Liam has a day off and comes down to be a member of Nucking Fuff. The cottage has been cleaned out to the point where people can actually start living there. Artie has invited Cuzzin down for dinner. His plans are simple enough-he is going to steam 4 pounds of clams, melt butter, and call it done. He has plenty of beer on ice. For hors d’oeuvres he serves potato chips.
Artie’s to do list for June 6
- Call Elaine for update
- Take Liam to Red Sox
- Replace torn screens
- Paint floors
- Revive perennial garden
- Fix leaks in roof
- Get ready for Meiko’s visit
Cuzzin’s Inspiration
The Men – Cuzzin, Artie, and Liam – are sitting on the porch around a white, painted drop leaf table that frequently substitutes for the dining room table. Two candles provide the ambient light.
“Do you remember Sundays?” asks Cuzzin.
“Yes. I remember Tuesdays, too.” says Artie.
On Sundays in the summer the Gordon clan gathered to feast. The banquets are impressive only in the memory of a child. Franks and beans and cole slaw and tomato aspic. The best feasts were when the men, including the little men, went out fishing and came back with a catch. Seamus had made up a special board that held the flounder so they didn’t slip as they were filleted. (Artie impressed more than one date as a college student with his ability to filet a whole fish, one of his few marketable skills.) As the men dealt with the guts and entrails, reliving the glories of their conquests, the women made things pretty and welcoming, catching up on the small events of everyone’s lives, and the kids ran amok totally carefree. Life, it seemed, was in perfect order.
“Do you know how many times I’ve heard this,” groans Liam.
“I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was as good as life gets.”
Artie says “You mean I peaked at age 10?”
“We both did.” says Cuzzin, with unaccustomed assurance. “That was the high point of our lives, and we were totally oblivious to it.”
“That’s depressing,” says Liam.
“Not really,” says Cuzzin, “because there’s always the hope of new peaks. What’s been the high point of your life?”
The question silences Liam. He finally squeezes out “Going to Disney World?”
“Not good enough,” retorts Cuzzin.
“When I got the Sega Play Station for Christmas?”
“What the hell’s that?”
“A video game.”
“Not good enough.”
“Umm-m-m, seeing Pearl Jam in concert.”
“Nope.”
“My birthday party when I was eleven.”
“Closer, but no cigar.”
“I don’t get what you’re looking for.”
Cuzzin leans back in his chair, and takes what can only bedescribed as a long, thoughtful pull on his ubiquitous beer. “The best moments in life aren’t the Hallmark moments, or the Hollywood moments, or God forbid, the TV sitcom moments. They’re the ordinary moments that you take for granted, and never notice at the time.”
“What’s wrong with Disney World?”
“You poor, dumb fuck.. You’ve been watching commercials your entire life that have brainwashed you into giving that answer. That wasn’t your answer. That was some guy on Madison Avenue’s answer for you. Same with the video game, and the concert, and even the birthday. Those things aren’t really your life so much as someone else telling you that that’s what life should be all about.”
“No offense, Uncle Cuzzin, but some of the linkages between what you say aren’t exactly clear.”
“That’s exactly my point.”
“What’s exactly your point?”
Artie is at the stove. He has poured off mugs of steaming clam broth and placed them on the table. Melted butter, cut with a little broth and lemon juice, is set out in little bowls of blue willow. The steamers are in the colander. Artie shakes out three generous bowlfuls with a clatter and carries them to the table all at once. He makes one more quick trip to the kitchen to retrieve the cooking pot for the shells. Within seconds the rhythm of the balmy night is set by the rimshots of shells hitting the pot.
“This!” Cuzzin splits a clam, removes the neck sheath, and throws the shells and sheath into the pot with a satisfying clank. Holding the clam by the neck he dips it in the broth, then the butter, then plops it into his mouth, an errant drop or two of butter finding his chin.
“What?” persists Liam.
Cuzzin looks at him patiently, the way relatives do when they are helping a new generation transition to adulthood. “This is my point. It don’t get no better’n this. A summer night, the porch, steamers, and the three of us.”
“And don’t forget beer,” adds Artie. “And beer,” agrees Cuzzin.
“And so….?” Asks Liam.
“And so this is why the three of us are going into the restaurant business.”
Cuzzin’s Clammy Vision
Fried clams are really not the best way to express the art of frying. There are too many different textures from the rubbery neck to the bilious belly that explodes in your mouth. If you think too deeply about fried clams, or if you look at one too closely, you’ll never put it in your mouth.
Another impediment to the perfect fried clam are the nooks and crannies. You’re talking about something so complex that the female genitals are sometimes referred to as a “bearded clam,” a reference that pays homage to no species.
I know of no place that shucks its own clams, simply because the labor is too great and the end product lacks uniformity. (That’s why my Uncle Bull talked Howard Johnson into switching to minced sea clams, which are really like eating strips of unidentified fried rubber matter.)
You want to start with fresh, medium-sized, whole- bellied clams. You can get them dry-packed or wet in cans. Ipswich is famous for its clams, but almost everything these days comes from the coast of Maine.
The biggest variables are the type of cooking oil and the breading mixture. I use the same mix for all of my seafood, but others prefer straight corn flour, now available in the Spanish food section of health food stores as Masa Harina. If your clams are wet-packed, just remove from the can, drain slightly and dredge with the corn flour. If you have dry packed, soak them in evaporated milk first, thence into the flour.
Serve hot on a paper plate or basket with wedge of lemon and Cuzzin’s tartar sauce. The first fried clam is delicious, the second good, the third tolerable, but those thereafter represent the highway to gastric distress. There are simply too many places where breading can accumulate and grease is absorbed before cooking is complete. Eat ’em fast.
One final observation. There is nothing more disgusting than a cold fried clam.
The Story of Shea
Shea does not speak with the broad “Bahwstun As” of Cuzzin or Officer Tropiano, even though she grew up less than ten miles away in the suburb of Braintree. She has the vaguely international polish to be expected of a public relations executive who attended the right schools (a graduate of Brown) and spent a semester in Florence as well as a high school stint as an exchange student in Brazil. She works in a steel and glass monolith at the public relations firm of Media Hub, visible across the water from Indian Mound, where she is a Senior Vice President.
Her primary client, until recently, was Banque Suisse, the parent company that recently bought out Beantown Bank. Shea managed press relations very ably during the acquisition, putting a positive spin on the fact that more than 300 jobs would be lost in the consolidation. Banque Suisse would be making Boston their North American headquarters. This, she pointed out time and time again to inquiring journalists, would enhance Boston’s reputation as a Hub (she always made a point of using that word) of international commerce,. The long range benefits of this, she said with confidence, would far outweigh the temporary set back of losing a few jobs, most of them low-level.
Everything was proceeding well. Everyone was happy.
Media Hub was happy. Banque Suisse was happy. Shea was happy. Larry Cabot, her boss, was happy. And Richard (Ree-shar) Mobien (Mo-byen), Managing Director of Banque Suisse was happy.
Monsieur Mobien spoke five languages (French, German, Italian. Spanish, and English), dressed impeccably, and possessed the cosmopolitan self-assurance that Americans can only envy. His grooming was immaculate, his accent flawlessly Continental, and the twinkle in his eye when he smiled was beguiling. Larry Cabot, by contrast, seemed to be dressed in animal skins and carrying a club. Shea worked hand-in-glove with Mobien to prep him for the questions that would come to him at the press conference at which the merger was announced. It went off seamlessly. When one of the reporters asked Mobien to explain “in plain English” the benefits of the acquisition, he deftly offered to do it in “plain English, Spanish, Italian, German, or French.”
Thus, it was a rude shock on the morning after the press conference when Richard Mobien cornered Shea on the express elevator enroute to the 72nd floor, pinned her to the wall, and began to fondle her breasts, trying to kiss her while reaching up her skirt to the top of her pantyhose. Shea fought back, but not before Mobien had forced his hand inside the waistband of her pantyhose and panties and forced a finger into her vagina. Her screams went unheard in the elevator shaft. When the doors opened onto the Banque Suisse reception area, Richard Mobien, looking as confident and urbane as ever, marched out nonchalantly. Shea, reduced to a puddle of sobs, rode the express elevator back to the first floor.
Shea immediately brought the situation to Larry Cabot, who didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. He asked Shea if she was going to go to the police. She said that she wasn’t inclined to. He asked her what she thought would be a satisfactory resolution, but rejected her demand that Mobien’s testicles be brought to her in a Media Hub coffee cup. The incident would have been caught, of course, on elevator security cameras, but when Cabot inquired, he was informed that the entire system had been disabled for “routine maintenance.” Finally, Cabot resolved that the issue was best handled one-on-one, mano-a-mano. Shea concurred. Cabot went to visit Mobien at the Banque Suisse office, and when he returned his relief was palpable.
“I think we’ve got this little problem taken care of.”
What happened? Cabot beamed with the satisfaction of a man who has both protected his woman as well as covered his own ass.
“I got him to promise it will never happen again,” said Cabot, beaming. “Not only to you, but anyone else. He gave me his word. And the deal is still on.”
Shea is fifty-one years old. She is 5′ 7” tall, with perfect posture. She is thin and angular, with broad shoulders and flaring hips. She’s in great shape, very sinewy. Her breasts, in Artie’s opinion, are about the right size, but slung a little too low.
In her Hub Media days she softened her straight lines with a flowing mane of brown hair that cost her $120 month to keep colored. After the Mobien incident, however, she mutilated her hair with kitchen shears, and now is letting it grow back in flecked with white. She’s had the worst of her self-infliction fixed now, and her hair is a uniform two inches long.
Artie initially figures her for a dyke, especially in light of her hostility towards him.
Larry Cabot was completely unprepared for the firestorm that followed his declaration of victory. All he knew was that he didn’t want police; he didn’t want lawyers; he just wanted this whole thing to go away.
Shea is now on a six month leave of absence, with full pay and full benefits. She monitors email, but otherwise has nothing to do with Media Hub. Her days are extended exercises of yoga, t’ai chi, stretching, Pilates, meditation, gardening, reading, and cooking. The biggest thorn in her life is the new next door neighbor, but even he has become more of an amusing annoyance than a threat. At this time, she does not think she will ever return to Media Hub. One day at a time.
It is just after eight on a soft morning. Shea brings cup of decaffeinated green tea onto her back deck and is beginning her morning stretching routine. She puts on a CD, very softly, of Tibetan chimes. The warmth of the tea, the sunlight filtering through the leaves of the oak tree, the chimes, her body … it’s all in harmony.
She is halfway into a sunrise salute when the rolling left hand bass run drifts over from the spinet piano in the cottage. Artie, who has been up for two hours already, is in the mood for Jerry Lee Lewis. “Well, come alonga baby, wholelottashakin’ goin’ on.”
Shea is not. She finishes her exhale, then mutters a soft “gimmeabreak” to no one in particular. She tries to begin another exercise, but her concentration has been shattered. She goes to the railing of the deck and calls out, “Artie?” Again, a little louder, “Artie?” “Artie?” “Artie!” By the time she has appeared at the cottage door, she is lost on the other side of anger. Artie is just cruising into his final round of “Shake it baby, shake!” Artie is roused from his rocking reverie by the sight and sound of a screaming woman at his front door:
ARTIE. SHUT THE FUCK UP! DON’T YOU KNOW IT’S EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE FUCKING MORNING, AND SOME PEOPLE WOULD LIKE A LITTLE PEACE AND QUIET RATHER THAN HEARING YOU BELLOW LIKE A WOUNDED DOG. GIVE IT A REST, JUST GIVE IT A REST!
Artie, registering shock more than comprehension, stops. She slams the screen door behind her, and silence reigns at Indian Mound. Artie shakes his head and mutters:
“The bitch is back.”
Cuzzin’s Plan:
No, I’m not crazy and I’m not drunk. Well, no more than usual for this time of day. Here’s the plan. We take the bait and tackle business and we restore it to its full glory as Gordon’s SeaFood. We serve seafood and only seafood, and we serve it perfect! Lobster in the rough. Steamers. Fish &Chips. Cole Slaw, Onion Rings. The classics.
We take the parking lot and we turn it into an outdoor cooking area where we do the boiled seafood, and maybe even some grilling. You know, there’s parking for more than seventy-five cars there. If we cut down those sumac trees in the back it will open it up to the salt marsh. We put a bunch of picnic tables back there and it will be almost like you’re on the water.
It’s all self-service, so we don’t have to have a lot of help. It’s simple. That’s what’s so beautiful. You can get seafood fried or boiled. You want Lazy Man’s lobster, take a hike! You want a steak, take a hike. You want a baked potato, take a hike because we only have fried.
We’ll make codfish cakes and clam chowdah, and seafood chowdah. What do you think about corn on the cob? Should we serve it? I also wonder about clam cakes. That’s really a Rhode Island dish, you know, but I can do them really well.
We don’t have to tart up the inside, because it’s basically an outdoor restaurant and take-out joint. People will come from all over, because this will be the best, the freshest seafood in Boston, in the world! We open in April and close in October. Go to Florida and go fishing. Six months on and six months off. We can start right away and be ready for next spring. Liam can quit his job making donuts and help me with the renovations. He can stay here with you in the cottage.
For a sign I want to mount a giant fish on the roof. A striped bass, a stripah. I know we may not even serve striped bass, but that’s the prettiest fish. That’s what people think of when they think of seafood.
“I’m sorry about the noise this morning.” Shea is sitting in an Adirondack chair with a glass of ice tea. Artie has approached the low hedge that separates their properties.
“And I’m sorry for the overreaction.”
“Sometime I’ll give you a concert. I actually do a good Little Richard, too.”
“My head spins at the thought of a grey-haired white guy doing Little Richard, but I’ll take your word for it. But not at 8 am. Agreed?” He nods. She continues “Had any possum problems lately?” He shakes his head. “Did you talk to him?”
“Her, actually. She’s a Mom, remember. Yes, I did, but I still have a hard time believing that talking to animals really works. That’s the kind of thing my wife is into.”
“I didn’t know you were married.”
“My ex-wife. My girlfriend is coming this weekend. You’ll meet her.”