That Good Night (21 page)

Getting off the boat was like trying to ice skate for the first time: flailing arms, gyrating hips, falling, while slipping and sliding my way to the shoreline. I looked back at the wretched boat sitting catawampus on a bed of rocks
.

Covered in green slime, I pushed through a mosquito-laden forest with undergrowth thick enough to challenge a groundhog. Thank God for the insect repellant, otherwise I'd need a blood transfusion. In the distance, I heard music, changed direction and headed for what accounted for civilization on an island in Maine. Clearing a patch of thorny wet brambles, I walked into a clearing with small cabins placed here and there. “Hello there,” came from my left, where a fellow in coveralls was coming my way. “Name's Fabinham, Hibernian Fabinham. People call me Hi,” he said, “Mother was Irish, but I suppose you guessed that already,” he giggled.
“What brings you to True?”

“True what?” I asked
.

“This here island. That's what we call it, True. Me and the wife rent out cabins. Island Vacations, we call it. If you're looking for one, well, that's too bad because we don't open up for another week. Awful late this year, but me and the wife, well, we had life get in the way.” Fabinham stepped back eying me from head to toe. “How'd you get here anyway? You sure didn't walk although you look like maybe you tried. Those thorn apples are nothing to fool with lest you're a rabbit.”

“Of course I didn't walk. My boat's over there,” I said with a flick of my hand
.

“Well, there it is then,” is all he said to that. “How can I help you?”

“I'm looking for Bickle Island.”

“Bickle Island's the next one down. Go west. Just a stone's throw. Got a row boat at the dock. Use it if you want. No sense traipsing back to yours. Just follow the path,” he said, pointing to a well trodden path. Curiously enough he didn't ask who I was or where I came from or why I was covered in green slime. Maine hospitality, I guess. Or was I expected?

I figured that this Fabinham guy might be pulling a fast one, so I warily followed his directions. A short walk led me to a grassy picnic area at water's edge. The fog had lifted enough for me to make out what was supposedly Bickle Island, about which was about two-hundred yards due west. A well used wooden row boat sat at what appeared to be a well kept dock. Low tide showed a sandbar about half way across
.

At this point, I had given up trusting anybody, especially anybody living in or near Maine. Ginger back at the boat rental seemed
innocent enough and consulting the chart, her advice seemed right on. But this Fabinham guy seemed as slippery as those rocks I just climbed over. I sat down on the picnic bench, spread out my chart and opened up my compass; it was time to do some orientation. The FBI gave us solid training in land navigation and while the charts are quite different, it was an easy transition to chart a course over water, especially given all the islands around here. Taking a bearing on the Portland fog signal and another on Bickle Island, I drew intersecting lines on the chart. If the bearings were correct, I should be on the western edge of True Island. It felt wrong. I knew the fog horn was spot-on. I checked out the plaque on the row boat which indicated that I was indeed on True Island. But according to my bearings, I was not looking at Bickle Island, but rather Base Island. Bickle was not west but almost due south. I'd had enough of these Mainers playing me for an idiot
.

I took a bearing of 180 degrees and headed into the lifting fog
.

A hangover can be a terrible thing and that's just what I had when I awoke to a rocking boat accompanied by claps of thunder and a deluge that sounded like my decks were being attacked by thousands of marbles, rain drops as big as fists. It was late morning. Bob was probably up and at it. Sipping coffee, I sat in the salon thinking about Bob. He was so damn stoic it hurt. For sure, I just couldn't cast off to head out to sea. No, I would stick it out until his family made me redundant or until I'd nursed him to the end.

That wasn't something I'd ever done before. When Lori died, it came quickly. Her heart gave out and that was that. I found her sitting on the couch and I knew right away that I had lost her. It was like she just sat down and died. It was a quiet affair. I sat down next to her and put my arm around her shoulder, nestling her still warm body in the crook of my shoulder, like we used to do at the movies. Tears came, of course, but softly. I remembered small things like when Lori dropped a whole roasted turkey on the kitchen floor and how we laughed about it all. Skinny dipping in a pond years back when the boys were just toddlers. Small stuff that added up to a lifetime. Our quilt of life. I have little recollection of how long I sat there before getting up from the couch and placing an afghan around Lori's body for no reason other than just because. My first call
was to Jeff Mason, our lifelong doctor. Jeff took it from there. But who would I call for Bob? His wife was gone, I had never met his kids, and I had no idea about his friends or anything else.

My headache seemed to diminish right along with the cloudburst. I dressed and went up on deck. Bob was sitting on his porch. “Good morning, Rip. Enjoy your slumber? Coffee's on.” I motioned that I was on my way. I admired the flowers bordering the brick path and the thick grass beyond. I eyed the darkened path that led into the damp pines. The rain accentuated the smell of evergreens, the kind that seemed to just love the islands of Maine. As I approached the porch I asked Bob if he had neighbors. “Yup, a few on the other islands around here.”

“So,” I asked, “you're the only one on this island?”

“Yup, it's my island. Why would I want anybody else on it? That's what an island's for, isn't it?”

Taking the three steps up onto the porch with a good grip on the handrail, I said, “I guess so, but isn't Manhattan also an island?”

“People that live there have as much sense as a bag of hammers. I was there once when I was in the navy and I never wanted to go back. This is where I belong and this is where I'll stay. Built this place fifty years ago.” Bob went on and on about how he lived with no electricity until a cable was run out to the islands. How he had to conserve water, how it took him umpteen boat rides hauling building supplies, building a house with hand tools only, on and on with a lot of details that I heard before. I sat listening through the aftershock of that nasty hangover.

Bob, seemingly cured of any such aftershocks, decided that the best cure for mine was to take a tour of the island. Mugs
of coffee in hand, we strolled onto the darkened path that led through the evergreens. Rain dripped on my head and shoulders as we meandered through dense aromatic growth, accompanied by a chorus of birdsong and chattering insects. I had to stop now and then just to take it all in. I wished I could share this with Abigail. There's some sad and sweet irony here. Had I not met Abigail, I would not be missing her. Missing her was the sorrow part; the sweet part was having met her in the first place.

I think those incompetent administration and staff back at Sunset would profit by knowing that romanticism doesn't decrease with age, it actually grows with age. There they were, squeaking around in their rubbery clogs, talking to us like we were toddlers, never once considering that we still had passion, could still fall in love, could still have sex, could still, even with all the ailments of aging, embrace fantasy, could still have a future. If that goddamn investigator tried to take me back to Sunset, I'd kill the son-of-a-bitch or he'd have to kill me.

“Are you coming?” Bob yelled from some place around the bend. I threw a kiss into the pines and headed on my way.

Bob was right; a good walk with nature had my mind clearing, my body returning to its steady course. We followed the path through the evergreens, across a grassy field laden with wildflowers and grazing deer. We climbed up a rocky slope until we came to an outcropping of granite that overlooked Casco Bay. The air was fresh and clear, the placid water below glimmering blue in eastern light. Bob and I found a smooth spot and sat down.

After a few meditative minutes, Bob said, “I've been thinking.”

Adapted from the digital recorder of Private Investigator, Justin Roberts recorded July 27, 1206 hours
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I pulled the row boat up on a rocky shore. A cloudburst caught me halfway between the two islands. I was soaked through. Again. At least most of the green slime washed off my clothes. I slid the rowboat up onto shore enough to hold it there. Slippery rocks, jagged rocks, rocks hidden under seaweed. Getting my bearings I headed into the island. Thick undergrowth clawed at my clothes. After 20 yards or so, I came upon a curvy path, turned right and ascended a slight slop. The fog was lifting. Around the second turn I spotted a cabin. Blurred by lingering fog, it had a ghostly appearance. With the exception of a few high chirps from some unknown bird, the place was dead quiet. I was certain that I had found Liscome's place. That certainty was underscored once I caught sight of a sizable yacht tied up at the dock. Chalk up another one for good ol' agent Roberts! Maybe it's not nailing one of the top ten or busting up a drug ring, but these two geezers were a slippery pair. I went up on the porch and rapped hard on the door. No answer. I sat down on a porch chair and waited
.

Bob and I sat quietly as our world got smaller and smaller. We became the center of a small peaceful orb, fog slowly closing off our world. Below, the ebbing tide lapped softly against the rocky shore. In the distance, the sound of Portland Harbor's fog horn echoed its reassuring commentary.

“What is it you were thinking?” I asked Bob.

“About all this. Here we are, two old men staring death in the eye. Numbered days. Never gave it much thought. Death, I mean. Comes on a person like this fog: one day, everything's clear, the next, gray and cloudy. Never been lonely on this island, even after Maggie died. Just went about the business of living. Now I'm lonely. Least I was before you came. That depression? Wouldn't know, never been there before. When the doc said I was doomed, I came home and started splitting logs for winter. Did that for a few days until it dawned on me that it was a waste of time and time for me was getting pretty pricey. Left the maul stuck in the block and there it sits. Maybe that's when the depression hit. Like whatever I did till I died meant nothing at all. I gave some serious consideration to doing myself in, even loaded my gun, but something, I don't know what, wouldn't let me do it. Maybe it was knowing you were on your way, something to look forward to, I guess. Anyway, wouldn't be very hospitable of me to welcome you with my stiff corpse.”

I remained quiet. Encapsulated in cottony fog, our world had become safe and quiet. What lived or happened beyond us at that moment was of no consequence. The only thing that mattered was the two of us sharing the uncertainties of our truncated future. Bob would die and I would most certainly follow.

I broke the silence. “Was it worth it?”

“What do you mean by it?” he asked.

“Being alive. Having lived?”

Bob turned to look me in the eyes. “Well, now, what choice did I have? Mom and Dad did their thing. Sperm met egg. Bingo, me. The rest was up to me. And if you're asking me if I have any regrets. The answer is no. We do what we have to do. Get by. Then it's over. We do, or at least we should, have a say in how to end it. Just suppose I started to go downhill really fast, the cancer knocks me down. And just say that you're dumb enough to call 911. What would happen? I mean it, what would happen?”

“I guess an ambulance or boat full of EMT's would come out here?”

“Then what? Don't answer that! Let me tell you. I'd be shipped off to the hospital and have tubes stuffed in every opening, get all drugged up. Hell, they would know I was dying but that's not acceptable, is it. Keep us alive. That's their job. Nobody's going to say, ‘Hey, this guy's loaded with cancer. Let's just make him comfortable and let him die.' What hospital emergency room would do that? Okay, let's say I pull through. Know where I'm going? To your good old nursing home. Hell, you know more about that than me. I sure as hell didn't have a say on being born, but I sure as hell do have a say how and when and where I'm going to die. And that's going to happen
right here. If you're hell-bent to stay, I won't argue with you.” Bob leaned forward placing his elbows on his knees and looked down at the ground.

“I'm staying, then,” I said quietly.

The sounds of Maine swirled back on us as we became lost in our own thoughts.

After a while, Bob perked up and said, “Got to thinking, why not one last go of it? Sail up to Grand Manan, hit a few of the harbors along the way. I sure would like to jump into the Cows and maybe visit Roque Island. Then head back here. Doc suggested that I look into hospice—you know, where people go to live out the final days without care or worry. That's what I've been thinking.”

“I couldn't agree more. Why we might…”

Bob's cell rang, interrupting me. He took the call.

“That was Hi,” he told me after hanging up. Over on True Island. Said he sent the investigator over to Base Island. He's sending the guy on a circle tour of Casco Bay in a row boat. The change of tide'll have him drifting into Portland by nightfall. Hi told me that he alerted the others to keep him busy for awhile. So, back to what I was saying. How about taking me on my final voyage?”

I responded with a high five slap. I commented, “Cat would be proud.” In the back of my mind, I was thinking about Ivan and Doris sleeping peacefully in the deep blue sea. I decided to give Ernie a call later on, maybe he could shed some light on what I might expect.