Water Lessons (6 page)

He wanted to let a little pomp and seriousness out of her. "Maureen… Irish? But I thought you were a Boston Brahmin through and through."

She shot him an icy glance.

"Just joshin' ya, sweet thing." He grabbed her around the shoulders, pulled her to him, and slapped a wet kiss on her baby-skinned cheek.

"Now I'm
hungry
.” Maureen sounded like a ruined child.

Jim laughed.
 

"Let's walk up to Legal Sea Foods and have some oysters. I'll have some wine, and you can have some of your beloved Harpoon or Sam Adams or whatever, and we can actually enjoy our Sunday again."

Jim sighed. "I couldn't argue with that. But I just… I just don't see how you could be friends with a couple like that back there. Maybe we're two very different people."

Jim and Maureen remained silent as they walked to the restaurant. He wondered if he had made the wrong decision, pursuing her.

CHAPTER NINE

Mondays were always particularly trying at the Henretty & Henretty brokerage. From the outset at seven-thirty, Jim slogged through the morning, counting the hours until lunchtime. Then he could enjoy twenty or thirty pleasant minutes, but a building dread of the second half of the workday often filled the remainder of the lunch hour.

Jim could not let slip this secret, either in his face or by confiding to a fellow broker.

Maureen's father, Walter, was the chief executive and owner, as Walter's late father had been.

To reveal his true ennui and disappointment would endanger his employment and his courtship of Walter's daughter. Jim even balked at the thought of showing the slightest ingratitude to the venerable old man.

Jim had first met Walter on Boylston at Abe and Louie's Steakhouse one Tuesday afternoon after the markets had closed. At the dark-oak-and-mirror-backed bar, Walter introduced himself. The old man posed a thousand questions as to Jim's experiences during and after the great storm. He also learned much about Jim's struggle as a fledgling writer.
 

Jim wowed his new friend with the breadth of his knowledge of Scotch whisky and military trivia, unleashing the latter once he learned Walter was a retired Navy Commodore who had served in Korea and Vietnam. After hearing of Jim's certifications and his year at the New Orleans branch of New York Life, Walter offered Jim the new opening at his firm. To his amusement, Jim often wondered which he feared more: disappointing the old man or his daughter.

Those first few minutes after the market opened were like any of the eighteen or so Mondays Jim had endured since his first day at the brokerage in early November. He had seen all the other twenty brokers and the president/floor manager and the IT tech and the HR lady but still there was no sign of Walter Henretty.

The old man lived in Osterville on the southern shore of Cape Cod and owned a townhouse in Louisburg Square in Beacon Hill a few doors down from Senator Kerry. But most of Walter's days were spent on the Cape, and he had a driver take him up to check on his brokerage perhaps twice a week. Regardless, Walter always made a point of popping in each Monday.

The old seafarer rose each Monday long before dawn to inspire his officers and deckhands as they set off into battle. The Commodore would saunter in with some inspiring or even hilarious exclamation, platitude, or dance, and the floor would unleash a cheer every time. But this ritual always occurred before the markets opened. Still there was no sign of Walter and it was nearing eleven o'clock.

Jim dialed away, trying his utmost to reach a client, all the while staring out the window. Jim had earned one of the cubicles against the glass, the Henretty & Henretty version of a window office. He could take in the broad view of the Boston Common with its famed Frog Pond, the lush Public Gardens, the Financial District and Beacon Hill, some of Boston Harbor, the northern periphery of South Boston and the Four Points Channel.

Even better was the view belonging to the president and floor boss, Walter's younger brother Dewey. Foremost was the magnificent view in Walter's own office. From inside, one could see the Charles, Cambridge, MIT, the Victorian brownstones, and strolling shoppers of Back Bay, the well-landscaped Esplanade, the Commonwealth Avenue Bridge, and the oldest neighborhood in the city, Beacon Hill.

As he held the phone's receiver to his ear, Jim stood and pushed his face against the window. His client did not answer. Jim left a message, pondering as to whether he would remain in his recently attained position at the brokerage. While he was not the broker with the greatest book of business or revenue over the last five months, he showed the greatest increase in monthly sales. At this rate, he may very well make partner in the firm, or at least manager, if he didn't burn out soon in sales.

Jim was searching for another number in the database when his desk phone rang. The caller ID displayed Maureen's number.

"Hey, sweet girl," Jim said.

"All right, James Scoresby. Where do I begin?"

"Should I be sittin' down for this one?"

"Don't make plans for this weekend. There's a surprise."

"Ah, surprises, my favorite! Sounds good, baby. I'll count on—"

"Jim, I told you to stop calling me baby."

Jim sighed.

"Anyway, you'll see what I'm talking about. I think this week will end as a good one. Now, gotta run. I've been corralled into grabbing lunch with Yoshi and the girls from the lab."

At that moment a great laughter-tinged cheer erupted inside the entire fifty-eighth floor of the Hancock Tower. Jim said a quick goodbye to Maureen. He stood and faced with growing expectation the main entrance to the trading floor. Every broker stood. A few clapped as Walter Henretty, two inches over six feet, lithe, and decked in his usual power suit, crossed the threshold with a flourish.

Walter pumped his arms above him as Jim had seen Mardi Gras kings do on their parade floats. He laughed and extended an index finger on each fist. "Top o' the mornin' to you all, good ladies and gents!" he bellowed in his thick Massachusetts accent.

The old man carried much charisma. It just flowed out of him, and Walter would be loved and admired by most even if he was not a man of power or position.

"Okay, you guys!" the old man said. "I just wanted to congratulate everyone for a great March. Now we're well into April and a few of you in particular are still up to a terrific performance. I'd like to give my special congratulations to Jimmy Scoresby for the most accounts opened in the month. Jimmy came all the way from the lazy bayous of Louisiana to remind us Bostonian workaholics how to work our tails off. Keep it up, my boy!" The old man led a round of applause all across the floor.

Jim looked down at his wingtips. He didn't even notice the next two names mentioned. He had once again begun a round of daydreaming, this time a blissful reverie on his last few months of rebounding and his golden future in New England.

The old man tied up his rally with a quick history Jim had heard months ago. Walter recounted his retirement from the Navy near the end of the Vietnam War. He had assumed control of the brokerage house from his retiring father and loosely managed it ever since, coaching certain brokers to great wealth.
 

The brokers who became the best, Walter declared, "sometimes were the last ones we thought were cut out for the job. Look at Sarah Dougherty… you could see her definitely practicing medicine or the law. Joel Kauffman, you know, we could all see him teaching nuclear physics over at MIT."

The old man pointed suddenly at Jim. "I mean, consider young Jimmy. One would guess he'd teach history or write novels full-time. Look at the guy, will ya? You better watch out, brother!" Walter pointed over to his younger brother Dewey, the floor boss, who observed all these proceedings with a face of glum boredom.

"I know he doesn't say much." Walter shook his head and chortled, his hands on his hips. "But I assure you, Dewey is watching your every move, especially those who could replace him one day."

Walter guffawed and Dewey's thin lips morphed into a Mona Lisa smile.

"Now ladies and gents, Grandpa Walt wishes you a good day and happy selling! Press on! Keep up the good work! This May, beat the hell out last year's and let's give 'em hell in April." As he gave this last rallying cry, Walter raised a fist above his head in a boxer's celebration.

The floor erupted in a cheer and then everyone sat and plunged fervently to work on the phones and computers. Walter draped his arm around his brother's shoulder and they walked to Dewey's corner office.

Jim dialed another prospect, an attorney he and Maureen had met at the renowned Raw Bar on the Cape in Falmouth. While the three had snacked on the bar's legendary lobster rolls, the attorney inquired as to Jim's occupation, and then complained about the Dow's recent performance. That gave Jim his opening. He made sure to get the man's card before moving on.

The attorney answered. Jim made his normal polite pleasantries and then set in on his pitch. The attorney bit, but said he had a meeting in a few minutes, and that he wanted a call back later to discuss the number of shares. Jim and the man agreed to chat again after lunch, around one o'clock.

Jim moved to another call. He snickered, thinking of the languid, booze-drenched lunches New Orleans professionals, namely the oilmen, enjoyed back in the good years. Such lunches would last up to two hours, his father would tell him. That was as long as breakfast at Brennan's in the Quarter! Though lunchtime in the Big Easy would always run longer than in most cities, now a good many of those oilmen, unlike his father, had settled in Houston or overseas. The best years of New Orleans were long gone.

Jim paused and called his most reliable client, this one in the marketing department of
The Washington Post
. The number had been forged into his memory long ago. Damon Lockland had attended Sewanee with him and been one of his closest friends ever since. Damon was gifted with many attributes: prodigious wit, vast personability, much culture, and a perpetual emotional buoyancy that rendered every crisis just another minor obstruction.

All of which made Damon Lockland a prime contact for any broker to call on an uneventful Monday morning. Damon was incredibly enterprising, ever vigilant for the newest stock or side enterprise to further his small fortune. He had also inherited the keen business acumen of his father and the creative mindset of his mother. Many times in the last few months, Jim had dialed his friend, and Damon had purchased stocks and bonds, and often in great quantities.

Damon answered with his customary good cheer. "How goes it, James Ewell Scoresby? How are sales? Still liking Beantown?"

"Sales are up more by the month. Boston isn't so bad. I just landed a new pad in the North End with a great balcony view of the Harbor. You and Kathy come on up for a long weekend. We can also drive up to see your dad in Bradford."

"We were just skiing with him up there at Christmas. While you were back visiting Louisiana. But for you? We'll be up soon. Just have to set some plans in stone."

"Y'all talk, then name some dates when you might want to stay."

"Jimmy boy, ha ha! Sounds like you're still rocking the old accent and the 'y'all'! They'll rib you raw in no time up there! Now, so... you got any inside info for me today? Anything
promising
?"

"Hargrove is, I think, a promising ticket. It's down a bit. But I do believe with all my faculties it's gonna go up the next few months just exponentially. It went the same way two years ago. I'd go with them."

"I've been watching them a bit. They're down to like one-fifty a share now?"

"One twenty-five now, podnuh."

"Podnuh! Ha! The Cajun Yankee! I love it. I'll take a thousand."

"Very well. Thank you much, Damon. Let's talk this weekend about the trip when you get some time."

They bid their goodbyes and hung up. He missed his old friend, an only child who was like a brother to him. Not merely in college, but when Jim lived and worked there in the Capital four years ago, they found many great adventures together on the town. Now Jim hardly got to see Damon anymore. Damon had remained in D.C. and married a brainy, attractive lobbyist from Maryland. Jim's days of gallivanting with Damon in search of beautiful women were dead and gone. But Jim took heart. Kathy was a great pick.

Jim called up the order for Damon's thousand shares and dived back into the chase. He remembered Ken Whitmore, the software executive he met days ago on the commuter rail to Newburyport. Or perhaps he could phone the old doctor from Brookline he had met at the Museum of Fine Arts members' gala.

He dialed both. Neither answered.

Jim sighed and leaned forward, relishing the gorgeous vista before him. A lone window cleaner dangled in front of one of the turn-of-the-century granite buildings in the Ladder District, on the other side of the Common. Somehow, the reckless figure reminded him of himself.

While gloating at his desk, he was not completely content, despite his survival of Katrina and his newfound success. He deep down did not think he was built for sales, nor did he much enjoy it. Perhaps his success as a stockbroker emerged from sheer will—with perhaps a dash of good luck.

Surely there would come a time when the thrill of the hunt would no longer charm him. Jim would find the market unbearable, no achievement or success reinforcing his self-worth. And he would do as he had done before many times in his youth and venture forth into the horizon and find a different quest, a different arena.

Still, he must remain steadfast on his lifelong course of writing and of bettering his craft. He had published some of his short stories in magazines and journals a few years back, and had privately published a short story anthology in New Orleans to local fanfare.

In the last three years he had written little while he travelled the world: Europe, Latin America, the Caribbean, Canada, and throughout the United States. Then he had settled in New Orleans for nine months. He experienced great moments on the town and with Freddy. Then Madame Katrina paid her visit.