That Good Night

by Richard Probert

  The motel mattress was thin and lumpy, the linen clean but threadbare. My first night out of Sunset and I actually missed the bed. But by damn, I didn’t miss anything else.

  FRIDAY, JUNE 29

  Unusual for Bob, he was sound asleep when I awoke at six. Bob was embarrassed that I had to wake him, as if sleeping in was a mortal sin. His MO would have him traipsing all over the place by 4 AM making enough racket to wake the dead. At least that’s how it happened when we sailed together. Over breakfast, Bob apologized for not getting up in time whatever that meant. “Been a bit tired these days,” he explained as if any explanation was necessary. I simply responded by telling him that older people are allowed to sleep as long as they liked. He seemed to accept that.

  On the road by seven, we headed for York, this time via all interstate. Let’s just say that Bob’s driving was by the rules. If the speed limit was 65 MPH, then we went 65 MPH, no matter that cars passed us like we were standing still. If a car pulled in front of us that Bob thought was too close, he braked hard and called the guy a bastard. Then, slowly, he’d get back up to speed. We spent half the time reading lettering on the back of semis. Between playing road hazard and stopping at nearly every rest stop, we arrived in York just before noon.

  After getting my money out of York Savings and Loan, I had a nest egg of eight-hundred-thirty-thousand dollars. With that much money, I could buy a solid boat and live out my days enjoying the good life of a sailor. And there was still one bank to go. On our way out of York, we stopped in a Wal-Mart where I bought a disposable cell phone. I never had nor needed a cell phone so I was entirely captivated by the device. When I was a kid, we’d use two Campbell soup cans connected by a taut string. Jerry Pearsall, my next door neighbor, and I talked between our adjacent bedroom windows like we were spies behind German lines. Damn, with this cell phone anything was possible. It was like having a Dick Tracy two-way radio watch. I called Cat.

  “Hey dude, how’s it goin’?”

  I filled Cat in on our adventure, sans the stops at various banks. I asked about what happened after our escape.

  “I hate to tell you, man, like nobody wanted to call in the cops or anything. Everything was hushed up, like the other inmates don’t even know it. Maybe they think you’re dead or something. I guess they called one of your kids, because like some lawyer guy came to Sunset this morning raising all kinds of hell. Talked about closing the place down.”

  That didn’t surprise me one bit. I could see my junior namesake turning the loss of his dad into financial gain. Suing Sunset was right up his alley because my disappearing would tie up my estate. No body, no pay. So my guess is that he’d try to get me declared dead. That’d take a while. Maybe years. In the meanwhile, he had my money to play with, especially since he’d be relieved from paying the nursing home eight-thousand a month.

  “What about the implant?” I asked.

  “Dude, you’re going to love this. I took Kingdom home and like gave him some Ex-Lax. I mean that poor dog. He like crapped like you wouldn’t believe. The implant showed up in a turd, like it was packaged. Kingdom left it next to Uncle Dan’s back porch. They fingered me, but I’m not cooperating. I think my uncle just wants to forget all about it.”

  Laughing harder than I had in years, I exclaimed, “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “No man. I’m telling it like it is. Anyway, Kingdom is fine. Like, it’s not like you made America’s Most Wanted. Anyway, tell the Maine Man I said peace. I’m off to a skateboarding rally. Happy day. And good luck.” Cat clicked off. After telling Bob about Cat’s phone call, I sat in gloom. Why in the world would my firstborn’s first reaction to my missing be to sue the nursing home? Why not mount a campaign to find me? Both Lori and I grew up with extended families where grandmas and grandpas and uncles and cousins were within an easy Sunday’s drive. Back then extended families were the norm. You were born, raised by a tribe of relatives, nurtured into old age by loved ones and buried in the family plot. I remember my grandparents dying: first Grandma, then Grandpa. No nursing home for them. They died at home, both in their late seventies. We were all there. Grandkids, aunts, uncles, cousins. Right there when they died. My parents got the same treatment, though there were far fewer family members around. Then our generation came along. As we got old, extended families were pretty much a thing of the past. The new way is to hire out, let somebody else deal with the old.

  Bob’s sudden braking of the truck kicked me out of my dark thoughts.

  “Squirreled,” Bob said. “Better than a moose, wouldn’t you say?” Bob laughed. “So where have you been for the last half-hour?”

  “Your kids,” I said. “Do you ever see them?”

  “All the time. They come out to the island near the end of every month. When their bills are due.” He continued, “Maybe that’s not fair. They try. My youngest boy works two jobs. He works his ass off. But with three kids and a wife with MS, he’s strapped. Writing a check to him is an investment. The other kids don’t need the money, but by God, giving it to one seems to empower the others to demand the same. But, I don’t give it to them. The louder they holler, the less I listen. What about yours?”

  Sparing Bob the details, I just told him that my kids are ingrates and I’ve pretty much written them off.

  Nearing Baltimore, Bob’s driving became more and more defensive. His white knuckled fingers gripped the steering wheel like he was just waiting for screeching tires and the crunching sound of metal. Seldom did he exceed fifty miles an hour. Traffic blew by, horns blaring, middle fingers stabbing the air. This was no place for a Maine Islander. As we neared Annapolis, Bob gave me the word: “I have to get back,” he said quietly.

  “How about we make the last pick-up, find a place to stay, and you can be on your way tomorrow morning,” I offered. Bob nodded his assent. Visiting The United Bank of Maryland completed my pick-ups. I was surprised at how much I had hidden away. I guess it was time to get it back into the economy. I can tell you, I was damned nervous about having all this cash with no safe place to put it.

  Bob and I had talked earlier about my plans to buy a sailboat and head off into the unknown. He wasn’t convinced that at eighty-four I would be strong enough to single-hand a boat. I wasn’t so sure myself. Whatever stress and strain might be in the offing though, sailing into the sunset was far better than dying in Sunset. We discussed hiring crew—there were a lot of young people wanting sea time. I wasn’t averse to the idea. It might be fun; having some young people around is always a good thing for an old man. But, then again, it scared me to think of myself as an observer. I’d go to bed early, lie in the stateroom, and listen to youth out in the cabin having a good time. I feared being on the outside looking in, peering under the tent rather than being ringside. I didn’t want that. I’d rather go it alone.

  Bob and I checked into the Annapolis Marriot Waterfront. Our entrance into this grand and luxurious hotel dressed as we were with Bob carrying a grubby gym bag and I with an army duffle slung over my shoulder caused a few stares. Even so, the staff was courteous and very helpful. Not having a credit card, I was asked for a fifty-dollar-a-day deposit for any charges I might incur. “How long will you be staying,” the desk clerk asked. I told him that I was uncertain, maybe a few days. I’d let him know tomorrow. I handed over two fifty dollar bills.

  Over dinner of tenderloin steaks finished with a demi-glace sauce, I tried to convince Bob to join me, maybe sell the truck and head out to sea, but he declined. He was hell-bent to get back to Maine as if his damn island would float away if he wasn’t there to keep it anchored.

  “It’s summer,” he told me. “Time to get my wood in, else it’ll be a damn cold winter.” I countered that there’s no cold winter in the Caribbean, but he didn’t buy it.

  “A cold, snowy day reminds us how lucky it is to be alive,” he said. I looked at him like he was nuts.

  SATURDAY, JUNE 30

  The bedside alarm jangled me awake at 2:30 a.m.


  “Go back to sleep,” Bob said. “I’m off. Going to beat the traffic.” The last words I heard were “Good luck.” Bob was gone—terse goodbyes were another hallmark of Maine Man. I heard the door click shut but wasn’t sure whether I was awake or dreaming. Bob said nothing about leaving this early before we went to bed. But that’s the kind of thing Bob did. I had been dreaming about walking on a path I couldn’t see or feel. I was lost, alone and there was no sound except the squishing of rubber clogs scuffling along a terrazzo tiled floor. Bob’s interruption had me sweating. Where the hell was I?

  I lay awake and listened. I wanted to be certain that squeaky clogs or moans, or wheezes, or the hum of fluorescents, or other dreadful sounds of Sunset were residual, not reality. Do freed prisoners have echoes like this? I couldn’t say, only guess that they did. Surely, I wasn’t afflicted with PTSD. No, not that at all. It was more like needing to be sure I was where I was. I reached over to the other side of the bed. Feeling the rough canvass of my duffle bag gave me assurance that I was who I was and where I ought to be. Comforted, I fell back to sleep.

  Earlier when I had flashed my passport to the Marriott receptionist, it struck me that my identity had to be proven. It felt good. At Sunset, no one asked for a credit card, or a driver’s license, or anything else to prove that I was really me. I was a stranger to no one. There was never a reason to prove to anyone that I was who I said I was. Sometimes I felt like I was already dead. No one knew my history. During my first few weeks at Sunset, I must have told people who I was a hundred times over. I soon realized that it did no good. What really counts is people knowing who you are, not needing to be told who you are. And at Sunset, people just didn’t know each other. There simply was no history to any of us. New patients would often be seen clutching a purse or having a back pocket bulge with a wallet. They were ready to show their identity. But no one ever asked, and in time the wallets and purses were left in dresser drawers. That’s where I left mine. I never thought I would need it. How wonderful it is that now I do. The irony is, since I’m a missing person who wants to keep it that way, hiding my identity is important. I can’t just walk into a bank and deposit my money. I have no idea about registering the boat. If I get sick or need help, my cover would be blown. Even so, the suspense of the possibility of being discovered is far better than living in limbo.

  When I was running the machine works, I’d escape the tensions of managing the business by solo sailing, usually going away for three weeks or more. No cell phones back then, only pay phones when you could find one on shore. Single handing a sail boat leaves little time to fret about being alone, but at an anchorage or snugly tied up in a remote harbor, that was a different story. I wanted to share the sunsets, the cry of the gulls, a soaring eagle, starlit skies. After a week or so of self-pity, the stabs of loneliness lessened. When not at sea, I spent my nights plotting the next day’s course, writing, reading, and sitting above decks for hours watching stars slowly dance across the sky. When my cruise was over, I had as much trouble citifying as I had in gaining my sea legs.

  I awoke to a sliver of sunlight sneaking around the drawn curtain. With Bob gone, the room felt empty. Following my ablutions and a solid breakfast of eggs with bacon, wheat toast, coffee and orange juice, I had a taxi drop me off at Annapolis Yacht Brokers. A silver Mercedes sat to the left. To the right, was a Beemer sports car, roof down. The brokerage was housed in a grayed cedar shake building overlooking Annapolis Harbor. A yard-armed flag pole with a fluttering U.S. flag accompanied by pennants stood neatly on a manicured patch of grass to the right of a brick walkway bordered with red and white geraniums. An iconoclastic rusting anchor sat stoically at the base of the pole which was encircled by white painted rocks.

  Duffle bag slung over my shoulder, I grabbed the brass dolphin-shaped door handle, swung the door open and strutted into the lobby. To my right was a wall covered with photos of full-suited sailing boats, each seemingly competing for how far they could heel before wind slammed them into the ocean. To my left were two large windows framing the boat-filled harbor. Between the windows was a navy blue wall on which were hung two old bronze ports, with mirrors replacing their glasses. Below the ports stood a shiny brass pedestal complete with compass, iron-ball magnetic compensators, and a brightly varnished wooden-spoked ship’s wheel befitting a square rigger of which there was none among the high-masted, shiny fiberglass fleet resting in the harbor. I was approached by a gorgeous, healthy young woman.

  “I’m Kristen. How may I help you?” she asked smiling.

  How I wished I could tell her that she already had helped, just by spilling youth like warm honey. If she only knew how her appearance struck deep into my carnal memories. Crabbed age and youth cannot live together, youth is full of pleasure, age is full of pain, Youth I do adore thee, age I do abhor thee. My mind sang Shakespeare as she awaited my answer. I wanted to tell her about Suzy Mae, my first girlfriend. I was twelve years old. About Lori and how we danced to the marvelous and joyous rhythms of youthful romance and marital bliss. About the myths of sex and age. Instead of all that, I said, “I’m here to buy a yacht.”

  More appropriate to mucking out stalls than visiting a yacht brokerage, the loose fitting Wranglers, T-shirt, and Wellington boots that I purchased at Fat Joe’s hardly matched the standard yachty look of khaki, polo shirt, and Docksiders. Add to that an army drab green duffle bag draped over my shoulder, I signaled either being incredibly rich or incredibly nuts, or maybe both. Kristen didn’t seem to care which. With a courteous wave of her hand, she said, “Follow me.”

  “With pleasure,” I responded.

  Ascending an open staircase bracketed by banisters of taut, stout manila ropes, my eyes centered on the sweet swing of Kristen’s youthful hips. Flickers of lusty memories flitted by too quickly before an annoying crick in my left knee interrupted them. Kristen led me to a quietly appointed conference room done up in maroons, browns and, of course, navy blue. Like a jewelry display case full of glittering baubles, a large bay window looked down on the boat-filled harbor. Leather-covered captain chairs surrounded a polished mahogany oval table which reflected a blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds. “Someone will be right with you,” Kristen said. “May I get you a cup of coffee or perhaps a Coke?” she asked. I declined and she left the room, adding “Baxter will be with you shortly.”

  Baxter Hymlaw entered the room looking more like a tugboat salesman than a yacht broker. He was big—more movable ballast than helmsman. My guess is that he carried two-hundred-twenty pounds, on a six-foot-plus frame. He had a massive amount of self-determined red hair. Thick, black framed eyeglasses magnified his light blue eyes. Probably in his early thirties. Following a shake of hands accompanied by a quiet introduction, he motioned for me to take a seat.

  I sat my duffle bag on a chair and slowly pushed it close to the table, treating the action as if I were seating my partner. In a way, I was. Baxter’s cocked head, his blank stare signaled nutcase. I wasn’t so sure of him either. He had a name fitting a yacht broker and the khaki/polo shirt/loafers to boot. But nothing else fit. Mutual uncertainty. We sat opposite each other, me facing the framed window overlooking the bobbing boats below, Baxter looking at me.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked politely.

  During our journey from Upstate New York to Annapolis, Bob and I had spent hours talking about the ideal boat for a single-handed octogenarian. Bob thought a 32-footer would be ideal. I disagreed. Forty or more was what I had in mind. Our list of must-haves included full keel, sloop rigged, auto everything, a substantial dodger and bimini with detachable cockpit curtains, a short mast, powerful engine, lots of room below, and built like a brick shit-house. That’s the description I gave to Baxter. He wrote it all down on a legal pad. “Add a generator, cabin heat, a fully equipped galley including refrigeration, a no-nonsense navigation station, and radar,” I stated.

  “Power winches, perhaps. And power furler for both jib and main?” Baxter asked, working his M
ontblanc.

  “Yes,” I answered, adding, “and a powerful double acting windlass. I want to avoid going forward up on deck as much as I can; it can be dangerous up there. And one more thing: leaving port you know the weather that you’re heading into, sea conditions and all that. What you don’t know is how the weather will be on the return, especially if you’re out cruising. What I need is a boat that’ll get me back, that’ll know what to do if caught in a storm. Battleship built with the amenities of a Fifth Avenue penthouse. That’s it,” I concluded.

  Baxter took a moment to finish writing before looking up. He sat back in his arm chair and asked seriously, “How much are you willing to spend?”

  “You tell me,” I answered.

  Baxter slowly laid his pen on the yellow pad and sat back. “Let’s start over. How about telling me what you want to do with this boat. With this changing economy, there are a lot of options out there. Many that fit everything you just mentioned. But finding the right one is what’s important here.”

  We talked for over an hour. Besides talking with Bob, this was the first real conversation I’d had since selling my machining company. Forget all those one-sided conversations with my kids and the judge and all the nonsense at Sunset. I was back in the saddle making a deal. Baxter was a good listener. I talked way too much. I prattled on like a kid overflowing with dreams and wonders. How I needed to run before the wind, feel the sting of salt-spray, watch sunrises and sunsets, view the stars, enjoy ports of call, and eat boat food. I told too many tales of my previous sailing days. Of Fundy tides, Atlantic swells, tricky harbor entrances, storms at sea, seeing whales and porpoises, and meeting other sailors. I even turned to Masefield, quoting his famous line: I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky. With nods and smiles, Baxter was right there with me in the cockpit through it all. Boat food got a big grin. A kindred spirit. Sailors can spot them a mile away. When I ran out of steam, Baxter puckered up his face and said with kid-like enthusiasm,