Water Lessons (23 page)

After several minutes, Jim said, "So where should we stop first?"

"Let's head to your hardware store. Then to lunch."

"But Walter, will the boxes be safe in the truck bed? And what about your errand?"

The old man puffed away, his eyes shrewd and narrowed with thought as they pierced the windshield. "You don't have to worry much about theft around here. And my errand will just take a second. I'll getcha back to the men in no time."

"I trust you implicitly, Commodore."

"Well, ya should. I've been around a long time."

Jim pulled onto Main Street, a road laid out much like other main arteries in coastal New England towns. Without fail, there was the white clapboard Congregationalist church with its charming steeple. Boxy, brick mid-nineteenth century commercial buildings housed sandwich shops, bookstores, and boutiques. Eighteenth century clapboard houses abounded, as did parallel-parked Subarus, Saabs, Volvos, and BMWs.

Jim parked in the small lot beside Carrington's Hardware Shoppe. They walked across the paved lot and around the brick building. Jim held the door ajar for the old man to enter.

A forty-something man stood behind the counter. Jim had come to the man several times in the last few weeks to buy supplies. Each time, Jim had been struck by his rudeness.

"Hello," Jim said.

Carrington looked back at Jim with large light blue eyes, nearly devoid of any expression save the slightest trace of haughtiness and impatience. The man was very tall, with a thick brown mustache. He was dressed in a white apron over a starched and pressed light blue office shirt. The entire crown of his hairless head was like a gigantic pearl, shiny and spotless and bright. "What'll it be?" the man sighed.

"
Still
not happy to see me? Still so rude after
all
the business I've given you?" Jim said, looking sadly at the man, shaking his head.

"Whaddaya want, kid?" the man said.

Walter appeared at Jim's side, and then took a step forward, his hands resting at his sides, his back ramrod straight. On his face was a look of stalwart pride mixed with fierce animosity.

"Oh, Mister Henretty!" the man held up a hand, palm outward. "How are you, sir?"

"Not so good, Carrington. You addressed my top manager like he's one of your teenage stockboys who didn't show for work."

"Oh… I…" Carrington said. His eyes, all white and light blue nearly to the point of transparency, widened.

"Everyone knows you're naturally a real horse's ass," the old man barked. "But try to keep it in check. Especially for a young man who I
know
always treated you with courtesy. And you knew he was one of my guys. He's been putting supplies on my account here for weeks."

Carrington tried to mouth some awkward apology, but there was no sound.

Jim turned with a faint smile and walked down the aisle. He selected a plastic basket, pulled his list from his jeans' back pocket, laughed quietly to himself, and walked around the store, plopping supplies into the basket.

Walter joined him. Soon they returned to the counter. Carrington shuffled uneasily from one foot to another. Beads of sweat had broken through on the bare egg-like oval of his head.

Jim placed his items on the counter. Carrington feverishly scanned and bagged them and banged the register keys in a kind of nervous fit. He turned to Walter, then to Jim, forcing a smile. "I scanned them so the alarm won't go off. Take these… they… they're all on the house today."

"This man here is Jim Scoresby," Walter said. "He has bought, and will be buying, many of my boat shop's supplies from your enterprise here. As I have long done."

Jim offered his hand. Carrington shook it spastically, and then shook hands with Walter.

"Good gesture, Carrington," Walter said. "Give my regards to Jeannie."

He led Jim back down the aisle and out of the store.

As soon as he started the engine, Jim said, "So… interesting scene back there."

"Stodgy, crusty old grinch. You shoulda told me he was being obnoxious."

"Frankly, sir, I've grown quite used to it. I love New England for its culture. Not for its manners, generally speaking. Not everyone's a Walter Henretty, a Kathleen Henretty."

"Ya don't need to flatter me, guy. I know we aren't the
friendliest
. Like I told you, our virtues usually lie in other realms."

"I would say inventiveness, resourcefulness, respect for culture and learning, a natural, idealistic bent for social activism." Jim rolled up to Main Street, stopping just before the road. "So where to?"

"Well put! Turn left. I know a good place to grab a snack."

Jim waited for a break in the light downtown traffic. Then he wheeled the truck left.

"Go forward a few minutes, son. I'll tell ya when to park."

"Carrington," Jim said with a strain of humor in his voice. "Crotchety guy did some about-face when he saw the likes of the Commodore. Nearly swallowed his tongue."

The old man stared out of his passenger's seat window, his smile reflected in the window. "I suppose we can attribute his transformation, or near pants-wetting, to the decades of business I've given to his store. Any generic item I can get there for the brokerage, I will. I like supporting small businesses."

"Your fame and stature in the community don't hurt, either."

"Maybe the fact that his brother served under my command didn't hurt either. Ronald Carrington. Manned an anti-aircraft gun in my flotilla during the Vietnam War. Now, turn into this lot here." Walter pointed a slightly gnarled index finger at a parking lot bordering a white clapboard eighteenth century building. The house sported a unique slate roof, done in a fish scale design. Crowning the roof's center was a small steeple with a burnished gold-colored weathervane in the shape of a sperm whale.

"Very New England," Jim pulled into the lot. "I like the place already."

"I've been coming here my whole life, my boy."

They walked around to the front of the house.
 

A wooden sign attached to the clapboard façade read:

  
The Bartley Inn

  
Est. by Josiah Bartley, Whaler

  
1796

Painted near the bottom of the sign were the outlines of what looked like a cod and whale.

Jim plodded up the three brick steps and grasped the brass door handle, opening the door wide. Walter nodded and thanked Jim as he stepped into the restaurant.

All within swirled the aromas of melted butter, baked bread, and fresh fish. A couple waited in the wooden-floored foyer while a matronly hostess waddled in to escort them into the main dining room just beyond.

She spotted Jim, and then Walter, and her face illuminated instantly with exuberant surprise. "Hello there, Captain Walt!"

"Well, hello to you, Mrs. Gowan," the old man waved.

As if reading his young friend's mind, Walter spoke. "Don't even fret, Jimmy. I called ahead for a reservation. This is like one of my clubs. I eat here at least once a week."

While the couple proceeded behind the hostess into the crowded dining room, its aroma ushered into Jim's mind those first days he had walked through the streets of Boston, three weeks after Katrina had struck. All in the downtown streets near the harbor, around Quincy Market and Faneuil Hall particularly, Jim's nose caught that certain aroma.
 

He never confirmed what it was exactly. He suspected it was fish some way or the other, whether fish and chips in the pubs, or haddock or halibut prepared the same way. A smell he loved and associated with the city of Boston, much like New Orleans had its own scent: some unforgettable amalgam of coffee roasting in the bean and chicory plants, melting into the smell of Cajun foods like jambalaya, gumbo, and boiled crawfish and crabs, all mixed with the heavenly aroma of the sauce-heavy Creole dishes like Shrimp Creole and Crawfish ƒtoufŽe, and the Sicilian scents of stuffed artichokes and massive olive-salad-filled muffuletta sandwiches.

Jim took heart that he no longer smelled those New Orleans scents. They would only bring him sadness.

The return of the high-spirited hostess wrested Jim from his culinary reverie. "All right, gentlemen," she said. "This way."

As they weaved their way through the tables, several diners turned to smile and wave at Walter and to observe his young companion. The hostess motioned to a small table against the room's rear window. She had no need to pull out a chair. The nimble old man had already seated himself.

"Our menus," Mrs. Gowan said. "I don't even need to hand it to this one! This captain's eaten here more times than there are hairs on your young head." Mrs. Gowan pointed down at Jim's brow, turned, and walked back into the foyer.

Soon a slender young woman appeared at their table. She wore her auburn hair in a ponytail. A natural rosiness in the cheeks accented her cream-colored skin, smooth and shining with youth. The shape of her full, perky breasts revealed itself beneath her white button-down shirt.
 

She lifted her small memo-pad and greeted them. "Now, how are you guys doin' taday?" she said in a thick Massachusetts accent.

"Just fine, Kelly. I brought a young comrade of mine. He runs my boat brokerage. And dates Maureen, I might add."

"Oh yeah?" the waitress said, glancing at Jim.

"Boy's got his hands full," the old man cackled.

"I wasn't gonna say anything, but…" the waitress raised her eyebrows and looked down at her notepad. "You'll be all right. What'll you gentlemen be havin' ta drink?"

Jim motioned to Walter, but the old man deferred to him.

"I'll take a Dr. Pepper," Jim said.

"We don't carry that," the waitress shot back. "Wanna Pepsi instead?"

"Sure, that's fine."

The waitress scribbled in her notepad and then glanced at Walter.

"A glass of ice water with lemon," the old man said.

The waitress studied him with curiosity and a sort of expectation. "Now I know Captain Henretty don't just want an ice water."

Walter laughed. "I'll take my Fog Cutter along with that."

"That's the spirit." She scribbled further. "Be right back, gentlemen."

Jim vowed to look at her without an ounce of attraction. On the back of her thin neck crawled a tattoo of a small dragon. Jim looked down at the table and took up the menu.

"So, Jimmy," Walter leaned back in his seat, pursing his lips as he studied him. "All seems to be going well with the boat. You're doing an effective job at leading and you're pitching in, to boot. And you're not afraid to learn. The men like you."

Jim was poised to respond but the waitress reappeared. She placed their drinks in front of them. "Okay, you guys know whatcha want?" she droned in her nasal voice.

"All right," Jim said. "I'll take the Portuguese seafood stew."

"It comes with a salad," the waitress said. "Dressing?"

"Italian, please."

"You talk funny," the waitress said. "Where ya from?"

"South Jersey."

The old man snorted. "As for me, I'll think I'll take a break from my lobster thermidor. I'll opt for the seared scallop salad."

"I'll put the order in, gentlemen." The waitress left.

"Oh, you're gonna fancy that Portuguese seafood stew, my boy!" Walter said. "
Caldeirada da Marisco
. It's one of their very best items, chock full of potatoes, shallots, sherry. I mean, you've got shrimp, mussels, scallops, monkfish, wolffish, cod, mackerel, squid, all that good stuff. You'll be full all day."

"Sounds pretty hearty. I only had it once, in the Big Apple. When I took Maureen there."

"But it's more authentic here in southern New England. See, this is where most American Portuguese live. They've been here since the seventeenth century. Like DaSilva, a lot of those guys are descended from people who fished these waters long before Washington was born."

"Donovan was telling me that."

"So, Jim…" Walter leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and cleared his throat. "How are things going with Maureen?" He raised his chin ever so slightly. The old man's eyes never left him.

"Not so great. She somewhat regrets letting me move away. It's still taking a toll on her. She's having a hard time at work especially. I was there for her more when I lived in Boston. When I met up with her yesterday, she was actually kind of despondent."

"How'd she leave it with ya, son?" The eyes of the old man brimmed with an unmistakable benevolence.

Jim relaxed. "She needs me to see her more during the week. Or I don't think she can take it much longer."

"What about her visiting you?"

"That's the thing, Walter," Jim said as he winced. "She hardly ever wants to make the drive, or to meet me halfway. Even in Boston, she hardly ever came to see me. She wanted me to come to her, and to stop by her place or to pick her up somewhere."

Walter looked down. "The branch doesn't fall too far from the tree. And
I'm
not the parent that's the tree, if ya follow."

Jim snickered.

Walter winked and sipped from his Fog Cutter. "Whaddaya say," the old man paused, "I give you the opportunity to reclaim your old job? That I give you the
option
. To sweeten the pot, I can plop cash down on a nice apartment in Boston. And I'll move your stuff back for free. If you
choose
to go back to your old job."

"With all due respect, Walter," Jim weighed his words, "what if I don't? What if I want to stay with the Melville Brokerage and commute to see Maureen?"

"Then my full support is behind you," Walter said. "But… what do we do if we try that and she still can't take it?"

"Yes, I see," Jim said, fiddling with his spoon. "What if I stay on with Melville? And leave maybe early more weekdays to drive to see Maureen? And spend most weekends with her up there?"

"As long as you sleep on her couch, my boy," Walter pointed at Jim, looked him straight in the eyes, then burst into laughter.

Jim laughed haltingly, imagining all his intimate nights with the old man's daughter. "Yessir, of course."