The Vanishing Expert

by David Movsesian

  Whenever Joe Tibbits felt restless for a weekend of drinking and women, he headed out of town, usually to Bangor. There wasn’t much in the way of nightlife there; a few noisy dance clubs and the kinds of bars he could easily have found back in Rockland. But no one knew him in Bangor. Should there be an incident, he knew it was better if it happened there where he wouldn’t be forced to hastily pack his belongings and leave yet another town behind him, particularly a town he’d grown to like.

  During the winter, the establishments in Bangor were often filled with college kids from Orono; not necessarily what he was looking for, but not at all displeasing to the eye. He usually avoided the dance clubs except when he was feeling especially reckless; the girls there usually arrived in packs, and they made him feel old.

  For that reason, he tended to stick mainly to the smaller clubs and the crowded bars in Bangor, often sitting at the bar, but turned around with his back to it so he could survey the crowd. It occurred to him more than once that he was looking for a girl like Jill Ouellette, the petite brunette he'd met and then raped behind the dumpster at Slick Willy's, though for obvious reasons he hoped to never see her again.

  Most of the time, he visited Bangor alone. It was a two-hour ride from Rockland and he knew it was best if he was unencumbered in the event it became necessary for him to make a swift exit. Besides, if he just wanted to drink with Hank Welch or one of his co-workers, he could easily stay in Rockland, saving himself the long drive and the cost of the motel.

  On a few occasions, Hank tagged along with him on his weekend excursions, and when he did, Joe was more subdued. He knew how the evening would end; he knew he’d drink more with Hank but he was less likely to get into any trouble. Some weekends, that suited him fine; however, there were those weekends when trouble was precisely what Joe Tibbits wanted. On those weekends, he left Hank Welch and Rockland behind.

  In late May, Hank Welch approached Joe with a proposition. He had a friend who owned a small house up the coast, and he’d invited Hank to visit for the long Memorial Day weekend. Mostly, Hank and his friend would visit the local pubs in town, drinking until they closed. It was precisely the kind of weekend he knew Joe would enjoy, so with his friend’s permission, Hank invited Joe to tag along.

  “Where is it?” Joe inquired.

  “Bar Harbor,” Hank told him. “Ever been there?”

  Joe shook his head. “Nope,” he said, “but I’ve been meanin’ to go soon.”

  Bar Harbor was one of the towns Joe Tibbits planned to visit that summer in his ongoing search for the elusive Edward Moody. During the past year, while he was living in Rockland, he’d looked in the nearby towns of Rockport and Camden, and he’d traveled up Coastal Route One as far as Belfast, always with the same result.

  Mount Desert Island seemed an ideal place to find a man who loved the sea as much as Edward Moody. Hank’s offer of a free place to stay and the promise of some good company at the local pubs made it an offer that was simply too good to refuse.

  Joe offered to drive the two of them in his pickup; he claimed it was in return for the invitation, but the real reason was that it would give him the freedom to move about the island during the day to search for James Perkins. Considering he’d been searching for him for over a year and had found nothing, he was surprisingly optimistic about his trip to Mount Desert Island.

  By the time they arrived in Bar Harbor on Friday night, it was nearly ten o’clock. Hank’s friend, Stan Darchik, was already out drinking with a friend and arranged for Hank meet them at a local watering hole rather than wait at home for them to arrive. Stan Darchik was not one to waste an evening at home when there were perfectly good taverns where he could pass the hours.

  On this particular Friday evening, Stan Darchik and his friend were sitting at the bar at The Spinnaker Pub. Because their attention was devoted mostly to their beers and the Red Sox game, which was on the television behind the bar, they hardly acknowledged those people seated behind them at the tables. One exception was Peter Langston, whom Stan had known most of his life— some fifteen years earlier, Stan had been one of the many local high school boys who had briefly worked for Peter, and one of the many who had quit when he simply couldn’t keep up with Peter’s exhausting pace. Like Peter, Stan was a Friday night regular at The Spinnaker Pub. He’d met Peter’s companion, James Perkins, on a few previous occasions, and like so many people who lived and worked in Bar Harbor, he’d heard the news of James’s marriage to Jean Berkhardt a week earlier. As Peter and James entered the pub and walked by the bar on the way to their table, Stan shook Peter’s large mitt of a hand as he passed, and he nodded to James and congratulated him on his recent wedding. Beyond that, he paid them little regard. He never noticed when they left an hour later.

  None of the men in the bar, nor the two who would arrive from Rockland later in the evening, would ever know how close Joe Tibbits had come that evening to finding James Perkins. After all the time and energy he’d spent searching for the man for more than a year, he’d come within a few hours of happening upon him in a bar.

  By the time Joe and Hank arrived, Stan Darchik was alone at the bar, his friend having left at some point during the second pitcher; Stan wasn’t sure exactly when that was. Since the bars closed at one o’clock, the three of them—Hank Welch, Joe Tibbits and Stan— decided to stay there at The Spinnaker Pub where they quickly emptied Stan’s second pitcher of its contents and ordered another.

  On Saturday morning, Joe Tibbits woke early and slowly drove his pickup through the quiet streets of Bar Harbor. The town had been draped in darkness when they arrived the night before, and he was impatient to explore the area in the daylight, and to begin his search in earnest while Hank Welch and Stan Darchik were still sleeping off the effects of their Friday night at The Spinnaker Pub.

  It was a cool morning with puffy but sparse clouds against a pale blue sky that held the promise of a perfect weekend. It was still too brisk out on the water for most of the tourists who visited Mount Desert Island that weekend to venture offshore; most of them would instead drive around the island taking in the views. Others would hike or bike along the carriage roads, or visit the many shops, restaurants and pubs that lined the streets of downtown Bar Harbor. In just a few hours, the sidewalks and the shops in town would be swarming with tourists. For now, at that early hour, most of the shops had yet to open for the day and the streets were still quiet.

  Joe drove slowly through town, making a mental note of the names of the establishments that caught his attention. On Main Street, driving up the hill from the pier, he passed the Bar Harbor Inn, The Spinnaker Pub, Sherman’s Book Store, the Chocolate Emporium, an ice cream shop and a number of tee shirt and souvenir shops that catered more to the visiting tourists than to the locals.

  He turned up Mount Desert Street and passed a restaurant and the Berkhardt Gallery, followed by a jewelry store and a small gym and then the Jessup Library. On Cottage Street, he passed more shops and restaurants, the Criterion Theater, and then The Whale’s Tail, Claire Trumbull’s knick-knack shop on the corner of Cottage and Main.

  Turning back onto Main Street, he parked his pickup at the curb in front of the pharmacy where he bought copies of the Bar Harbor Times and the Ellsworth American along with a map of Mount Desert Island. He tossed them all on the passenger’s seat and proceeded to drive about the island to begin his search in earnest, exactly as he had in so many other towns. Even though he limited himself to only the main roads, he came across several construction sites, most of which were renovations or repairs to existing structures, and all of which were absent of any signs of activity. That was to be expected, he knew. It would be unlikely to find any construction crews at work on that long holiday weekend, particularly the weekend that marked the beginning of the summer tourist season in a community that thrived on tourists. However, at a number of the sites he noticed signs which identified the contractors performing the work, and he made a point to write each
name and phone number on a small notepad he’d kept in his truck since he first began his long search more than a year earlier.

  It was nearly noon by the time he made it back to Bar Harbor, and he was frustrated and hungry. He parked his truck on Cottage Street and wandered into Epi’s Sandwich shop with the newspapers he’d purchased earlier that morning tucked under his arm. He sat at a table near the window with a roast beef sandwich and a bottle of root beer and perused his copy of The Bar Harbor Times.

  There was little of interest to him, but just as he’d done in so many towns along the coast, he scanned the articles on each page, hoping for some clue that might lead him to his prize. He slowly turned the pages, grumbling to himself about the events that are considered newsworthy in small Maine towns— the weekly police blotter and the notices for the local bingo nights and bean suppers— and he was about to close the newspaper in disgust and focus on his sandwich when an article near the back of the paper caught his attention. He blinked hard and read it a second time, and then he smiled broadly.

  Jean Berkhardt opened the gallery that morning at ten o’clock, as she did every Saturday morning. Expecting that weekend to be particularly busy, with the first of the summer tourists arriving in town, she asked Christina to work with her. James would spend the day with the baby, and she’d arranged for Ruth to spend at least part of the afternoon with him.

  Almost from the moment Jean opened the front door, there were customers in the gallery, sometimes several. Jean was moving efficiently from one to the next with her usual charm, pleasantly greeting each person and telling them about the gallery and the artists and guiding them to specific works she thought might interest them. Christina knew her mother loved these busy days. They were what she hoped for when she first opened the gallery. They were what she looked forward to during the long winter months when the gallery was closed and the town was inhabited almost exclusively by the locals who weren’t inclined to give more than a passing thought— if that— to the art that adorned their walls. It had been months since Christina had had the opportunity to watch her mother working her magic, and from time to time, she paused to observe Jean from a distance.

  Having been less than two weeks since William was born, Christina was self-conscious about the additional weight she was carrying. At first, she’d done her best to conceal it beneath loose sweaters, but she was convinced that everyone who saw her noticed that first about her. As the weather turned warmer and bulky clothing was no longer an option, she worked hard to shed the extra pounds. In James’s opinion, she looked especially lovely, but on the one occasion when he took the initiative to tell her so, she rolled her eyes and rejected the compliment so completely that he wasn’t inclined to suggest it again. In Christina’s opinion, she just looked heavy, and she worried constantly that people would make the connection between her sudden and unprecedented fleshiness and the arrival of the baby. With that thought always in her mind, she carefully avoided the locals as she navigated her way through town and on that first day in the shop with her mother.

  It was shortly after noon before there was a brief lull in the activity in the store. Jean seized the opportunity to discreetly slip into the back room and nibble on a sandwich she’d brought from home and to call the house to check on James who, to her astonishment, was managing just fine. She attributed at least some of his composure to Ruth’s presence; though she hadn’t mentioned it to James, she’d encouraged Ruth to visit with James for the afternoon, as much for her own peace of mind as for James’s.

  When Jean emerged from the back room, Christina was speaking to an older couple near the door. The only other customer at that moment was a thin man with sun-bleached hair. He was dressed in a tee shirt and faded jeans, and he stood with his back to her as he contemplated one of her favorite paintings by a local artist; the subject was a stone bridge spanning one of the carriage roads, a wagon drawn by two horses passing beneath it.

  “That’s one of my favorites,” Jean said as she came up beside the man.

  Joe Tibbits turned and smiled at her. Jean had never seen the man before but he appeared so pleased to see her that she smiled in return.

  “You’re Jean Berkhardt,” he said.

  “I am,” she confessed cheerily, though it troubled her that she couldn’t put a name to this face, which was tanned and weathered like so many good Maine faces.

  “Sorry,” Joe said. “You don’t know me, but I know your husband.” He extended his hand. “My name’s Joe.”

  Jean relaxed slightly, relieved to learn that she hadn’t forgotten the name of a previous acquaintance. “Nice to meet you,” she said. “How do you know James?”

  “We used to work together before he moved up here.” Joe Tibbits scanned the gallery, looking for some sign of the man. “He’s not around, is he?” Joe asked.

  “No,” Jean said. “He’s at home with the baby.” She flashed an amused grin as she pictured the scene. “The proud poppa.”

  “That’s right,” Tibbits said. “I saw the announcement in the paper.” He bowed his head slightly. “Congratulations. He’s a very lucky man.”

  Jean glowed at the compliment.

  “Listen,” Joe said, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. “I’m in town for the weekend, and I sure would like to say hello to the groom and catch up a little. How can I find him?”

  Jean thought for a moment. “I expect he’s got his hands full today,” she said. “But I could give him a call and tell him you’re here.”

  “That would be nice,” Joe said. “But I think it would be more fun to surprise him, if that’s okay.” More importantly, he feared that if James learned that he was in town, he might vanish again. After nearly two years of searching, Joe Tibbits wasn’t willing to risk it.

  “Well,” Jean said. “I could probably arrange to have him come by here around supper time.”

  Joe smiled. “That’s perfect,” he said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Not at all,” Jean assured him. She imagined the surprise on James’s face when he encountered his old friend. “I think it’ll be fun to see his face when he sees you.”

  Joe Tibbits smiled broadly. “I think so, too.”

  It was just after seven o’clock when James arrived at the gallery, which he knew would be closing at eight. He’d planned to bring the baby along with him, but Ruth convinced him to leave William with her so James could enjoy a late dinner with Jean.

  Even though the streets of Bar Harbor were still busy when James arrived, he was able to park close to the gallery. As he passed the open doorway of the jewelry shop next door to the gallery, he waved to the proprietor, Beverly Gish.

  “How’s the baby, James?” she called out to him.

  “A perfect angel,” James replied, a proud smile plastered on his face that appeared like it could never be removed.

  He’d enjoyed a perfect day with his young son, and he was in great spirits as he walked into the gallery that evening. Jean was standing behind the counter going through the day’s receipts. She noted the contented smile on his face as he approached her— he was beaming, she thought. She was about to speak when he put his hand on her hip and kissed her.

  “You’re in a good mood,” she said. “Did you have a good day?”

  “I had a fantastic day!” he said.

  Jean looked at him skeptically. “You didn’t have any trouble?” she asked.

  “Not a bit,” James said proudly. “Ruth came over just after you left. I assume that was your idea.”

  Jean smiled but didn’t confess.

  “Mostly he just slept,” James said. “But we bonded.” He noticed Jean’s eyes wander away from his for just a moment.

  “You have a visitor,” she told him.

  James expected to see Peter or Ben when he turned around. It took only a moment for him to recognize the face of the man that stood before him, but that same sense of panic he always felt whenever he encounter
ed a familiar face that he couldn’t quite place flooded through his body. Ordinarily, it was a fleeting sensation, barely more than a shudder, but this time, when he recognized Joe Tibbits, his uneasiness only intensified.

  Sensing James’s anxiety, Joe Tibbits greeted him with a twisted grin. “Surprise, Jimmy-Boy!”

  Ever since that summer they worked together in Gardiner, James was certain that Joe Tibbits knew his true identity. Joe always made a point of commenting on the stories he found in the newspapers he seemed to be always poring over, particularly those about the Rhode Island man who had been lost at sea, as if those stories should hold some special meaning for James. That most of those newspapers were weeks old by the time Joe commented on them eliminated all doubt in James’s mind that his co-worker knew his secret. That Joe Tibbits would never come out and admit that he knew that James Perkins was really Edward Moody— ‘that dumb son-of-a-bitch who fell off his boat in Rhode Island,’ as Joe referred to him— only compounded James’s angst. It meant that Joe Tibbits was toying with him. It was one of the reasons James never mentioned he was leaving or where he was headed when Peter Langston offered him the job in Bar Harbor, certainly not to Joe; not to anyone. He’d hoped to leave that part of his life— and Joe Tibbits— far behind him, and yet here both were, coming back to haunt him almost two years later.

  Jean saw the troubled expression on James’s face when he recognized his visitor; she saw her husband’s face go suddenly pale. He looked for a moment like he couldn’t breathe. She wondered who this man was, and why his appearance unnerved James to the point that he appeared as if he wanted to turn and run from the room.

  Christina watched the scene from a distance. Jean had introduced her to Joe Tibbits before he left the gallery after his brief visit that afternoon, and Christina decided almost immediately that she didn’t care for him. He seemed friendly enough, but in a superficial way, as if his charm was a mask he was wearing to conceal something else. She didn’t understand exactly why she had the reaction she did. There was something about the way he looked at her that she found unsettling. She was used to men of all ages staring at her a little too long; sometimes it bothered her, sometimes not. When she’d first met James the night he came over for dinner, she’d caught him looking at her, but she remembered that he seemed almost unaware of his lingering gaze, and when he realized she’d noticed his attention, his obvious embarrassment struck her as sweet. By contrast, Joe Tibbits’ prolonged scrutiny was unnerving; it was as if he was both leering at her and looking right through her at the same time.