern, which encased a small flame.

Jim rolled down this gauntlet, where a car could pull out at any second, and passed a trio of young men. They stared his way with curious expressions. Surely it was the truck again.

As Joy Street ended, Jim turned left on Cambridge, going down a ways before turning right down a side street, then left, then into the parking garage. He stopped and waved the card before the mechanical sensor. The board seemed to fight its way erect.

He drove the truck up three levels and parked. Jim gargled with Listerine, spat it as discreetly as possible out of his open truck door, and caught the elevator to the ground floor. He then walked briskly toward a crosswalk and traversed Cambridge. He turned right and then headed up the steep Grove Street, his black leather shoes going clackety-clack on the sidewalk.

He prepared for his discussion with Maureen. What has been occurring inside her head? An ominous feeling overtook him.

The street grew steeper and Jim started to perspire. After a couple hundred feet, past Phillips and Revere Streets, he turned right, passed a small dry cleaners, and then proceeded until he hit Cedar Street. He then turned left and walked down past the townhouses until he hit Pinckney Street. Once more he turned left and minutes later he was upon the townhouse. Jim stepped quickly up the steps and rapped firmly, five times.

The door opened. The faintly sullen and ever-so-spoiled visage appeared in the doorway. She ran him up and down with her eyes.

Jim stepped inside onto the old dark wooden floor. He tenderly placed his hands to the sides of her jaw and kissed her once on the mouth. She kissed back with a firm press of the lips, but it was nothing like their kisses weeks ago. Almost as if she was forcing it.

"Good to see you." She pulled back and looked up into his face. "How was the trip?"

Maureen wore a nice pink shirt, jeans and heels, and a minimal amount of makeup, less than was her habit. He caught a trace of that perfume that he loved. "You look mmm-mm good!" he said. "Magnificent, I should say."

"There's some green tea on the stove. Want some?" she said, nearly expressionless.

He followed her down the dimly lit foyer, past the small oil paintings and framed family photos, and hooked left into the kitchen. Maureen removed two mugs from a cupboard. At the ceramic-tiled island, which stood under the large copper hood that jutted down from the ceiling, she poured out two cups. Then she plopped in the teabags, dropped a teaspoon of cane sugar in each one, and stirred.

She handed Jim a mug. "Let's relax on the roof deck."

They returned to the foyer and trudged up the four flights of stairs. Maureen unbolted the door. They stepped into the sunlight and he shut the door behind them. Jim had been there only a handful of times, but each time he could not help but be impressed.

But now was not the time for enjoying the view. Jim opened up the metal chest and removed two of the canvas camping chairs. He and Maureen took their seats, perpendicular to each other.

After four or five seconds of silence, she turned her glum gaze his way. "I'm so sorry to weigh you down with all this drama. I've been crabby lately. I'm actually somewhat surly to begin with. And I can tell it's been getting to you."

Jim sipped his tea, his mind racing. Was she preparing to break up with him?

"It's been just so many things with me lately. No, I wasn't prepared for what I was getting myself into when you moved away. Yes, I helped orchestrate it and… it isn't quite what I thought. At first I was strong, I could take it…"
 

"Yes," he said softly, signifying to her that he was patiently following. Jim pulled himself farther upright in his seat. He was resigned to whatever awaited. He could almost feel the ax coming down onto his neck.

She looked up from her gesticulating hands, looked down toward her pedicured toes. "Anyway, it's so much harder than I thought it would be. I miss all your attention: you stopping by so much, all your little gifts and surprises. I used to hate you springing all your surprise plans on me, but I grew to miss it. I thought we could just meet on weekends but it's now so tough."

Her eyes welled slightly with tears. Then she laughed. "And lately Yoshi at the lab has been such a cretin to me. He singles me out and makes me work on the most grueling of all the experiments and projects, cuts me no slack at all. I don't have to mention he rarely bathes. I swear he does that just to get under the skin of the poor girls like me who have to work with him! I'm sick of inhaling something that reeks of spoiled milk and bad onions."

Jim sniffled but was able to prevent himself from chuckling. Where was she going with this? Was she really about to push him away?

"I'm not calling it quits or giving up on us by any means," Maureen extended her hand toward him as if she was trying to tell him to stop, as if she could really tap into his thoughts. "I would never do that without speaking with you first, or giving you another chance."

"Give me another chance?" Jim said. "I thought I was doing something you were completely behind. Otherwise I would've stayed here."

"I want you to come up each weekend. You didn't
last
weekend."

"I had to help the guys in the shop. Now we're almost finished with the schooner."

"I know, but from now on at least once a weekend. And once during the week."

He paused. "Deal." The mug shook as he lifted it to his lips. Then an idea came to him. It wasn't the first time he had conceived it. But he had never voiced it.

"Maureen," he said, "do you ever think that maybe
you
should come down and visit me on the Cape sometimes? Instead of
me
always coming up to
you
? And before I moved to Osterville, you always wanted me to visit you
every day
. Never vice versa."

She folded her arms. "It's hell finding parking in the North End."

"You can take the T, the taxi, or just take a little walk, like I do."

"Well, it was a dumpy place. And you should have dusted more."

Jim was incredulous. He slapped his hands down hard onto his knees. "Maur, I tell you. You are something else. You really are."

"How so?' she almost shouted. "What do you mean?"

"With me, you play the independent, strong-willed New England girl when it benefits you. When it doesn't, you resort to the demure, wilting Southern belle drill you think I'm used to. When it comes to us making decisions, you want it your way almost
always
. Or you will make it known you are just
not
having a good time. But when the workday ends, you always expect me to stop by
your
place, never the other way around."

He paused for a moment. She squinted hard into his eyes, sighing through her nostrils.

"Up here, see, the man and the woman change off: sometimes the man visits the woman, sometimes vice versa. It's an egalitarian culture. But you always want me to pick up the tab and do the driving to visit you. Well then, I hope to decide where to eat sometimes and where to go at least. I am a man, you know."

Maureen grew silent. He knew she would never apologize, give ground, or admit any fault. "Anyway, how long are you in town today?"

He was unable to stifle a laugh. "Oh, Maureen. Gotta love her," he said, his smiling eyes on her as he shook his head. "I take it you heard what I said."

"I did. Are you hungry?" She sighed as she posed the question.

He laughed again and she cast him an icy stare. That old line again. She sounded like a hungry child bugging her father for food.

"I'll let
you
pick this time, Mr. Scoresby."

"Seriously? You're pullin' my leg!"

"Go ahead and choose." She smiled despite her irritated tone. "Just us alone, though. None of your buddies need tag along. Not this weekend."

"Okay then. I'll tell you what I'm tastin'…"

"Enlighten me."

"We should get our seafood fix again."

She rolled her eyes. "Ah, Jim, you're so predictable."

"But first we go for a walk. I want to take us some place first."

"I can only imagine. It involves art, religion, history, or alcohol. I'll place my bet right now."

"Quite possibly. Who knows what the future holds?" Jim stood and stretched his arms, arching slightly backwards as he released a profound yawn. He walked to the wooden rail of the roof patio. "Just look at that view, Maureen. One of the nation's most beautiful neighborhoods. It's as if you've stepped back into the time of Adams and Hancock."

From his vantage point on the roof deck, Jim saw scores of slate-roofed colonial townhouses, with some later renovations and additions such as granite stairways under the doors. All around were red brick walls and painted black shutters, copper weathervanes and flower beds under windows. He could swear he was in the London of a long-gone era.

Maureen joined him at the rails and rubbed her shoulder affectionately into his. He gave a slight start in shock, his head and torso quivering for a second. Her act ushered in a rush of memories, moments he dearly missed.

"Dad did pay a pretty penny for it. I would get my own place but—the view! It was just too hard to resist."

"Are you good to go out on the town?"

"Are we walking far?" she sighed.

"Just don't wear heels for once. It'll be a whole lot better."

She hesitated, further perturbed. Her predictability never hid for long. "No. They will go with what I put on."

"Ah, Maureen Henretty," Jim shook his head. She had not acquiesced or disagreed. She merely dropped the subject and dodged his request, perhaps out of hunger or obstinacy.

He blinked slowly as he yanked his phone from his pocket. He scrolled down his speed dial and once again phoned Commonwealth Cab.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The taxi sped up Charles Street, passing the boutiques and caféŽs that were Maureen's playgrounds. It ground to a rude halt at a red light on Beacon Street. To the right were the Public Gardens. A bit to the left, just past the black wrought-iron fence, the famed Boston Common stretched out before them.

"Imagine all the Puritans and Indian braves buried underneath that rolling lawn," Jim said. "Executed colonists, too. And I'll bet there are a few Yankees fans under there."

Maureen turned slowly toward him with narrowed eyes. The light turned green and the cab jerked leftward and sped down Beacon. At the St. Gauden's Shaw Memorial, it hooked right and swooped down Park Street. Jim felt nearly as on edge as he had recently felt on any boat.

"You know," Jim leaned toward Maureen and mumbled, "I've wondered how often Boston taxicabs hit pedestrians or just plain crash. What's intriguing is I've never seen or heard of such a case. And arguably, Boston is the most treacherous American city for any driver."

The cab passed King's Chapel, crossed Tremont, swung left down Province Street, and then stopped. Maureen exited the cab but Jim remained seated, plunging his hand into his jeans for his wallet. He handed the cash to the driver.

"Thanks." Jim shut the door. "Keep the change."
 

The driver lurched down the street, nearly rolling over Jim's toes. The door had barely closed.

"I suppose that's a 'you're welcome'?" Jim opened his hands, palms-up, in disbelief.

Maureen stood in front of the bar, her arms folded across her chest, a pinched look on her face. She studied the black sign at the top of the façade and the number above the door: forty-seven. Both of these were nearly level with her face. A large wooden flower manger crowned the entire façade, perhaps twelve feet in width. The wood framing of the windows below was painted red. The entire place was literally built into the ground. It seemed the smallest façade of any bar, restaurant, or shop Jim had ever seen. In fact, it brought to mind some curiosity out of Renaissance England.

"The Littlest Bar," she read the words with hesitation and a touch of skepticism. "I heard of this place. It was right under my nose for months."

"That's how it is for most Bostonians. Also, it's actually short for 'The Littlest Bar In The World'." Jim clapped his hands once in excitement. "Place is hell for claustrophobics. But it's worth the discomfort!"

Jim grabbed the door and swung it open. Inside the cramped cellar played a raucous, fast-paced tune, something punk. Ah, he knew the group—the Dropkick Murphys—and he loved them. Five people appeared below, including the bartender, a white-bearded, nearly bald old man in a green sweater.

Filling the air were Irish accents and a Bostonian accent, which, though muffled, was quite thick. There was one accent Jim couldn't quite place. Perhaps it was French or Belgian. Then he thought he had it: was it a Cuban accent?

Two men sat at the bar. A couple sat a few feet away at a tiny round table.

Jim was shocked. The entire place—not including what was behind the bar—probably measured no more than one hundred and eighty square feet, with the bar about twelve feet in length.