A Commodore of Errors (15 page)

“Hey!” the nurse said. “We're gonna hit those boats!”

“No need to worry, dear. We have the right-of-way.”

The long line of Lasers began to skitter. A rumbling could be heard throughout the team as they all asked each other what the hell the admiral was up to. The midshipman sailing the lead boat called out, “Admiral Johnson! Starboard tack has the right-of-way!”

“Oh, shit.”

Johnson pushed on his tiller, but it was too late. The 420 crashed into the Laser. The second boat in the long line of Lasers veered sharply at the last second and missed the lead boat, but that gave the midshipman behind
him
little-to-no reaction time and his boat crashed into the lead boat. In a matter of seconds, it was a fifteen-boat pileup.

The nurse made herself heard through the din. “Hey, dummy. I thought you said we had the right-of-first-refusal?”

The midshipmen scrambled to extricate their boats from one another. No one spoke. Johnson worked to free his boat with his head down. All he could say was, “Sorry, boys. Sorry ‘bout that.”

It was a good hour before the boats were untangled. By the time Johnson got his boat stowed in the boathouse, he was late for his meeting with the Commodore. Johnson had asked the Commodore to join him in the old Prosser boathouse after his sail to help pick out a new spot for the Mariners Monument. The present location blocked the view from his office to Eldridge Pool, where the nurse liked to sunbathe prior to the noon meal. Watching the nurse sunbathe helped to work up his appetite, and besides, moving the monument might be the last official act of his tenure.

The Commodore witnessed the mishap in Hague Basin from his perch in the Crow's Nest at the end of Crowninshield Pier. The Crow's Nest served as the station for the one midshipman who stood watch on the waterfront at night, a kind of basic training in watch-keeping. The Merchant Marine Academy took great pains to ensure that it graduated junior officers who knew how to stand a professional watch, including how to keep a proper log of the watch. The Commodore took a personal interest in the logbook. Penmanship was altogether critical to good log keeping, and the man who could not be bothered to make his writing legible was more than likely the man who could not be bothered to be faithful to his other watch-keeping duties.

As part of an internal audit a few years back, the senior officers of the administration assigned themselves watch-keeping duties normally assigned to the
midshipmen, the better to determine if the midshipmen's activities were relevant to the making of good officers. During the audit, the Commodore relieved the waterfront watch from Johnson and was appalled with the logbook entries of the academy's superintendent. Chicken scratch was what it was. Totally illegible. After taking part in the audit, Johnson wanted to do away with the nighttime waterfront watch altogether. “Who the hell can stay awake in the Crow's Nest all night long?” Johnson wanted to know. Just as the Commodore suspected! The man was incapable of dutifully carrying out even the most sacred of tasks. Falling asleep on watch was the one inviolable rule of watch-keeping, a capital crime if there was one.

And now look at him. Johnson was clearly on a port tack, clearly the give-way vessel, it was obvious to all. Was the man not intimate with the nautical rules of the road? Was it possible that the superintendent of the Merchant Marine Academy did not know port from starboard? Of course it was possible. Was not the entire administration inept? Did not the commandant confirm his ineptness during Indoc when he botched the Manual of Arms in front of the entire plebe class? The commandant—the man expected to know such things—confused preparatory commands with commands of execution. Parade rifles were flying all over Barney Square. Rifles at right shoulder arms collided with rifles at left shoulder arms. Half the platoon was at Parade Rest when the other half was at Order Arms. It was a mess. So why should the Commodore be surprised at further evidence of ineptitude? In the Commodore's mind, the academy was virtually a walled compound of bungling fools.

The Commodore walked down Crowninshield Pier and met up with Johnson outside of the boathouse. The Commodore would not step one foot inside the boathouse, which—everyone knew—served as Johnson's private lair. It disgusted the Commodore that Johnson appropriated the Prosser boathouse for his own licentious purposes. A proper boathouse was more than a storage shed for boats. It was a hangout, a place for the boys to gather after sailing practice, talk about who cut off whom at the start, who had a shot at the nationals, or who had the goods to try for the Olympics. On a wintry day when the wind was fierce and the boats remained nestled in their cradles, the boathouse was a warm bosom, a place where the boys could come to chew the fat, talk about girls, and ward off thoughts of home.

Old Captain Prosser, the longtime waterfront director, knew the importance of a bona fide boathouse. The boathouse on Crowninshield Pier remained unchanged since its construction in 1942. Rowing shells hung from exposed wood rafters, held aloft by three-stranded manila rope and hoisted up by wood blocks and tackle. Prosser kept every assortment of natural fiber rope and cordage in the boathouse: manila for boatfalls and mooring lines; sisal for towlines; hemp for seizing and worming the ends of line, to keep the ends from fraying; cotton for signal halyards. Old Prosser kept synthetic line as well, nylon and dacron and polypropylene, but he wanted his boys to know what a real boathouse
smelled
like, and so the hemp stayed. In the winter months, a fire burned round-the-clock in the wood-burning stove; year-round was the smell of strong coffee.

When the Commodore heard that Johnson took this haven away from the boys and kept it for himself, he nearly wept. Johnson went around telling anyone who would listen that the new “Waterfront Activities Center” was a modern marvel that would serve the same purpose as the old boathouse but without the draftiness and the smell of tarred wood beams. The Commodore mourned for a week.

Now Johnson stood inside the boathouse and held the door open for the Commodore. The Commodore was the first to speak.

“Starboard tack has the right-of-way, old boy.”

“Don't old boy me, Bobby. Come in for a cup of coffee?”

The Commodore closed his eyes and breathed in deep. Johnson said he would take that as a no and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. They took the path that led up to the Mariners Chapel then cut across the grass to the War Memorial.

“So what happened out there?”

“The tiller got jammed.”

“Of course.”

Johnson maneuvered the Commodore to the site of the Mariners Monument. “You see?” Johnson spread his arms out wide and pointed one hand to his office and the other to the pool. “It blocks my view to Eldridge Pool.”

“It seems the nurse has distracted you enough, sir. It may not be such a bad idea if the monument blocks your view of the nurse's sunbathing.”

“I want the damn thing moved, Bobby. Don't bother me about it.”

“You do not want the monument, period. The board has already approved it. Lose graciously.”

“Are you selling wolf tickets, Bobby? ‘Cause if you're selling wolf tickets, I'm buying!”

“I am not selling wolf tickets. I am merely pointing out the real motivation for your wanting the monument moved.”

Johnson broke off and stalked in a circle. “What are you hearing from Mogie? Have you heard anything?” He swung around on his heels. “What do you know?”

The Commodore paused. “I know that Mogie is in possession of the camera. And that he is making noises about using it as blackmail.”

“So Mitzi gave Mogie the camera?”

“That is correct.”

“Shit.”

“I also know that Mogie remains convinced of the need for a Jewish superintendent.”

“Oh for God sakes, what—”

“You have agitated an adversary. Now you are paying the price.”

Johnson ran up to the Commodore and shook his fist in his face. “I agitated an adversary? If you hadn't put on that damn wrestling match, Mogie wouldn't be feeling so damn sure of himself right now.”

“You said yourself the boys needed entertainment.”

“I said the boys needed to get laid!”

“The boys shall remain chaste.”

“Are you out of your mind, Bobby? These boys spend a year at sea on real ships with real sailors. Real sailors go liquoring and whoring when they hit port and they drag the cadets along with them. Do you think your boy Edwin J. O'Hara remained chaste during his sea year?”

“His sea year was cut short by a German raider, I'll remind you.”

“His ship called at a few ports before it went down and you can be damn certain the boy went ashore and did what every other American boy in his shoes would do.”

“I will not hear another word. The boys need an icon. A pure and virtuous hero. Edwin was that and more. Please let it be.”

“Goddamn it, Bobby. I want that monument moved.”

“You want to do away with the monument altogether. The board has spoken. There is nothing you can do about it.”

“Bullshit. As superintendent I preside over the board. I can order a special meeting to discuss the matter further. Put the whole question of the monument back in play. Who knows, maybe we'll even vote to undo the whole thing.”

The Commodore cupped both hands over his ears and stared wild-eyed at Johnson.
No! This is not happening to me!

Johnson took one look at the Commodore and backed up a step. “Christ, Bobby. Take it easy. You look possessed. It's only a monument, man. Relax.”

The Commodore stalked off. As he walked across the grass, he kept his hands cupped firmly against his ears. He needed to shut it all out. All of it. Johnson and his blasphemy. Mogie and his outrageous demands. The thought of losing the monument. The thought of a defiled Edwin. The thought of a man like Johnson leading his boys—a man so vulgar, so crass. He stole the boathouse, robbing the boys of their idyllic refuge. But he would not steal the monument. He would not do that to the boys.

The Commodore scampered up the white marble staircase that led to the broad plaza behind Wiley Hall. A group of midshipmen descending the staircase greeted him. “Good afternoon, Commodore.” The Commodore, his hands still pressed against his ears, brushed past them, entered Wiley Hall, and proceeded straight to his office. When he was in the privacy of his office, he removed his cap and stood in front of the big mirror, running his fingers through his hair.

His hair.

So white. So pure.

The Commodore tried hard to keep Johnson out of his thoughts, but he was unable to do so. The man's crassness had a way of seeping—unbidden—into his mind. And now the one thought he really wanted kept at bay came rising to the surface. Johnson's vulgar phrase, “Loyalty, not fidelity.” When he had first heard Johnson use the line, he felt like he had been punched in the gut.

It was the same line he had heard his father use when he was a boy.

He had no idea what it meant until he was older and heard rumors of his father's infidelities. He was devastated when he confronted his father, who told him the truth about betraying his mother. And then his father laughed when the Commodore cried in front of him. This man who was so disciplined, who was so hard on others, had not lived up to his own ideals. And to blithely dismiss it like it was nothing.

The Commodore blocked it out. He breathed in at the count of two and breathed out at the count of four. He let out a long breath, the infinity breath. It felt good. He looked in the mirror and saw the tension drain from his face. His unlined face. He told himself he was stress-free. And why shouldn't he be? He was always in control, wasn't he? Self-possession.
Sang froid
, the French called it. He had it in spades. Nothing ruffled his feathers. Nothing. He would stop Johnson. He would stop the monster.

Edwin would have his place in the sun. Always.

PHONE SEX

“M
y, oh my. Tulips are a favorite of mine.”