Authors: Chadwick Wall
Liam turned left and followed the rail around toward a door on top of two walking steps. "Here's my room, Maureen." He opened the door at the end of the hallway, revealing the room containing the nineteenth century bed he bought at an antique sale in northern Vermont.
Liam pointed at the fireplace. "I still use it from time to time on winter nights."
"Or when he tries to impress a lady guest!" Jim said.
Maureen sniffled, smirking.
"And that little cubbyhole over there is where I buy and sell all my wares, every day. And many nights." Liam pointed at the desktop computer in the tiny room connected to his bedroom, just to their left. A window beyond the desk overlooked the street. Several of the panes also bore some of the students' etchings.
"And now, last but not least, I'll show you, Maureen, where this swamp creature crashed last fall."
Liam returned to the hall. At the attic door, he unfastened the latch. "This ancient device here's original to the house. You'll never see such a latch manufactured today. My dad's little brother Bruce would undo this every day. His room was up there. Bruce passed away in a car accident at seventeen. I never told Jim that, 'cause I wanted him to actually get sleep up there."
A tremor coursed like an icy trickle down Jim's spine. "My," was all he could muster. What truths proceed from a tongue loosened by the drink.
"Shall we ascend?" Liam said, smiling. He opened the door and continued up the narrow stairwell. Even the steps themselves seemed suitable for children or a diminutive adult. Jim could fit a little over half of his foot on each step, unless he turned that foot sideways. "You may want to lean forward, Maureen, use your hands on the steps," Jim said with a serious tone. "That's how I used to have to do it."
Maureen set down her glass on the small hallway dresser and returned to the open attic doorway.
"This is odd," Maureen muttered as she took Jim's advice, following Liam up the staircase, ahead of Jim. "Blue wallpaper still on the walls."
"No owner ever removed or replaced it," Liam said. "Or even renovated the attic."
Maureen reached the top and stepped onto the floor of the attic hallway. Two seconds later, Jim emerged. Liam stood nearby, waiting. The ebbing twilight filtered through a lone window in the next room, highlighting the silhouette of the great sugar maple outside the front door. Under the window, the mattress lay upon the wooden floor, its sheets pulled back as if someone had just risen.
Liam yanked a cord dangling from the ceiling. A bulb overhead filled the attic with soft light. He pointed to a cubbyhole in the wall, now filled with old books and toys, and spanned by cobwebs.
"That was constructed as a sort of safe by the original builders. Even Grandpa was unaware of its existence. One day he moved a bed frame and gouged the wall, right there. He discovered a hidden closet, filled with some old books from a professor and army lieutenant who once owned this house. His saber and Federal army uniform were there, too. My dad has them all locked up down at his house in Connecticut. But there was one last item in there—"
"What was it?" Maureen said.
"That framed lithograph you guys saw hanging down in the man cave."
Maureen stared into the cluttered cavity, its walls thin slats seemingly composed of balsa wood.
"That lithograph was produced in Washington in the springtime of 1865, just after Abe's assassination. Lincoln lithographs were especially popular in this town. I don't know about Jim's hometown, though."
Liam shot Jim a sly look.
"Lincoln's party was born here, just at the end of this street. His son Robert studied at Phillips Exeter. When Lincoln died, a long spell of mourning hit here. The townspeople always entertained the President and his family on their visits. And I should mention, there's a chance Robert Todd Lincoln roomed in this house."
"My," Jim said. He was impressed every time he heard the story.
"That is something," Maureen said.
"And now, next, but not least," Liam paused to create an air of suspense. "There's the makeshift bedroom over there, where Bruce lived." He led them across the creaking boards into the room. "The first soul to sleep in this attic in forty years was Jim here."
"Did you guys happen to
clean
before he took up residence?" Maureen said.
"I did when he emailed that he'd accepted my invite and was flying up here," Liam said. Jim caught the discomfort in his face.
They three stood in the center of the room. Jim and Liam looked down at the mattress on the floor, with its blanket torn back, like they were looking at a body in a coffin. Liam turned and stepped toward the closet, its door ajar.
"You left one of your shirts in there, I see," Liam said. He took the shirt, still on its hanger, and handed it to Jim. Holding up the shirt, Jim whispered what was printed on its front.
SEWANEE
CLASS OF 1999
ECCE QUAM BONUM!
"Liam, how could we ever forget those times, my friend?"
"That would be impossible. Consider our time-honored motto, after all.
Ecce quam bonum
. 'Behold how good!'"
"Ah, man," Jim said, "so many memories of this room, so many memories." He felt the emotions crash within him like a great wave.
Hands on her hips, Maureen pivoted. Jim followed her gaze, wondering what she was thinking. She glanced at the room's disheveled bed, then its floor of robin's egg blue one-by-twelve boards, its lone third-story window, and its low cracked ceiling, which sloped diagonally downwards as it reached the walls. A serious expression dominated her face, manifesting both reflection and irritation.
"Mmmph," she muttered, barely audibly, as she stepped into the doorway. Then she spoke in a louder voice, the midst of exhaling. "You guys thinking of getting that seafood ready? My stomach's just growling."
Liam paused. "You bet."
She turned and started down the stairs, breaking the proper solemnity and sanctity of the moment. Liam walked reluctantly behind, his arms folded across his chest. Jim's eyes met his friend's, as Liam pulled the cord of the overhead bulb.
The tap and thud of shoes on steps drifted through the attic. Jim lingered for a few seconds. He looked down. He could barely make out the mattress with its lone pillow and its ruffled sheets half pulled back. He recalled the roof membrane pulled back off the Superdome, but quickly purged the thought from his mind.
Jim clutched the shirt as he stepped toward the window. The old sugar maple was still rooted in the grassy patch out front, a branch reaching within feet of the window. He couldn't remember ever seeing the great tree verdant and bursting with leaves.
Beyond the tree, on the other side of Court Street, lay a row of homes dating back to the eighteenth century. In the evening's fading twilight, Jim stared out at the town that was once like a second home to him, the town that once took him in as one of its own, on that night of the fifteenth of September.
He twitched, then drew in a quick breath. Court Street below filled slowly with dark water. With sirens blaring in the distance, the Orleans Parish school bus plowed down the road, dividing the water. In the windows were women and children, staring with wide eyes and open mouths through the glass.
He turned his back to the window and slowly walked past the mattress toward the stairwell. It was not the first dark vision he suffered in this room. Jim glanced down at the mattress again. He imagined himself thrashing and jolting awake and sweaty between the sheets.
The voices of Maureen and Liam drifted up from the first floor, speculating on his absence.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
That evening Jim and Maureen had driven as far south as Stoneham when Maureen's cell rang. They both had lobbed calls in to Kathleen Henretty all day, to no avail.
When Maureen's phone lit up, an unfamiliar number appeared. "It's a 508," she said.
Could be the Cape, Jim thought, looking over at her from the steering wheel. Or it could be from west of the city: Framingham, Westborough, or thereabouts.
"Hello?" Maureen said into the phone.
There were a few seconds of silence.
"Mom, we've been
trying
to reach you all day long! And some of yesterday! Yes, we're in the truck… yes, he's here with me… okay, one second…"
Maureen whispered. "Mom dropped and broke her phone. She's borrowing somebody's. She wants me to put it on speakerphone." Maureen punched a button and held the phone aloft between them. "Go on."
"Hey there, Kathleen," Jim said. "How're y'all?"
Some commotion arose in the background and then Kathleen's slightly hoarse voice came on the line. "I'm at a party down here on the island, not too far from Smith Point. So guys, would you believe me if I told you Walter won the whole thing? Again? At his age? With a crew and boat he didn't know?"
Jim laughed. "I told you he'd take it, Maureen!"
Maureen shook her head and smiled. "Daddy never ceases to surprise even me."
"So Walter and I have been at been at parties late this afternoon and evening," Kathleen said, "visiting all our old friends on the island. It's great. Walt's so happy. Not even tired! He's off with Spaulding and Jack at the Schwartzmanns'. I brought the car with me onto the ferry, so we'll drive tomorrow to the eastern side of Nantucket."
"When will you be back in Osterville?" Maureen said.
"Monday evening. We'll be here two more days at some parties, and Memorial Day late afternoon we'll ferry it back. Spaulding is yachting back to Chatham tomorrow with his son and the crew."
"It must be a hard life for them. And for you, this weekend," Maureen said.
Jim chuckled.
"You guys have fun today in Portland and Exeter?"
"We shopped in the Old Port. Jim ate his body weight in fried chicken at a Kennebunk Popeye's and seafood everywhere else."
"That was to be expected, dear," Kathleen said.
"His college friend Liam, who visited Jim in Boston, had us over to his house," Maureen said. "Tons of historical treasures inside. I can see how he and Jim became friends. I also saw Jim's first room when he evacuated to New England. Did you know our Jim slept on a mattress in a dusty attic for five weeks? "
"Sometimes you do what you must do, Maureen. I got to scoot, so tell me you love me and that you can't wait to see me."
"I love you, and I
can
wait to see you," Maureen said.
"Ha. Love you, too. Take care, Jim," Kathleen said.
"Thanks, Kathleen! I sure will. Give Walter my congrats!"
"Take good care of my little girl, young man." Kathleen hung up.
"I can't believe he won again," Maureen said.
"I just had a feeling the old salt would pull it off in the end," Jim said. "Wonder by how many seconds, or minutes."
"We'll soon learn," she said, looking out of the window.
Jim wondered what she was staring at, it being pitch black outside, save for the silhouette of the tree line. They were just south of Medford on Interstate 93, entering Somerville. In a few minutes they would hit Charlestown, then cross the Charles. They would park on Beacon Hill at the Henretty townhouse.
Other than fatigue from the long day, Jim did not know why he was so eager to reach his destination. Another night with the very person who regularly uttered comments such as the one about the mattress—he felt an ember within his gut. Where had her heart gone? What had happened to the girl he had fallen in love with months ago?
Back in the Louisburg Square brownstone, dangling his legs in the hot bath, Jim felt the need to get moving up out of the water, but where, he knew not. Bryce and Cara were in Connecticut for the weekend. Patrick was probably up to his usual mischief, lurking about town for his next female victim, someone he could use, or someone who could use him. Case probably was unloading luggage at Logan Airport or unwinding at his place in East Boston. Duff might still be in town, just a few streets away, off of Bowdoin.
Maybe he should have taken Maureen farther north along the Maine coast to Bar Harbor or at least Camden. And what would they do tomorrow? Better yet, what would they do tonight?
And what did he expect to find at Maureen's place? Did he expect to find refuge with her, to relax and receive comfort? Perhaps he was like a dog coming in from a cold wintry night to warm himself against another dog, but instead finding only a hissing viper. Perhaps that metaphor was too extreme. But what pity or heartfelt affection or solace did he expect to get from her?
When he failed to pull her away from her laptop, he grabbed a volume of the old New England Transcendentalists and ran the warm water in the jacuzzi bath. For a few seconds, Jim cradled the book. As a boy, he read those writers with pleasure, but he had neglected them for years.
Jim warmed his legs in the water, striving to forget that the one who so recently wanted him moved back to her side was now ignoring him. He gently turned the pages of the old volume until he found an Emerson quote he loved,
"Give all to love; obey thy heart."
Had he not done this with Maureen? Was he now any happier for it? He had followed his heart and it had deceived him as to the worth of its object.
He found two more, Emerson's
"Hitch your wagon to a star"
and Thoreau's famous
"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined."
He had followed the latter in the past year. He had long dreamt of moving to the Northeast, to live there even for a few years. So far D.C. and Maryland were the closest he had come, nearly four years ago. Then business brought him away from the East to the Midwest and California for a few years. He had just moved back to Louisiana, at the dawn of 2005, and had worked eight months writing, renovating the house, and selling insurance when the great storm hit.
In the end, Jim
had
honored Thoreau's exhortation. He moved with confidence in the direction of his dreams—to explore more of the world. Jim attempted to remove himself from the insanity of Katrina's aftermath. Sadly, the insanity followed him. Or to his chagrin, he carried it
within
him. With the new fear.