Authors: Chadwick Wall
Jim veered halfway off the drive onto the grass, stopping a few feet behind the Porsche. He rolled up his driver's window and alighted from the truck, pulling his freshly laundered seersucker blazer with him. Jim donned the sportscoat, shut and locked the door, then walked toward the main house.
The woman in black appeared with six other guests, all elegantly dressed. Two looked to be in their twenties or thirties, four of them middle-aged or older. They chatted and gestured his way, a few drinking and puffing their cigarettes.
Jim caught one of his favorite scents: burning charcoal. Then there arose a certain melody—a clarinet, a trumpet. Jazz. Just a few feet before the front porch, the seven guests moved their stare from him to his truck far behind him.
"Now that truck brings me back in time, young man!" said a tall, white-haired man of perhaps sixty. Dressed in a pressed yellow dress shirt and white slacks, he held a cigarette in debonair fashion a few inches before his face. He pulled his eyebrows upwards in an exaggerated gesture. "Those are hard to come by these days!"
"That thing was pulled right from the set of
American Graffiti
," said a twenty-something man next to the older man. "Better yet, maybe
Sounder
or
Forrest Gump
."
The young man, holding his cigarette down by his hip, flicked the ash onto the grass. His wavy brown bangs hung into his eyes. The face seemed pinched into a sort of sardonic, tart expression, the mouth turned slightly downward in a grimace, the nostrils stretching with contempt, the narrowed eyes hinting at the ivory-white and hazel within. "And the suit's from
Gump
, too!"
"Hey, nice threads, Rhett Butler," said the young woman in black. The woman ran him up and down with a leering smile, her face slightly tilted. Her sly, lynx-like quality increased and her green eyes sparkled as she said, "We know who you are, Jim Scoresby. We've heard about you."
"Good things? Bad things?" Jim held his hands out at his sides, palms up, in expectation, as he climbed the steps to the porch.
"Only good things. So far," the older man chuckled.
A fifty-something redhead, clad in a knee-length green dress, flanked him. Next to her stood two men, their necks and faces and shins deeply tanned, their hair half-bleached golden by the sun. A slightly ruffled, windswept look characterized them, these men with dress shorts and slightly wrinkled, untucked polo shirts, their Oakley sunglasses bound around their necks with elastic cords.
"You dashing young man, come and let us meet you." The dapper white-haired gentleman brought his arm around the shoulder of the red-haired woman. With his other arm, he motioned with his cigarette for Jim to approach. "Don't worry," the man added, "we won't beat you up too badly."
Jim flashed a smile, cast a quick glance at the young woman, and finished with a nod to the old man. "How are y'all today?" he said. "I'm Jim Scoresby. I work for Walter Henretty."
"You work for Maureen Henretty, too, if you date her," the girl deadpanned, a faint tinge of disgust evident in her face.
The older gentleman put out his hand. "Ryland Spaulding. Nice to meet you. My son and Walter both sing your praises. Now welcome to my abode. This is my wife, Susan."
Jim nodded and shook their hands. "Senator. Mrs. Spaulding."
Susan Spaulding gave a faint smile and watched her guest with her large brown eyes.
"You know, I was really just in the state legislature. So, Jim," Senator Spaulding said, "on the other side of me here is Brianna Bradford."
"Great-great great-great great-great great-great great-great great-great great-granddaughter of Governor Bradford," Susan Spaulding added with a slight edge.
"Governor Bradford of the Massachusetts Bay Colony," Jim said. "That's quite a lineage."
"Something like that," Brianna smiled slyly, almost deviously, emitting a purely feline aura. Holding a lit cigar, she extended her free hand, slender and smallish. "If you ask me, Rhett, he was just another chauvinistic, homophobic Christian Crusader."
Jim laughed.
"So you're up here from New Orleans?" Brianna said.
"Yes, indeed," Jim said, a bit vacantly. His eyes drifted down to her dress, slit up the side. "I relocated to New England last September fifteenth."
"Wow. You got washed out?"
"Somethin' like that." Jim snapped his fingers and pointed down at her hand. "How's the cigar?"
"And Jim," Senator Spaulding said, "these two rogues next to me: this is Bob Kimball and Rich Boylan, friends of mine. We do a lot of sailing, fishing. A little golfing, too. We're out there so often, these guys could impersonate steamed lobsters for Halloween."
"Well, they wear their sunburns proudly," Jim shook their hands. "They earned 'em."
"Would you like a drink or something to munch on?" Susan Spaulding said. "There is a load of food out behind the house. Jack and Natasha are inside watching the Sox game. Or you can hang out with us here."
"I'll start by saying hello to Jack and Natasha, maybe grab me a drink," Jim said. He nodded and waved at the group as he walked toward the French doors. Partygoers stood just inside the windows, chatting and cradling their drinks.
"I hope you've caught that Red Sox fever," Bob Kimball said. "If you haven't, you should watch an inning or two in there."
"I haven't got the fever yet, but I'm getting into all the old traditions," Jim said. "And I love Fenway Park. A storied, fascinating ol' place."
"Good to hear!" said Rich Boylan, the other horribly sunburned, disheveled sailor standing next to Senator Spaulding. "Just whatever you do, don't become a Yankees fan!"
"Yes, twenty-first century Rhett Butler," Brianna said. "Would you really want to become a Yankee?"
Jim threw his head back and laughed. He took the remaining few steps and opened the French door.
The rather spacious sitting room contained a group of adults of all ages. Several turned to watch him. Some sat, some stood, some spoke with half-inebriated voices but all conversed, holding their beers, martinis, glasses of wine, and mixed drinks. In the center of the room was a rectangular cloth-covered table, heavily laden with cheese, dips, baskets of chips, and other appetizers.
Jim threaded his way between the sitting and standing guests. He caught a few expected words, "seersucker," "Louisiana," "Katrina," "Maureen" and "Walter."
The next room turned out to be a considerably larger living room of high ceilings, dark wooden walls of bookshelves, and a deep brown oak floor. A vast crowd stood in this room, filling it with their din.
Even louder sounds emanated from the titanic flat-screen television. The Red Sox were embroiled in a fifth inning skirmish with the Tampa Bay Devil Rays in Fenway Park. As the Red Sox pitcher neared the mound, the few guests on the Victorian couches, and the crowd assembled in a semicircle around them, erupted into a burst of whistles, cheers, clapping, and shouts, a fierce audio volley of passion and pride. In Louisiana, Jim had only seen such a display at LSU football games.
A group had amassed against the rear of the couches. As this group whistled and shouted, its crescendo built ahead of Beckett's pitch. Jim snickered upon spotting Natasha in the crowd. Jack's typically composed face contorted with passion as he screamed at the television.
At the opposite side of the room, a cluster of guests had congregated around a long, rectangular table. When Jim reached this group, he recognized no one. Where were Walter and Kathleen? Walter had phoned hours ago to say they were about to depart, and Jim told him he was still waylaid at work.
Jim veered around a young couple and stepped up to the table, laden with caviar-smothered crostini, jumbo shrimp, remoulade sauce, crabcakes, escargot, chips and various dips, olives, and other hors d'oeuvres. Standing behind the table was a man with thinning white hair combed back on his head and attired in a white button down shirt, black bow tie and black trousers. His eyes were large and solemn. A tiny American flag pin hung on his shirt's right chest pocket, and the left chest pocket held a small nameplate that read "Joseph." He opened an Amstel Light longneck for a young blond-haired man and attempted to uncork a bottle of white wine.
"Yeees, gooood. Almooost there. I know it's really hard for you but it's not that hard, know what I mean?" said the young man, still clad in his corporate pinstripes.
The old man's cheeks flushed a mottled, unhealthy red. His gaze fell tableward and he scrambled to pierce the cork and push down the arms of the corkscrew. The harder he tried, the more apparent his anxiety. The wet, chilled bottle slipped in his half-gnarled hands.
"Damn, man. Wow. Here, let… let me do it," the young man motioned with his fingers to hand over the bottle.
Jim's eyes bulged and his heart surged as the bartender surrendered the bottle and corkscrew to the young man. Just for a moment, the man's bloodshot, slightly watering eyes rolled to meet Jim's fierce stare. Then the wounded eyes, with the wounded spirit behind them, fixed back onto the table. His hand started to shake, and he tried to hide it by folding his black handcloth.
The young man's face evinced physical exertion and disgust as he finally worked the cork from the bottle. He sighed as he poured the wine into a glass. "See… not too hard… in actuality." His tone turned nasty as he poured the wine to within three inches of the rim of the tall clear glass.
"You forgot somethin', bud," Jim said in a soft voice. He seized the wineglass from the table, and without spilling it, brought it close to his chest. Jim forced his face into a tender expression as he politely nodded his head.
"See… you corked it," Jim looked at the glass for a second. "And you left a piece floatin' in there."
"Here, give us that glass, son," the old bartender's cheeks flushed. "I got a clean spoon heeyah."
The young man's eyes widened, his skin turned ghost-white as if drained of all blood. He seemed like a half-felled tree, wavering before a pausing lumberjack.
"Allow me." Jim took the spoon from the bartender, his eyes fixed on the perpetrator. Jim brought the spoon nearer to the top of the glass. At the last second, Jim laughed as he transferred the spoon to his other hand and instead stuck an index finger two inches into the wine. He pulled his finger from the glass and brought it dripping into his mouth.
"Corked, but sooo
good
!" Jim gritted his teeth and flashed his eyes. "
That's
how we do it in the bayou. Now, get goin'!"
The young man took a step back, blinking rapidly. He looked as if he wanted to shrink within his pinstripe suit and hide.
"You're a real ass, seersucker boy!" the young man said as he moved away from the table. "Who in the hell are you?"
"You get goin' before I crack you hard in front of all these folks." Jim wagged an index finger in his face. "Want a new dental plan?"
The young man turned, his opened Amstel Light still on the table, and marched off across the room, past the crowd shouting and gesticulating at the widescreen. He glared at the onlookers before he opened the French doors and stepped outside onto the front porch, closing them after him.
Sensing himself beam with deep pride, Jim turned to the bartender, whose eyes wrinkled in a grateful and amused smile at his new friend. Jim raised the wineglass. "To the victor… go the spoils." He took a sip. "Kids don't respect their elders much these days."
"Some do, like yaself. Really, ya don't have to finish that wine, son."
"I'll finish it, sure. And I can polish off that Amstel in a bit."
"No ya don't, friend. Gimme that!" he held out his hand. "Whaddaya really want? Come ahhn!"
"You got any Woodford Reserve back there, sir?" Jim handed back the wine, his eyebrows rising. "I'll take it neat."
"Now we're talkin'." The bartender fetched the whiskey. "I'm gettin' slower in my old age. But still Senator Spaulding employs me. And I ain't really that slow. That kid was a real brat, I tell ya, spoiled as hell. Don't know what he got. He's one of Jack's star sales guys. Jerk's name is Ford Brinkley. He's from an old family here on the Cape and he thinks he's royalty."
"But he sure got his little comeuppance today," Jim said. "Boy was a real horse's ass."
The bartender placed a rock glass on the tablecloth and poured out the bourbon. "I'm Joseph Riordan. Friends call me Joe." He stretched out a hand. Jim again noted its crooked, weathered fingers, and shook it.
"Jim Scoresby. I work for Walter Henretty. And I'm lucky enough to date his beautiful daughter, Maureen."
"Henretty? Old Captain Henretty, good man. See him here all the time. People just love Walter. And he's got a smart, pretty wife and kids. So where you livin', the Cape? Boston?"
"I was in New Hampshire, then Boston, now Osterville. But I'm returning to Boston. Long story, I must say." Jim sipped the bourbon.
"Where ya hail from, my man?"
"Louisiana."
"I can see it in the suit. And the accent. And the choice of spirits. Ya from New Orleans?"
"There and a town about forty miles north of it," Jim said. "But if I was a true New Orleanian, I would have requested a Sazerac or a Hurricane."
"I prefer the Sazerac," Joe said. "Katrina sent ya up this way, I guess?"
"She did indeed," Jim said. His eyes drifted from Joe's dour face to the window beyond. "There's Walter now. I was wondering where he'd gone."
"He and Mrs. Henretty are just out that door."
"I'm gonna stop and see 'em," Jim said. "Great to meet you, Joe. Put a li'l liquid soap in that Amstel in case our boy comes back for it."
The slate patio jutted out perhaps fifty feet and ran the entire length of the mansion. The three steps bordering it led down to a great green on which children played. On one side of this lawn, a game of croquet was underway. On the other side of the green, children in a spacewalk jumped and howled and laughed.
Just before Jim, a large crowd chatted on the patio in the ebbing twilight as jazz resounded from loudspeakers. Flames flickered in the gas lampposts ringing the patio. Two waiters weaved through the group, distributing hors d'oeuvres. Walter held court among a cluster of couples, relating a tale from his years on the open sea. Neither Walter nor Kathleen had spotted Jim.