by Seth Coker
It was midmorning when Joe started for the boat. He passed the nurses cutting through the island, wet from their swim. Ashley gave him a hug and a lingering squeeze on his upper arm. He could feel the wetness on his chest where her bikini fabric had pushed against him. They said the boat was quiet; the trainers weren’t up yet when they left.
Reaching the muddy sand, Joe aimed his swim for the anchor line. The tide was stronger than he’d expected. He barely grabbed the dive platform. Standing on the platform, the breeze and sun took the water off him and his skin tingled with the slight itch of drying saltwater.
Tony and the captain were playing Scrabble, and Joe joined them for a second cup of coffee. For someone with a ninth-grade education, Tony was excellent at Scrabble.
Tony said, “Did you see my girls in their bikinis?”
“Yeah. It was about enough for me to fake a heart attack to get some reviving.”
“You think they brought any little blue pills with them?”
Joe laughed, “I thought you’d graduated to a pump,” as he went below. He changed into Bermuda shorts, fastened his floral shirt with the wooden buttons, and slipped on his Docksiders. The trainers assembled egg white omelets and protein smoothies in the galley. When he was their age, he and the other foremen would knock back two shots, two beers, and a roast beef hoagie during lunch and then go work another five hours. These princesses had three gin and tonics over an afternoon and started slurring. Maybe they needed the yolks.
On the boat’s leeward side, the captain used a remote control to lower the dinghy via a motorized pulley. The dinghy hit the water, and Tony grabbed the cable and walked it to the dive platform. He released the carabiner attaching the dinghy to the pulley and secured the bowline to a cleat.
Nodding at the dinghy Tony said, “Hey, Joe, let’s check out the neighborhood.”
A couple of minutes later, Tony and Joe boarded, lowered the propeller, key-cranked the engine, released the bowline, shoved off, and pushed down the throttle.
The permanent inflatable had a hard bottom and a thirty-five-horsepower outboard. The US Navy and Coast Guard used larger versions for fast access into shallow water. Tony sat in the skipper seat, and Joe sat to port.
Tony was a natural-born icebreaker; he didn’t even know there was ice. Old, young, male, female, pretty, ugly, rich, poor, busy, bored, alone, in a group, drunk, sober—it didn’t matter. As a result, they met the couple on the Waverunner up from Murrells Inlet for the day and the guys in the leaking johnboat with the forty-year-old, 15-horsepower Evinrude. Tony chatted at the sandbar with picnicking families, their anchors stretched out along the beach beside their umbrellas, folding chairs, coolers, and unleashed dogs. Tony and Joe drank canned beer with some fellow carpenters. These Southern carpenters—with their sun-bleached hair, sunburns, and blurred tattoos—were not union men.
At two o’clock, Joe phoned the captain to prepare sandwiches. Travelling back to Framed but still half a mile away, Joe heard his nephew’s music. Smaller boats were rafted alongside the big Ferretti. A small party seemed to have started while they were out.
“Tony, was it the music blasting that got the first boat to raft up? And the second one rafted because a first was rafted?”
“I’m betting Twitter. Gino probably tweeted to the local weightlifting community that he was having a party today with all you can drink protein shakes. We should have told the captain not to give him the proper location.”
“I think we’re stuck with the boom-ta-boom-ta-boom-boom-boom the rest of the day.”
After a brief pause to survey the Ferretti’s decks, Tony added, “Of course, there is a bright side to having young visitors too.”
Tony brought the dinghy to the dive platform, and Joe secured it with the raft’s bowline. They would wench it up after the rafters left. Twenty people were spread out across the yacht’s main deck, and a makeshift bar was set up in the lower console. Joe shook a few hands, watched some interesting dance moves, and climbed to the flybridge.
Eating his roast beef sandwich, he flipped off the flybridge’s speakers. He watched the nurses come across the dunes, enjoying the view enough he almost didn’t hear the music below. He finished his Budweiser and twisted the cap off another. He stretched out and opened his book. The fiberglass canopy shaded most of him. The heat, shade, breeze, and Budweiser overpowered the boom-ta-boom and hysterical shrieks of laughter from below, and Joe fell asleep.
At five thirty, he awoke to Tony sitting across from him, showered and shaved and with a highball in each hand. Joe blinked out the sleep, sat up, and took the drink that was offered. He looked to either side of the boat and saw more boats tied on. He took a sip and gurgled the booze around to take the taste of sleep out of his mouth.
“Nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd,” he said. “You sleep?”
“No. Too many interesting people onboard. The things you can pierce. It’s a brave new world.”
“Is that why you’re so scrubbed? Getting something off or trying to get something on?”
“Old dogs still hunt,” Tony laughed. “Good for you to remember.”
“Yeah, but what if you catch it?”
“Hang on as long as you can.”
Thumping up the ladder, a big, good-looking full head of gelled hair peered into the flybridge, followed by a pair of massive tanned shoulders. There was not much kindness around the eyes and probably not much intelligence. The confidence was a consolation prize for a mediocre soul. Seeing his nephew made Joe tired.
“Hey, Gino, how’s the party?”
“It’s great, Uncle Joe. Can I tell the captain to run the little boat into the village and buy some vodka? I think we’re on the last bottle. Also, could he pick up some lean steaks and whey protein mix?”
“Gino, if he wasn’t here, who would know what button gets the anchor up or how to start the boat?”
“Hey, Gino,” said Tony, “who told you girls want tall, dark, and needy? With your shiny hair, milkshake muscles, and cabin on this boat, you start with first and goal and don’t even score a field goal. It was like the Giants before the Tuna.”
“I got something for you, Tony. Fifty bucks says I could have any girl on this boat today. You want some of that action?”
“If you had a fifty, I’d considerate it, but I don’t need fifty more of your uncle’s money. We played pinochle yesterday.”
“Use gin, Gino. Those girls aren’t going to know the difference.”
“Uncle Joe, we could really use some vodka. It’s got fewer calories than gin.”
“Mary and Joseph, help me. You’re worried about your own ladylike figure, not your company’s. Gino, I haven’t heard you say ‘thank you’ for the vodka you already spilled. Go enjoy your friends with some gin.”
“Whatever. Yeah. Thanks.”
“Eh, big guy, before you go—is Ashley back?”
“How should I know?”
“Well, if you see her, let her know she is welcome to join the men up top for a cocktail.”
“Why aren’t I invited if she is? I thought you said it was for old men only.”
Tony looked at Joe and laughed. “You can figure that one out, Gino.”
The chiseled face disappeared down the ladder.
Tony cocked an eye at Joe. “Maybe you do think an old dog can still hunt?”
Joe grinned. “How long would that square neck have lasted as an apprentice?”
“Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus, he wouldn’t have made it a day, much less a three-year apprenticeship. A boy that strong and proud would have broken his thumb with a hammer by 10:00 a.m. If he made it through the morning, can you imagine him going to lunch at the Rolling Pin with the crew? Trying to show he was a bigger man than everybody else and then heading up the scaffolding in the afternoon? He would be dead before the afternoon smoke break.”
“Pattie might have been able to make a decent guy out of him, though. I’ll never forget my first day with Pattie. His hard hat’s br
im an inch from my mouth. Telling me I had no pride because of the way I stacked the two-by-fours off the delivery truck.”
“I had no pride because my shirt was untucked. ‘You want to be a union man or a day laborer?’ My chin was soaked with his spit. He might have used a few racial epithets to describe me that aren’t so kosher anymore.”
Joe and Tony knew the stories; they’d been there together. Memories of good times. Pattie was a stand-up guy, had his nail pouch on by seven thirty. The smoke break was at ten, lunch at a quarter to twelve. Back from lunch at twelve thirty, smoke break at three. The nail pouch was off at four thirty. Nobody started late, took different breaks, or left early. Drink at lunch if you want—Pattie did—but you had four hours of sawing and hammering after lunch at the same pace.
“Pattie was right,” Tony said. “I had no pride. I wasn’t worried about ruining that lumber. Stacking it sloppy on uneven ground. Letting it bow or rot in a puddle. He taught us what pride looked like, huh? No wasted material. Clean cuts. Straight nails. Use a four-inch nail when you need a four-inch nail and a three-inch nail when you need a three-inch nail. You need a galvanized nail, use a galvanized nail. Always sweep jobsite at day’s end.”
“I’ve never been so proud as when my apprenticeship ended. At the banquet, I wore a tie my mother bought me for the occasion. That was one of the only times I’ve worn a tie since Vatican II. At the bar afterward, when Pattie told half the Chapter I could run a crew on his job anytime but that ‘some of you sorry excuses for foremen need me,’ I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry.”
“Old Pattie was a good egg. Never seen more men laughing at a wake or crying at a funeral. Not many like Pattie.”
The conversation lulled into a comfortable silence. Joe wondered whether the sea would lay down tonight. If not, no rush. He’d fly the trainers home if the trip dragged. He finished his highball and swirled the ice counterclockwise. Tony set up the backgammon table. The captain delivered a tray of snacks: pickles, deviled eggs, sardines, and crackers.
The captain asked, “Joe, would you like to anchor out for the evening, or do you want to head back to the marina? I checked and a slip is available.”
“Tony, what do you think? Fresh air or fried oysters and the Yanks on the tube at a bar?”
“I’ll lose more on backgammon than we’ll spend at the bar. Let’s get the oysters. Besides, maybe the bicepsketeers will go out, and we can put some real music on when we come back.”
“Captain,” Joe said, “we’ll watch the sunset over the marsh from here, then head to the marina.”
The captain kept up a brief conversation with his employer, then went about rechecking the boat’s equipment. Tony refreshed the highballs while Joe prepared the board. He looked at the sunspots on the back of his big hands above his scarred knuckles. He thought of his wife. He forced himself to think of her as she lived. Wrestling with the kids. Her calves in front of the range, getting breakfast ready. Soaked and panting after a tumble. In an evening gown from a fundraiser two years ago, her cleavage nestling a crucifix. Was it only two years?
He remembered a conversation about dying she’d had with the boys when they were young. Their eldest asked, “Mommy, if you die, what do you think will happen?”
She answered, “After I die—and we all die—I am going to watch you and your brothers. Each morning just before you wake up, I’m going to kiss you so you will be forced to smile first thing every morning.” Her voice rose to make sure she had his attention. “This is important stuff. Remember, when I’m gone, you don’t have a choice but to smile first thing every morning when you wake up, because who couldn’t smile when they know they’ve just been kissed by an angel!”
She went so quickly from striking beauty to bedridden ghost. He dreaded the tubes and beeping machines. Tough decisions—awful decisions. “No, son, we won’t fight it. She won’t fight it. Let’s celebrate the time we have left.” Then she’s at peace. There was more crying. The wake and the family, hugs and laughter. The service, the eulogy. The family’s stay through the weekend. Then the empty house.
He visited the kids, even though they had just left. He took the grandkids to Disney World, on Disney Cruises, to Disney on Ice. He went to the office more, then spun off the business. He sold off his properties at the right time. That was luck. He set up new wills and trusts and living wills and revocable trusts and got the executors set. The financial planners ran with the cash and made more of it. The tax accountants made plans; he made gifts. In fourteen months, it was done. Then he could feel pain.
He turned his right hand over and looked at the calluses. The heel of his hand was tanned where the hammer’s rod shifted back and forth. Carpentry was a different business now. Engineers drew plans showing exact details of wall cavities, materials, and placement. Mexican crews framed ten thousand square feet a day. Air guns hissed and popped. Stairs were assembled in factories and dropped on the job site. How many guys today could cut a stringer in the field? Trusses were made in factories too. Nothing required the same skill, so the price carpenters charge went down. The price of building went down. More buildings were built and built quicker. Was this a good thing? In the end, he used factories to make his stairs and trusses. He used crews with foremen with half the skill he had at nineteen. It seemed like a bad thing, but the buildings weren’t falling down.
He looked at the sunspots on the back of his left hand and the calluses on the palm of his right hand together. These were gifts from a life lived in the sun with a hammer—weakness on the back and toughness on the front.
“Well, luck be a lady tonight,” Tony laughed.
Joe picked his head up as the nurses climbed the ladder.
“Tony, why don’t we see sundresses like that in Brooklyn?”
“Because they wear little black dresses in Brooklyn?”
“Not when the sun’s out. How do you climb a ladder in those shoes?”
“Joe, let the ladies keep their secrets. I just hope Gino isn’t catching a peek while they climb the stairs. A weak-minded man could be tempted.”
“Girls, welcome to the flybridge. This is a men’s-only establishment as it relates to males, so you won’t see any boys with waxed armpits or pedicures. But as the eminences-in-residence, we do maintain carte blanche to invite ladies to join us.”
“Joe, youse weren’t going to ask the ladies about their waxings, were you?”
“Forgive Tony, he rarely talks to women he doesn’t have to tip.”
Ashley and her friends carried drinks mixed with various tonics, sodas, and lemonades. Joe wasn’t sure whether they were poured with vodka or gin. Ashley’s hair was wet. When she moved, Joe could see the dampness on her shoulder straps. She crossed her legs above the knee and leaned back into her seat. She settled on the bench underneath Joe’s outstretched arm. Her French-manicured toes held her shoe up by the toe strap, the shoe’s heel dangled in the air.
The talk was light but good. The girls had seen sea turtle tracks on the beach. They watched dolphins playing in the waves and saw an unidentified sport fish jumping offshore. They’d watched seagulls harassing beached crabs as surfers bobbed in the swells. The owners of small, old boats seemed to have unending ingenuity in what they used for anchors: a dumbbell, window weights, tent stakes. The current’s strength was surprising, and they watched the beach grow and shrink with the tide. How great the day was. Joe learned he was the only one who took a nap, but he was first on the beach too, so he didn’t feel so old about it.
Tony excused himself and climbed down the ladder. The girls talked about how sweet Tony was, even if he had a touch of ladies’ man in him. Joe admitted Tony had been quite the hound; it had taken more than one wife to settle him down. That was an easy problem to have when happy hour happened at twelve and again at five.
Lunchtime happy hours were a myth to the girls. They had heard jokes about two-martini lunches, but they were just jokes. Joe knew this was an age difference. They were born after Nancy Reaga
n had embedded “Just Say No” into society. MADD and SADD were fixtures in their middle schools. As adults, they didn’t even smoke in bars. When “Free Bird” was played, ten thousand smartphones were the lights.
The girls didn’t understand why five o’clock happy hours ended so punctually in big cities. But they were Southern girls; a train schedule never dictated their day.
Joe enjoyed the smell of Ashley’s shampoo. Was it vanilla, coconut, or something totally different? Didn’t matter, he liked it. It relaxed him. He zoned out of the conversation, then answered some questions about the boat, about growing up in Brooklyn, normal get-to-know-you stuff. They asked about the changes to New York City—from good to bad and back to good—or if not good, at least safe but still with some character.
One of the girls had worked in a Brooklyn hospital. She jogged the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan before work, stretched in Battery Park, and jogged back. She went with friends to Peter Luger Steak House once. They didn’t know you had to pay cash, which had made the end of the night a little tense. She went to a seafood bar under the bridge, where beer was sold in thirty-six-ounce Styrofoam cups and the walls were lined with cut ties.
Ashley laughed, “Y’all think those ties belonged to Wall Street interns? They didn’t notice their coworkers stuffing ties in their pockets as they walked in.”
Joe laughed back, “The pups probably couldn’t decide if they were more afraid of Mom asking where their Brooks Brothers Christmas present was or of returning to the office improperly attired.”
The nurse who had worked in Brooklyn added, “I think the ties got cut off at guys’ retirement parties.”
The conversation drifted along. Joe showed pictures of his kids and grandkids on his phone. He realized the girls must have known about his wife, because that topic was never raised. He answered questions about business. Joe moved his hands so much when he talked that someone suggested they play charades. They went in a circle and tried to act out movie titles.
