“Pretty tough talk. But I understand. Back at the nursing home the best death was when somebody just faded away. Alive at night, dead in the morning. But that’s not going to happen here.”
“You’re being a good friend, Charlie, but this doesn’t concern you. Not really. So let’s put it aside, do a bit of sailing and let it go at that. Maybe I won’t wait for the end.”
“Ridiculous and damn right contradictory.” I found my voice and used it like a club to try to knock some sense into him. “How can you call me a ‘good friend,’ then dismiss me just when a good friend is exactly what you need, just like what I needed to get the hell out of Sunset. Am I crazy or did you save me from a slow death? So let’s cut the bullshit and come up with a plan. Suicide? That’s another kettle of fish.”
We sat silently for what felt like an eternity. I was turning it over in my mind. What to do? What to say next? Should I try to find his kids and let them in on what’s going on? I concluded that Bob was not going to die alone and that I’d stay right here for as long as it takes. I broke the silence. “You don’t seem to fear death, Bob. Am I right?”
Eyeballing me with furrowed brow, Bob answered, “Afraid? Do I sound afraid? What should I be afraid of? Going to hell? Are trees afraid? Flowers? Bees? Deer? You know, living on the island I see life and death all the time. People need to be in nature to appreciate the cycle. Life and death, why that’s the way of nature and nature looks at things with a wide angle lens. The human race is not going to go extinct because I die. And if it did, I’m sure nature would get on just fine. It sure did pretty good before we ever showed up on this planet. So, no, I’m not afraid. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it but when it comes, it comes. That’s just the way it is.”
“I admire you, Bob. I must say, I wish I had your courage. Where does it come from?”
“How the hell do I know? I live. Can’t we just let it go at that?”
Again, we turned to silence before Bob slipped into the comfort of nostalgia. “Remember the time we took on water? Damn boat turned into a bathtub and there we were somewhere from nowhere. You fixed the bilge pump while I pumped my ass off. We got through that one.”
I countered with other occasions like the time Bob challenged me at pool then proceeded to run the table. Like two kids we laughed our way through memories from meeting other sailors to dealing with lines caught on the prop, from being calmed to roaring through thirty knot winds. The beer flowed until our conversation melted into sentence fragments slovenly delivered, nonsensical, all punctuated with frequent calls of nature and bouts of laughter. Dinner that night consisted of some kind of fish cooked somehow, and eaten only as two drunks could. I retired to my boat, Bob to his bed. The question of Bob’s call to death went unanswered.
PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
Adapted from the digital recorder of Private Investigator, Justin Roberts recorded July 27, 1104 hours.
Trying to keep up with my notes. I’m closing in. I rented a boat from Dinger’s Rentals and am on my way to finally nab my quarry. The last time I steered a motor boat was at some county fair back when I was a kid. So Martha Dinger was a bit wary about letting me out on my own. “No more than ten-horsepower. Can’t hurt much with that,” she said.
The best thing that I can say about the boat is that it floated. But, from what I could tell, Bickles Island was not much over a mile away with a few tiny islands separating it from the mainland. Here the odd thing: On the chart, Bickles Island is identified as Ruby Island. Back at the Days Inn I googled Bickles and it told me it was really Ruby Island and that the name was changed to Bickles Island during World War II in honor of General Bickles, who was born in a tent on Ruby Island, when his mom went into labor while camping there with her husband, back in the early twenties. Unfortunately, the name was never changed on the chart.
Minutes after leaving Dinger’s Rentals, I watched fog rolling toward me and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I took a compass heading on the third island, crossed my fingers and held a steady course. In a matter of minutes I was wrapped in a cloak of fog so thick I could barely see the front of the boat. What the hell was I doing here? I throttled back just far enough to just keep moving, knowing full well that making Bickle Island was only a matter of luck. Feeling like the boat was just sitting there, I goosed the throttle and plowed onward.
In a few minutes the boat made an awful crunching sound then stopped so suddenly that I was nearly tossed overboard. The engine made a terrible metallic sound and died. I looked over the side to see floating flecks of fiberglass amidst the seaweed that surrounded the boat. I’d found a rock and the damn boat was taking on water. I was livid, but what the hell was I supposed to do. I wasn’t going to drown, especially with an outgoing tide, which in a matter of ten minutes had me and the boat sitting solidly aground, surrounded by a garden of rocks covered with seaweed or algae or something. The fog lifted for a minute, enough for me to see that I was on the rim of an island. What island was the big question. I jammed the chart into my back pack and headed ashore.
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.
FRIDAY, JULY 27
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.”
PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
Adapted from the digital recorder of Private Investigator, Justin Roberts recorded July 27, 1206 hours.
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.
FRIDAY, JULY 27 (CONTINUED)
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.”
That Good Night Page 16