Alicia Harriman sat in an overstuffed, tufted, black leather chair in her Boston hotel room staring at the ocean perfectly framed between green velvet curtains. Her artfully tinted blonde hair was pulled tightly away from her face into an expensive silver barrette. Her eyes showed traces of wrinkles around the outer edges. Her brow was furrowed.
She was nervous, an unusual feeling for her. She toyed with her glass of gin and tonic, swirling the contents and listening to the ice tinkle. Eleven o’clock in the morning. A little early for a drink, but she had good reason. Her bank accounts and credit cards were unusually tight. She had received two notices and a telephone call within the past week threatening to take action if she did not provide payment. Alicia needed money and she needed it quickly. She took another sip of her drink.
The usual sources had been tapped out. Her assortment of friends, if they could be called that, had given her meager resources for the few favors that she had granted them. Alicia knew that they were beginning to tire of her company. They were on to her game. She needed to start fresh.
The ultimate solution was daunting. Alicia knew that requesting – begging was perhaps the more appropriate term – for assistance from her uncle was nearly out of the question. He had made that very clear in previous conversations. This time, however, she did not know where else to turn. The thought of her belongings being repossessed was not only frightening but also repulsive.
She sighed loudly. This summer was shaping up to be the most boring, frustrating season of her life. She hated living in the tiny city of Portland. She snorted, thinking the word ‘city’ hardly applied. Internships at the Met and the Whitney in New York as well as another at the National Gallery in Washington had not come through. She had counted on being awarded at least one of them. As an alternative plan she had even applied to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, but they had refused her as well. ‘Can’t these idiots see my talent? ’ she thought. Apparently not.
Alicia had grown used to getting whatever she wanted. Her looks and manner more often than not provided the appropriate visa for entry into nearly any venue. If that did not work, her money bought her way. Until recently she’d had an ample trust fund at her disposal. This was how she had ultimately been accepted to the graduate program at Harvard: a private interview with a key, male member of the department, sufficient money to ensure that she could easily cover full tuition, and the name Harriman. She knew that they assumed she would lobby her well-known uncle into making a few generous donations. She even alluded to the possibility, knowing full well that Uncle Joshua only supported smaller charities and institutions.
She would have to qualify herself into one of those categories, however, if she expected to receive any funds from him. Tuition bills were coming soon and she had nothing. Perhaps that was the way to approach Uncle Joshua? He believed in hard work toward a good education. She could simply ask for the money to cover her tuition: a scholarship of sorts. He need not know that a little would be diverted elsewhere. Surely he would not deny her an education!
An even better strategy occurred to her. She reached for the telephone and dialed.
“Daddy?” she said sweetly.
“Yes, Alicia. What is it?”
“I have a really big problem. I just looked at my bank statement and I don’t think that I can pay my tuition bill for school! What should I do?”
“Alicia! What happened to the money in your trust fund?”
“Daddy, it’s all gone! Harvard is so terribly expensive! Plus, I have to buy books and supplies! And there were the trips for my art studies in Europe. It just adds up, but it really is such a good education, and puts me in the best position to work with one of the major museums.” Her voiced dripped like syrup.
“All right, honey. I know. I’ve just been a little concerned lately about money too. How much do you need?”
“About twenty-five.”
“Hundred?”
“Thousand.” Alicia heard only silence on the other end of the phone. “Daddy?”
“Yes, I heard you. All right, Alicia. I can’t possibly cover that amount, but I’ll talk to your Uncle.”
“Oh, thank you Daddy! You’re the best!”
“Well, we’ll see,” he mumbled by way of a good-bye.
Alicia put down the receiver, smiled nastily, and tossed back the rest of her drink.
Life had never been terribly difficult for her. This was probably the most trying situation that she had yet faced. True, there had been the trouble with Biology while she was an undergraduate at Wellesley, but thank god for male professors, she thought. She had managed to pull off a B grade. “For my effort, I should have gotten an A,” she said to herself, but laughed at the image of the idiot locking his office and sloppily kissing her. ‘It takes so little to please some people,’ she thought. The interlude had been less than pleasant for her, but she walked away with a passing grade. It was all that she needed. She had even stopped attending class after their liaison. It simply wasn’t necessary.
This problem was a bit more sticky, yet she was sure that it was nothing that she could not overcome. She stood and began to pour another drink, then thought better of it. “No, I believe I’ll go visit the little museum at the Augusta Academy today. Perhaps I can take a look at those new Peales they’ve unearthed.” She picked up the phone.
“Yes, get me the number of the Augusta Academy, please.” She waited a moment, then snapped, “Yes, of course I want you to dial it!”
The phone clicked through. “Hello?” Alicia’s voice now dripped. “Alicia Harriman here from the Maine Museum of Art. Could I speak with your chief curator, please?” She waited. “Hi. Alicia Harriman here, from the Maine Museum of Art. I’m in Boston today finishing some work on another project, and have the afternoon free. Would it be possible for me to come around and see those new Peales that I’ve heard so much about?” she waited. “Yes, I hear they’re exquisite! …Titian Peale did most of them? How interesting! Would one o’clock be all right? …Perfect. I’ll ask for you at the front desk. Thank you!”
She changed out of her fluffy Turkish terry bathrobe and into an oyster gray silk business suit. After all, she was on business, of sorts.
#
Joshua Harriman sat in his study perusing the mail. The French doors leading to the porch were open and a cool breeze flowed in from the ocean. The sheer white curtains fluttered. He took a deep breath of the fresh sea air. Beyond his study the doorbell rang. He heard his housekeeper, Mrs. Whipple, waddle across the hall, then the sound of his brother’s voice drifted toward him. Harriman rolled his eyes. ‘What could he possibly want now?’ he thought. Morning calls from Jim were not paid just to chat.
James Harriman came into the room with a hesitant step. “Not interrupting, am I?” he asked Joshua.
“Not at all. Come in, come in.” Joshua Harriman motioned toward a heavy antique chair facing his desk. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, I’ll get right to the point. It seems that my daughter does not have enough money to cover her next tuition bill. I don’t have that amount either. Her mother has been overstepping her bounds a bit recently and I’ve had to pay a few of her bills, so, anyway, I promised Alicia that I’d speak to you.”
Joshua sat back in his chair, clicked the cover onto his fountain pen and tossed it on the desk in front of him. “Jim, you’ve got to put your foot down with those two women! Alicia doesn’t know the meaning of the term ‘budget’ and as for your EX-wife, didn’t she get everything that was coming to her in the divorce settlement?”
“Well, yes, but she keeps hounding me for more, saying it’s for Alicia, and I just have trouble…”
“You have trouble saying NO!” Joshua roared. “So I’m going to say it for you! NO! I will not give that spoiled daughter of yours one more nickel! I’ve already given her a damned good job for several months, which will look very impressive on her resume, and it provides a tidy income as well. Let her get a loan, or even, heaven forbid, take a year off from that snooty school and work for a living like the rest of us!” He stood and paced around the room.
Jim gaped at him. “You won’t help?” he finally said. It was more a statement than a question.
Joshua turned to face him. He said very quietly, “No, I will certainly not help. Giving your daughter any more money is not helping. She needs to learn how to earn a living. My greatest fear is that it’s now too late for that lesson. I must be firm this time, Jim, and you should be, too.”
James Harriman got up from his chair with some difficulty. His head was hanging. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll tell her to take a year off from school and work. She can live in the townhouse with me and save some money. Thanks anyway, Josh.” He shook his brother’s hand and crept quietly out of the room.
Joshua shook his head when his brother was gone. Weak. That was the only word that could truly describe Jim. The poor guy was weak in spirit. He never could face up to anyone. Joshua had come to his rescue many times over the years. This time, he knew that someone had to teach Alicia a lesson. Her father wasn’t about to do it, and her mother never cared. That left him, although he knew that she would be outraged.
“We all have to get our hands dirty sometimes,” he said to no one. As if to demonstrate, he unbuttoned the sleeves of his crisp white cotton shirt and rolled them up. He had a busy day before him.
He turned to his mail, stacked neatly on the desk. Most of his correspondence involved his business and his work with the museum. One letter caught his eye, however. It was addressed by hand in script on a small, pastel blue envelope. “A bit old-fashioned,” he murmured with a smile. He slipped the sharp silver letter opener under the flap and ripped it open with one quick motion. It contained a single page. As he scanned it his smile faded. His lips moved while he read through it a second time, as though this would help him to better understand the words before him. When he was through, he groaned softly and let the page fall from his hand onto the desk. He turned in his chair and stared out the window, rubbing his forehead. ‘Why bring up the past?’ he thought. ‘What’s done is done. I didn’t know. I’m doing what I should now.’ He scowled as he looked out the window, until Mrs. Whipple tapped on the door.
“Got some nice hot coffee for ya.”
“Thank you,” he said distractedly, and waved his hand to the corner of the desk.
Mrs. Whipple set down the tray with a clatter. “Gonna be a nice aftah-noon, I think.”
He continued to glower out the window. “Perhaps,” he said quietly.
Mrs. Whipple looked at him quizzically. It was not like him to be difficult in the mornings. It was not like him to be difficult at all, generally, unless he was pressed for time.
Mrs. Whipple did not make it a practice of listening in on her employer's conversations, but if she was dusting in the next room, well, she might just happen to catch a word or two. She had stepped back into the shadows in time to see James Harriman slink out.
“Big brother thought he could get another handout,” she said to herself as she left Mr. Harriman to his brooding in the study. Mrs. Whipple returned to the kitchen and began her own brooding. ‘Guess we’ve all got family problems. And money problems,’ she thought grimly. The subject was never far from her mind, ever since her husband had lost his job the previous year.
Jed Whipple had been spending more time at the racetrack after that. For a brief time during the winter months she had thought that the worst was over. He was staying home more, had actually applied for a few jobs, and did not seem to be stealing funds from their bank account as much. Then she learned about his private little stash: a separate account at a different bank. She had found the statement one night in the pocket of his shirt after he'd fallen asleep in his chair, deep in a drunken stupor. She remembered how the shirt reeked of whiskey and cigar smoke. The chair stank of cigarettes and had small burns on the arms because he so often couldn't be bothered to find an ashtray.
Jane Whipple was beginning to hate the man that she had fallen in love with thirty years before. When she confronted him about the bank account, he had laughed at her. “My money,” he had said. “Won it fair and square. Trifecta at the Fryeburg Fair last October.” He had been using that to finance his winter bets.
She now fumed aloud, “While I’m here bright and early every day, working hard! Damned fool!” She wasn’t quite sure, however, if the fool was him or herself.
The local racetrack closed during the winter, so her husband had found a bookie. His winnings had dwindled to nothing, and now, with the springtime, he was back at the track. ‘Picking up where he left off,’ thought Mrs. Whipple. ‘Well, he’s not gonna get a penny of my money this time. Have to find his own supply. Have to get a job!’
She opened the shiny stainless steel refrigerator. Smoked salmon. Brie. Champagne. And not that cheap stuff with a plastic cork. This was some French bottle. Mrs. Whipple scrutinized it and felt a wave of envy wash over her. “Not fair,” she muttered. It was not fair at all that some people had everything while she had nothing. She worked just as hard, didn’t she? Of course she did. She tasted a piece of the salmon. ‘Fish,’ she said. “Taste’s like fish. That’s what I grew up on. Grew up on lobstah, too. I see them rich folks pay foh-ty, fifty dollahs for a lobstah dinnah. We got ‘em for free and boiled ‘em over a bonfire. No damned deli-cah-cy in that! And this salmon. I seen bears on TV eatin’ this stuff. No damned fancy stuff here neither!” She closed the refrigerator door with a bang and began to scrub the already sparkling sink vigorously.
Jane Whipple was not truly angry with Joshua Harriman. She was angry with her husband. She was angry with the world. She was angry with herself. The inequities of life seemed to tip toward her side of the balance all too often. Her husband had lost his job. Her husband drank. Her husband gambled. She carried the weight of the family finances squarely upon her shoulders, and they were not young, strong shoulders any longer. She spent her days surrounded by beautiful things, keeping house for a cultured, self-made, successful man. She returned home each night to a lazy drunk who was usually asleep in his split-out, stinking recliner in front of a blaring television.
The old-school attitude that she could not seem to shake would not allow her to leave him, however. The scandal of divorce was greater than the scandal of alcoholism. If she left him, people would blame her for not making him happy. Yet by staying with him, she was miserable. “If only I just had a little more money,” she sighed. “I wouldn’t give none of it to Whipple. I wouldn’t even tell him. I’d save it up for a nicer place to live. I’d go to one of them nice restaurants and have myself a fifty-dollah lobstah.” She stopped scrubbing and leaned against the marble counter. “Maybe I should ask Mr. Harriman for a raise. It’s been much as a year now, I think. Yes, that’s just what I’ll do.” She looked through the kitchen door and into the hallway, remembering the conversation between Harriman and his brother. “Guess I’ll just wait a little minute before I bring up money, though.”
She thought for another long moment. Thinking did not come easily for Jane Whipple. But then she smiled. She rinsed off the sink, opened the refrigerator, and began to prepare what she knew to be Joshua Harriman’s favorite lunch.
#
James Harriman had walked up the hill to his brother’s house. Now he quickly strode back down in anger. He jaywalked across the first intersection, not even seeing the car that screeched to a halt just in time for him to pass. He marched back to his tiny office with its view of the brick wall of the adjacent building a dozen feet away, and slammed the door. “Bastard!” he spat aloud, throwing himself into his chair. “What makes him think he’s so damned self-righteous just because he’s got more money? He never even married! Never bothered to have a child! Wanted to keep it all to himself!”
James sat with his head in his hands for several seconds. His own business selling insurance had never been very lucrative. He earned a decent living, but he certainly had little respect in the profession. His only major client at this point was the Maine Museum of Art and that was thanks to Joshua, of course.
James stood and paced back and forth across the room. He was a weak man, and an envious one. The combination did not work well. He blamed everyone else for his troubles. His wife. His daughter. His brother. James Harriman was never responsible for James Harriman’s problems. It was always some other force acting upon him. As he grew older he found himself increasingly angry with his life and blamed everyone else all the more. Especially Joshua. Perfect, rich, powerful Joshua. It was enough to drive him insane. Every time he asked his brother for money, Joshua made him feel smaller and smaller. Couldn’t Josh see that it was not his fault?
That did not help the current situation. No, he needed to find a way for his daughter to get her tuition bill settled. He knew that she probably needed far more than what she had requested. This was just a temporary, stopgap measure. The forthcoming tuition bill was only an excuse. Her lifestyle was astronomical, just like her mother’s. She could have lived off the interest of her trust fund if she had been careful. Instead she squandered it on trips to Paris and London and Florence, along with expensive clothes and apartments.
James Harriman looked down at his shoes, showing years of wear after being resoled three times. “Maybe Josh is right on one score,” he muttered. “Maybe it is time I put my foot down when it comes to those two women.” Then he shook his head knowing that he could never carry it through.
#
Dan Chambers stood on the deck of his boat coiling a line. He looped the rope under with his right hand, then caught it in his left in a smooth, rhythmic motion. He could not remember the first time he had done this. ‘Dad taught me, I'm sure,’ he thought. He looked across the dock as he continued his work and saw a familiar person walking toward him. Dan stopped, shaded his eyes from the glare, and then waved at the figure.
Tom Cole waved back. He walked up to the boat as Dan tied off the line. “Not going out today?” Tom asked.
“Nope. Storms this afternoon, or so they say. Plus, I have to do a little work here, and,” he looked up and grinned, “I have to get to the grocery store and buy food.”
“That'd be kinda important,” said Tom.
“Yeah. Can't ever seem to find the time for it either, usually. Spend way too much money eating out.”
Tom laughed. “I know that one.” He looked over at the boat longingly. “My family lobsters, you know. For a living. Except me.”
“Do you ever wish you were doing that?”
Tom gazed out across the water. “Sometimes,” he said quietly.
Dan looked at him quizzically. Something was on Tom's mind, but he did not know him well enough to inquire. ‘He'll sort it out,’ thought Dan.
“Do you ever need a hand? On the weekends, maybe?” asked Tom.
“Yeah, sometimes. Can I keep you in mind?”
“That'd be great. It'd be good to do something on the water other than haul traps. Might be a whole new career option.”
Dan laughed. “What? And give up the lucrative world of art? Doesn't my sister pay you well enough?”
Tom smiled. “Well enough. Considering I'm just an intern. But I like to get outside, too. I'm glad the museum is on the water. At least I can look out the window.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his khakis. “I’m just not sure what I’m doing with my life. Guess I’ve got career options, but I can’t figure out which one is the right one.”
Dan looked up at the museum, then back at Tom. “How'd you get caught up there in the first place?”
“It was funny, really,” Tom replied. “I was a launch driver at Portland Yacht Club last summer. I did it a couple of days a week to earn some extra cash. This gray haired rich guy, although that describes nearly everyone there,” he stopped when Dan snorted a laugh, “This guy went out to his boat all the time and we just started talking. I didn’t know it then, but he was Joshua Harriman. He asked if I was in school and what I was studying. I told him, and then it felt like he was quizzing me. He asked me a ton of questions about artists, sculptors, architects. I guess I passed, because one day he showed up and handed me an application for the internship position. I was surprised, but not nearly as much as when I actually got the job.”
“That doesn't happen every day. Most folks search weeks, months…”
“I know. I'm pretty lucky. Still don't know what I really want to do for a career, though. I like this art stuff, and I'm good at it, but I don't know if I can dedicate my life to it.”
Dan nodded. He had never dreamed as a child that he would be taking tourists on laps around the bay for a living. But he liked his life. “You know, you just have to like what you're doing from one twenty-four hours to the next. I'm convinced that's all that really matters.” He glanced at the cooler on the deck. “Sun’s almost past the yardarm. You on your lunch break?”
“Yup.”
“Want a beer?”
“Thought you'd never ask,” said Tom.
Dan grinned and pulled out two cold cans from the cooler on the deck. He handed one to Tom. They both opened them with a loud crack. “Cheers,” he said with mock sincerity and the two drank. “Have a seat,” said Dan.
They sat on the blue wooden seats of the boat’s open deck in the warm sun, looking out at the glistening bay. A harbor seal popped its shiny black face out of the water and goggled back at them for a moment before disappearing again.
Tom chuckled. “They look human almost, don’t they?” he said.
“Yup. I can just picture those sailors of old, half drunk, half starved, thinking they were mermaids. Anything must have looked good to them after weeks at sea.”
“Can’t imagine being out that long. Once I went out for a week with one of my brothers on a commercial boat. We were part of a five-man crew. By the third day, I thought I’d lose my mind. You start hearing the same stories over and over. Plus the smell wasn’t very pretty, either, and I’m not talking about the fish.”
“Yikes. Hope the pay was good.”
“That was the worst of it,” said Tom. “We’d agreed to go for a cut of the profits. They usually haul in about $5,000 so I’d have made a grand in a week. Well, on the fifth day the refrigeration unit conked out. Lost nearly half of what we’d caught already and had to go in to port for repairs. Took us the better part of a day just to get back. Never been on such a silent boat before. We were all really mad.” He shook his head.
Dan groaned. “I can see why you’re considering other careers.” He looked around the deck of his boat. “I never dreamed I’d be doing this, but I do like it. I like people. The extravert of the family. Dulcie’s the introvert.”
“Really?” said Tom, looking surprised. “She doesn’t seem it.”
“Watch her at a party. She doesn’t mingle much.”
Tom thought back to the opening of the Homer exhibit. “You know, you’re right. It’s odd. I was having reservations about this art museum career because I’m not much of a people person, but I guess I don’t need to be, entirely?”
Dan to a long swig of beer. “Don’t know. Dulcie has to deal with a lot of different people. You should talk with her about it. I know she’d be happy to give you some advice. Tell her I sent you.”
“I’ll tell her you were acting as my career counselor,” Tom said.
Dan rolled his eyes. “Now that would probably get you more advice than you bargained for!” he replied.
Tom tipped his head back and drank the last of his beer while it was still cold. “Guess I’d better get something solid in me before I head back in. Wouldn’t want the boss to think I only had a liquid lunch.” He thanked Dan for the beverage and wandered back up the dock toward Commercial Street.
When he reached the sidewalk he stopped, looking back and forth. He didn’t know which direction he should go. A gust of wind caught his tie and sent it flipping over his shoulder. He quickly reached for it and slid it back in front of him. He was very careful of his ties. He owned exactly three, all of which his mother had bought for him before he started the internship. “You gotta look professional,” she had said with pride. He knew she really did not have the money to spare for them. “They’re polyester, so you can clean ‘em if you need to. That silk looks nice, but it don’t clean good.” She showed him how to tie one, and made him practice until he got it right.
How she knew the proper way to knot a tie was a mystery to Tom. He had never known of his parents attending even a semi-formal function in his life. He knew his father certainly didn’t own any ties. No reason to.
His mother was smart, in her own way. She had common sense. His father was another story. He was a hard worker and a gentle soul, but could never seem to get ahead. His world was limited. Everyone said that he had been handsome in his day, and certainly that had something to do with why Tom’s mother had married him. Looks generally fade, though. And they usually can’t pay the bills. Not for long, anyway.
Tom worried about his mother. Increasingly, she looked older than her age. He knew that her joints had started to ache. She refused to see a doctor, making light of his concern. Tom knew she only did that in an attempt to keep him from being insistent.
His mother had given up so much, especially for him. When Tom was finishing high school, something his brothers had not done, she had made him apply to college. He had wanted to work so that he could contribute to the family finances. She stubbornly refused to let him, saying that he could earn far more if he would just spend a few years getting a degree. Of course she was right, but he still felt guilty. He applied for every scholarship that he could, and managed to cover his entire tuition. That had made him feel better.
The scent of something cooking jarred him from his thoughts. It was an outdoor hotdog stand. ‘Perfect,’ thought Tom. ‘A decent lunch, and not expensive.’ He walked up toward the vendor and was about to order two hot dogs, then thought better of it and just got one. That way, he still had money for one more the next day. He covered it with relish and mustard, then turned back toward the museum, eating as he walked, careful to keep his tie clean.