Water Lessons (16 page)

"And you're Jim Scoresby," Tim Murphy said, shaking Jim's hand. "Nice to meet ya. Nice of ya to help out the kids. But we gotta keep 'em in line. Or they'll try to keep us in line."

Everyone laughed.

"This is Scott with the red hair. This li'l blondie here is Seamus. And this guy with the Bruins jersey, this is Lance. They haven't always been
good
boys, let's just say, and
that's
why they're here."

Jim stepped forward and shook each boy's hand, grinning as he called each boy by name. "Up to no good, Tim's saying?"

The boys grinned in turn.

Reverend Ward then motioned toward the black woman. "Jim, this is Miss Shawna Arnette and her son Dwayne. Her little girl Teesha is back sleeping at my parents' house. The Arnettes hail from the Ninth Ward, and I don't think I need to name the city. They've been guests of my family since not long after the storm hit. Shawna lost her family, so now we at Mount Zion's are her new family. She may go back to New Orleans one day, but she's thinking of staying here. Little Dwayne here will be part of our new project, which we'll discuss today."

Jim gave both a hearty hug, his face smiling but his mind lost in a deluge of memories. "Remember how we say hi in Nawlins."

"I love it!" the Reverend said.

Walter, Jack, and even Natasha beamed.

"I hear you been doin' good in ya new city," Shawna Arnette said. She did look perhaps thirty-five but her eyes alone seemed to belong to an older woman, weary but wise.

"It's my new home, I guess," Jim said. "A new start."

"Shawna Arnette is the youth leader for Mount Zion," Reverend Ward began. "She's brought along not just her son, but a few kids from our congregation. Kids that have been a little naughty, so to speak, but kids who have shown they want to improve. Would you do the honors, Shawna?"

"This here's li'l Jeffrey. And this is LaRon. They look harmless but they a handful, sho' are. Handful for the law, too."

Jim shook their hands and greeted each boy by name. The Reverend waved everyone to a seat while a waiter took drink orders.

"I am glad everyone could make it," Reverend Ward said. "And meeting at such a local institution, a place with such character. I know, Jim, this may be the first time you have heard of this little plan. It was actually the brainchild of your friend here, Mr. Henretty. He committed you to our brand new project. And Walter, if you could give the finer details."

"One day while sailing," Walter said, "I conceived this idea: that I give my love and knowledge of sailing to young people with the desire but not the means to pursue this matchless sport. As a youth, I'd dream of sailing a real
Herreshoff
sailboat. I now own one, and my workshop's putting some last-minute restoration into it, to be completed shortly. I'm planning a trip from Osterville all the way around the Cape to Boston Harbor or Dorchester Harbor, haven't decided which. Jim and I will lead the expedition, with help from Jack and the other adults. Reverend Ward will be aboard to represent Mount Zion's three boys. Tim Murphy will lead St. Brendan's three boys. That's fourteen hands on deck, including two hands from my shop. Just enough for a schooner like the
John Paul Jones
. And Jack and Natasha, my two men from the shop, Tim, Reverend Ward, and I—we are all licensed mariners."

"It'd be an honor," Jim said, "to help lead this."

Natasha said, "Good, good." She was warming up to him already.

"I knew you would, sonny boy!" Walter said.

Reverend Ward smiled and nodded.

"Jack's right." Natasha leaned back in her chair to see past her boyfriend. "We
know
you'll like this more than trading stocks."

"Now, before we talk further," Walter said, "shall we look at the menus? Whaddaya say we order? It's all on me. My idea, my treat. Though Reverend picked the place."

Everyone studied the menu and a few moments passed. Once again the waiter appeared, as if on cue. Most elected the brunch buffet. Reverend Ward said grace and everyone delved into their plates.

Jim assumed he hovered in some stratum of the celestial regions. He did not know if he had let slip some odd noise or made some face while eating, or if it was the sheer size of his portions, but he soon had drawn the attention of much of the table.

"Sweet heavens, look at that!" Shawna said. "That boy
definitely
growed up down south!"

"My, to eat that many candied yams, fried drumsticks," Jack said.

"They call it
glorifried
chicken here," Tim said. "It's pretty famous stuff."

"And eating not just the collard greens, but using his spoon to drink its juice!" Natasha said.

"It's called pot
likkor
," Dwayne said. "That's the best part! Mmmm. My Grammaw used to make greens like this."

"And it
is
spelled p-o-t-l-i-k-k-o-r, traditionally," Reverend Ward said.

"We never had that stuff in Annapolis at the Academy," Walter said. "One must drive quite a ways south to get it."

"
Yuck!
" Scott made a sour face. It's
gross
."

"That and the grits, dude!" Lance chimed in. "Nasty."

"Hey, pipe down," Tim said, shaking a finger at them. "Be respectful, ya hear?" He looked at the adults, his face blushing. He nodded at Jim. "Back in Marines training at Parris Island, we must have eaten tubs of that stuff. Tasty little item there. And that was the
cafeteria
version."

"I can't say I disagree with those two boys," Natasha said. "And grits or hominy is particularly dreadful. Fried chicken can taste okay, and much of the other stuff served here. But it's just so ridiculously
unhealthy
, what people
eat
down there."

"'
Scuse me, ma'am
?" said Jeffrey, one of the two Mount Zion children, with the face of one unable to believe his ears.

Jack and Walter shot Natasha an irritated look. She then sat scowling into her lap in silence. Normally, Jim would have grown flustered, but he knew Natasha had already hung herself. Both faces of the Reverend and Shawna Arnette revealed irritation and hurt.

"Well!" Walter said. "I think it's just fine. And even
delicious
, if I might opine. Collards, turnips, mustard greens. Especially when they're made with lots of ham and bacon." He leaned over and glanced down the table at Tim Murphy. "In our training we seldom had such good food. But they served up some
wicked
Chesapeake crab chowder."

After ten seconds of silence, the visage of the Reverend regained its jovial expression, having spied Jim shoveling in heaping forkful after heaping forkful of Cajun squash and collard greens. "Our man is at it again," Reverend Ward said. "My! A man after our own heart."

A few cackles and snickers sounded around the table. Jim finished chewing and shook his head. "You can't get much of this around here. Gotta load up, store what you can. Like a squirrel. I feel no shame!"

Some laughed, but Jim, growing serious, nodded at the stage at the back of the restaurant.

"Now, that's quite a group we've got here. They were playing Dixieland jazz, old 'Nawlins jazz. But I can tell this new song is "Do You Know What It Means—"

"To Miss New Orleans!" Shawna screamed.

"That's it," Jim said. "You got it."

"Famously sung by Billie Holliday, played by Louis Armstrong," Reverend Ward said.

All the adults, and all of the boys, fixed their eyes and ears on the young Asian woman on stage, her hair done in flapper fashion. She stood at the large antique microphone, crooning away, her eyes closed. Her singing was so heartfelt that the cellist, the drummer, the trumpeter, and the banjo-picker faded into the background. The old familiar lump returned to Jim's throat.

He stared into his plate. His mind turned to Freddy, his parents and his brother, his grandmother, his aunts and uncles and cousins still living in New Orleans and the South, all of the friends he had left behind, and the flooded graves of his grandparents.

He again glanced at the stage. The singer brought to mind the young Vietnamese woman in the National Guard chopper. Jim wondered what became of that young woman, built like a delicate bird and so soft about the eyes. Had she started a new life somewhere else like him, but in Houston, Atlanta, perhaps? He had resigned himself to the odds that he would never know.

Feeling the burden of someone's stare, Jim pulled his gaze with reluctance back toward the table. It was Walter, the cobalt eyes larger than normal, filled with sympathy and a certain sorrow.

Jim turned again toward the stage and imagined Freddy stood swaying next to the singer, his trumpet raised toward the ceiling. For the rest of Jim's days, he knew such music would bring back the spirit and the presence of his friend. But with time, would the great memories fade?

CHAPTER TWENTY

Jim felt nauseous as he and Davie lugged the sofa toward the opposite wall of the condo. Within his belly sat ten-odd pounds of ham, collards, catfish, fried and boiled okra, candied yams, and cornbread. Further contributing to Jim's queasiness was the frequent sight of Davie Henretty rolling his eyes at his father's express orders to move yet another piece of Jim's furniture.

Ten minutes into the moving job, just after the movers had delivered the last of the furniture that Sunday evening, Davie sighed. The Commodore immediately chided his son. When the last heavy item was in place, Walter told the boy he could go. Davie vanished with another defiant sigh—herringbone chain, tank top jersey, signature scent and all—to shoot hoops down the road.

"We had a great day," Walter said. "Glad you met the Reverend and all the gang. Tim Murphy, Shawna Arnette. Salt of the earth, in many ways. And all those kids. In trouble with the law but this idea may help them get out of it. They're under different influences now. And just think—we'll have a hell of a time. You, me, the others… we'll be sailing that Herreshoff all the way to Beantown! It'll be grand."

"I
am
psyched," Jim said. "Your great idea will be even better in practice. I'm very glad you picked me to help lead. Just gotta get my sea legs back. Bury that fear of water I've got, after the storm."

"You will, son," Walter tousled Jim's hair. "Set the alarm for eight. I'll be in Boston for at least the first half of the day. The others will be down there in the shop, though. There's no Mac, of course. But look for a salty old fogey named Bill. He'll show ya the ropes. Bill and I go way back. Tough old bird, but you can trust him more than the others. This man will run the shop for ya. And you'll oversee him and handle the purchase and sale of boats, as well as the research and shopping for buyers and sellers and new vessels."

They shook hands and Walter left. Too weary to set up his mattress and box spring, Jim rolled out a sleeping bag, grabbed a pillow, and climbed in. The week had caught up with him: the few days available for transition from Henretty & Henretty, the late nights, the early mornings, the many surprises.

Jim remembered to phone Maureen. The call went straight to voicemail. She must have gone to bed early. Perhaps she was watching the Red Sox recap on NECN. Maybe she was mad at him for some random reason. Again.

Jim set his phone alarm and rolled onto his back. He stopped fighting to keep his eyes open and surrendered to the advancing wave of slumber.

It seemed as if only a minute had passed before his Blackberry's alarm signaled 7:30 AM. He stirred about in the sleeping bag, then shuffled over to the refrigerator. There was no time to brew coffee. He downed most of a can of Dr. Pepper and then disappeared into the bathroom for fifteen minutes. Soon he sprang, newly scrubbed and clean-shaven, through the door and into the warehouse office.

At the old wooden table sat a fifty-something man who smelled of cigarettes. He sported a long ponytail of straight, graying blond hair and a grizzled dark blond beard. The sleeves of his blue denim shirt were rolled up. His light blue jeans were slightly stained and frayed at the kneecaps, leading to a pair of worn tan moccasins. He pored over a long map, fragile-looking and yellowed with age, which he had rolled out onto the table.

Jim's eyes focused as he approached the table. The bearded man swiveled in his chair until he faced Jim. "You Jim Scoresby, Walter's new guy?"

Decades of sunlight and hard living had turned his face ruddy and wrinkled, while too much drink had rendered his eyes bloodshot. The head drooped to the side with a sort of nonchalance, an adolescent apathy. The eyes narrowed and angled upward, almost searing into Jim. Despite the advanced age of this old wolf, it would be a decent skirmish.

"And you're… Bill?" Jim reached out a hand and made sure he squeezed hard.

During an awkward silence, the man peered into Jim's eyes for several seconds. He finally broke off his stare and ran his gaze up and down, inspecting Jim from head to foot.

"Well," Bill rose to his feet, his wornout knees creaking. "I hear old man Henretty showed you around." Bill sighed as his hands rested on his hips, an ever-so-subtle smirk-smile playing about his mouth. "Bayou boy, how much you really know about boats, kid? And I mean sailboats." The tone was pure sarcasm.

Jim gritted his teeth. He was not even thirty minutes out of bed. "How's this, Bill: enough to be successful as your new boss, if that's what you're fishing for with that rude tone and that damned smirk." His eyes flashed at the older man. His hands, too, were on his hips.

The older man let out a laugh, neither forced nor nervous. Bill shut his eyes for a moment. "Aw, ya got me, kid." Bill held out his hand. "Just bustin' ya chops a bit. It's a rite of passage in this shop. Ya steered straight into it and didn't look back!"

"I see," Jim relaxed into a half-smile, as he shook the man's hand. "I was about to say, we're all on the same team, and Walter did name me the new manager. He prepared me for your crustiness! But he said you'd show me the ropes. And you're trustworthy."

Bill turned and sat once more at the desk and grabbed for his coffee. Jim peered down over his shoulder.

"Now how's that, hah?" Bill said, looking up over his shoulder. "This is the original blueprint for the
John Paul Jones
, from 1912, the year of its construction. That year the Titanic sank, but this baby here was born. Built at the Herreshoff Manufacturing Company, right down in Bristol, where they got their famous museum today. Captain Nat, Nathanael Greene Herreshoff—the old genius drew this himself. This paper came with the purchase of the boat. I could sell this old dog-eared print and buy a damned boat myself. 'Course, that's something Mac woulda done. And we all had to say bye to him. Guess you heard about Crazy McTierney?"