That Good Night

by Richard Probert

  “Slept more in the last three days than I did during my entire lifetime. Don’t like it. There’s work to be done.” The minute he stood, he teetered and plopped back down on the edge of the bed. “Do me a favor, he said. “In the third drawer in the dresser is a yellow envelope. Can you get it for me?” I did as he asked and handed the envelope over to him. “This,” he said, “is important.” For the next half hour, Bob explained that the envelope contained his last will and testament. “All signed and legal,” he said proudly. “Giving some of my stuff to the kids and the church, but this here island is going to The Nature Conservancy. Those deer out there are the real owners, but they sure as hell can’t hold a deed. Folks at the Conservancy, they’ll do right by these creatures. Lawyer has the originals; he’ll handle everything. All I need is for you to call him when the time comes, his number’s on the front of the envelope, right here,” he pointed. It read Arden Schmidt, Esq., followed by an address and phone number. I asked Bob why he was giving me the envelope. “You never know. If old Arden dies or gets killed before I do, you have the back up.”

  “And what’s the likelihood of that happening?” I asked.

  “Snowball’s chance.” Bob snorted.

  I took the envelope. “How about some soup?”

  “Yup, that’d be good.”

  “Let me heat it up for you before I head back to the boat.”

  “No, Charlie, you did enough for one day. I can get by.”

  Hoping that the lobstermen would show up with the morphine in time for us to depart, I said. “We can leave on the voyage tomorrow if you’re up to it.”

  “Yup,” he said. “We can.”

  We said goodnight and I returned to my boat. Before turning in, I grabbed a can of tuna and ate it right out of the can. That night, I slept the sleep of the dead, Abigail’s thong tucked under my pillow, stuffy cradled in my arms.

  SUNDAY, JULY 29

  The weather report couldn’t be better. High pressure centered over Northern New York would probably keep Maine sunny for at least three or four days. The sailplan that I laid out would take us to Boothbay Harbor then up into Penobscot Bay. From there we would sail the wind. Since Grand Manan Island was in Canadian waters, I couldn’t go there with an outdated passport. Maine, though, is good enough, it being one of, if not the best sailing waters in the world. I had a cup of coffee onboard before going to check on Bob, hoping that the boys would show up with the goods. I wouldn’t leave without the morphine.

  On approaching the cabin, I was relieved to see Bob’s old sea bag sitting on the porch. That raggedy bag has been with Bob since I first met him.

  Because the lobstermen hadn’t shown up yet, I suggested that we might want to take a stroll around the island before leaving, but Bob refused, itching to get to sea. He grabbed his sea bag and started heading for the boat. About halfway down the path, I heard the unmistakable sound of a lobster boat running full tilt. “What are they doing here?” Bob asked.

  “Come to see us off,” I answered which seemed to please Bob to no end.

  We grabbed their lines as Francis shut down the engine.

  “We’re here to give you a going away present. Two three-pounders we pulled just this morning.” He gave me a wink as he handed me the bag.

  “What do I owe you?” I asked.

  “On the house,” he said.

  Francis walked over to Bob and handed him a piece of paper. “My cell phone just in case you need it.”

  Bob stuck it in his shirt pocket and closed the button. “We won’t, unless we send this crate of Charlie’s onto the rocks. But thanks.”

  Earl came off the boat and gave Bob a big hug. “Have a good time, old man,” he said, near tears.

  “Whoa, what’s all that? Be gone a bit, but not much more, Earl. Tell the missus I send my regards.”

  Earl steeled himself, “You guys get set and we’ll cast you off. Go on now.

  Bob and I got on board. “I’ll go below and take care of the shore power switches then you can disconnect,” I said to Bob.

  “I know the drill,” he answered back.

  After I turned off the shore power panel, I looked in the bag that Francis had given me. Besides two good-sized lobsters there was a small Tupperware box with four vials of morphine and a half dozen or so needles. I secreted the Tupperware in my dresser drawer in the stateroom, and then put the lobster in the refrigerator. Before going topside, I flicked on the appropriate switches and yelled up to Bob, “Fire it up.” He started the engine. I came topside, the lobstermen tossed me the docking lines and we were on our way.

  With Bob at the helm, I raised the sails. Bob cut the engine and the sails filled.

  I hadn’t sailed with Bob in fifteen years or so, but that space collapsed the minute we were on the boat. Bob had a grin on his face like a kid out for his first solo around the marks. Islands notwithstanding, we had the sails set shortly after leaving Bob’s dock. His tacit knowledge of the area had us close-hauled one minute, reaching the next, as we soared around this and that island like a flitting dragonfly. Forty-six feet of boat, full keel and all, flying a 150 Genoa, and full main, That Good Night might as well have been a sleek sailing dinghy in the hands of teenagers. I busily tended sheets to Bob’s calls of hard-a lee, falling off, coming-up, prepare to jibe, jibe-ho. We rounded Cape Small and to avoid a running tide sweeping out of the Kennebec River, we reached on a Southwest wind to the southern tip of Seguin Island then ran our way eastward to Boothbay Harbor.

  The hearty set of sail accompanied by the frothy white hissing from the boat’s bow has been the sailors’ song from time immemorial. We talked of olden times, compared notes on the marvels of sailing such a responsive vessel, and busted our guts laughing over the escape from Sunset. Nearing Boothbay, we decided to forego the business of being tourists in favor of anchoring. Slipping east past Squirrel Island we made for Linekin Bay, a stone’s throw from Boothbay. With practiced ease Bob sailed to one of his favored anchoring spots, a cove tucked into the northeastern corner of the Bay. “Prepare to anchor,” he called out, adding “under sail.” I furled the genoa before switching on the anchor winch. Rounding up, the main centered on the wind, the boat lost headway and Bob gave the order to drop anchor, which I did with the flick of a switch. Anchor set, I furled the fluttering main with yet another button. We patted each other on the back with congratulations all around for anchoring the way it used to be.

  Secure, we had our traditional drinks of scotch for me, and rum for Bob. For dinner we boiled the lobster, served it with canned potatoes and canned peas and washed it down with a bottle of Chardonnay. Bob commented on the luxury of That Good Night, with both of us agreeing that we damned well deserved it. Near bedtime, Bob complained of a mild headache, but other than that, he seemed fine. Holding to our tradition, Bob told me that coffee would be ready when I woke up, which was usually about an hour or more after Bob.

  MONDAY, JULY 30

  I awoke early to the sounds of gulls and the squeaky chirp of osprey. A wake from a passing boat had That Good Night gently swaying like a rocking cradle. The stillness was a luxury after the tension of the past few days. I amazed myself how easy it was to put Roberts somewhere in the wake of the boat. I’m not one for killing anybody, but I guess sometimes it’s kill or be killed, and then it just has to be done. I thought about Emma and hoped that she was doing well. And Cat? I would love to see that kid grow to adulthood!

  Just before getting out of bed, as had become my morning ritual, I said Lori’s name softly as if she just might answer.

  I was washing my face when it dawned on me that there was no smell of coffee, no one prodding me to get the hell out of bed. Bob was going to get the full brunt of my teasing for having slept longer than I did. A first, I assure you. After toweling off, I headed aft. The aft cabin door was closed. No snoring came through the louvered door and I knew right then and there that I had lost the best friend a man could ever want. Gently, I opened the door, hoping against hope tha
t I was wrong, that Bob would be grinning his shit eating grin of gotcha. But no. Bob was lying on his back, eyes closed, relaxed in everlasting slumber. I searched for a pulse. I put my ear next to his nose listening for even the smallest breath. I held his still-warm hand. And I cried.

  In time, I covered Bob with a sheet, made a pot of coffee, and went up on deck, the steaming mug in hand. Everything seemed changed for me. Where was I going with this boat of mine? Was my ship the Flying Dutchman, doomed to sail alone forever, never to make port? Bob was hope for me. He was my destination. My port-of-call. All gone. Losing Bob was losing a part of me. I guess when you live too long, there’s no one left to visit, to think about, to hope for. Now I can see why some old people just give up.

  I finished my coffee and shook my head to undo the cobwebs left over from deep-felt grief. I thought of calling the Coast Guard and letting them handle the details. Maybe going back to Sunset wouldn’t be all that bad. Grief can twist reality that way, letting false hope in where there is no hope to find. I needed time to gather my wits about myself. I walked around the deck. The sun was already full up. A new day had dawned, a sad one, but one to be reckoned with nonetheless. I went down below and carefully undid Bob’s shirt pocket. I retrieved Francis’ phone number and called him on my cell.

  Francis took the bad news as if it were no surprise. “Maybe best,” he said. “Bob deserved to die at sea.” He asked for my lat/lon and suggested that I head back to Bob’s island, that he’d meet me somewhere along the way. We agreed to stay in contact by cell phone and not to use VHF.

  I was about ten nautical miles west of Boothbay when a lobster boat headed my way. Francis pulled alongside and motioned that he’d stay behind me on my port side. Dustin and Earl waved a somber greeting. A few miles further along, two other lobster boats joined us, then another two, then three more, and more yet until I had some twenty rumbling lobster boats all flying black flags motoring behind me. Bob was being celebrated not for some heroic act. He wasn’t a firefighter, or a soldier, he didn’t jump off a bridge to save a drowning child. Bob was just Bob, an honest, hardworking, tough Mainer who lived his life the way he wanted to. Now, I’m not a religious person. I don’t believe in heaven as a place, and if there is a place, Bob wouldn’t like it very much. He certainly wouldn’t like flying around and being nice to everyone. But, looking back on those lobster boats, I automatically looked up in the sky hoping Bob was seeing all this. To cover all my bases, I hollered down below, “Hey, Bob what do you think of this?”

  My VHF came to life as lobstermen chatted from boat to boat with stories about Bob, remember the time he did this or remember when he did that. It was a wake creating a wake. This time, I was proud to be the hearse.

  As we neared Bob’s island, one by one the boats peeled off, sounding their air horns as they left in a mournful salute to one of their own. Men stood on deck saluting.

  I brought That Good Night dockside. Francis followed. Dustin and Earl jumped ashore. Earl took my dock lines as Dustin tied off Francis’ boat.

  “This is just terrible,” Earl said, “Terrible is what it is. I’ve known Bob forever. I just don’t know what to do. Terrible.”

  “It’s all of that,” I agreed.

  Francis left his boat and came aboard That Good Night. I said to him, “That was some display of boats out there. I wonder how they knew about Bob’s passing? We were on radio silence, or so I thought.”

  With a sheepish grin, Francis gave a slight shrug of his shoulder’s. “Beat’s me,” he said, evading the question.

  After securing my dock lines, Dustin and Earl joined me and Francis on my boat for a chat.

  We sat in the cockpit to discuss things. Francis began, “Bob filled us in about your needing to lay low, so let’s make sure we keep it that way. The way we figure it, it’d be probably best to put Bob in his bed and just say that’s where he died. That way we avoid the Coast Guard and a lot of red tape. Do you agree?”

  I nodded my approval.

  “Well, then,” Francis added, “I think we need to move Bob’s body and be done with it.”

  “He’s in the aft cabin,” I said. “Let me go down below for a few minutes, and then it’s all up to you.”

  “Take all the time you need,” Francis said quietly.

  Seeing Bob the second time was more devastating than when I first discovered him dead. Tears came immediately. Sobs followed. It had been an unusual friendship. He didn’t live down the street from me; we weren’t members of the same club or church. We didn’t talk sports or exchange books or hunt together or fish. Our families never met; they were outside our circle of friendship. When we sailed together, it was as if the entire world spun around our boat. There was never a call for giving orders. When the sails needed trimming, it happened. The same with anchoring or with all the little things required of sailors. In storms that would make a man’s knees shake, there was calm onboard. No drinking underway, always a scotch or rum when the anchor was set.

  We lost contact with each other for more than a decade, and then, with my call for help, those vacuous years disappeared in an instant. He came to my aid without hesitation.

  “Remember Cat?” I said to Bob’s lingering spirit. “You two made quite a couple.” From there I reminisced: The time we first met. That storm just off Grand Manan Island. The times we went aground, caught lines in our props, dragged anchors and a whole lot more.

  I kissed his forehead before going topside. “He’s ready,” I said to Francis. One by one the men descended the companionway, hats removed.

  Soft murmurings came from below accompanied by quiet weeping and a few bursts of “Oh, Bob,” from Earl, I guessed. I was standing looking out on the Bay when Francis called, “We’re bringing him up.” I stood aside and remained on board as the three men solemnly carried Bob up to his cabin. A chapter of my life was closed. One more, I told myself, one last chapter left of Charley Lambert’s life.

  I went back down below, retrieved the envelope that Bob had given me and called Arden Schmitt, Esq. A crusty voice answered the call.

  “Arden Schmitt here. Who’s calling?”

  I introduced myself as Charlie, Bob Liscome’s friend.

  “Unfortunately, I was expecting your call. I assume that your call is to tell me that Bob’s gone. Right?” Before I could answer, he jumped in demanding, “Hold the fort. You understand that. Hold the fort. Don’t for one holy minute let any of Bob’s family on that island. Dead man’s relatives can smell inheritance like a dog smells you know what. Anybody with you?” I told him about Francis and his boys. “That’s as good as having a pack of Dobermans. Tell them to keep the place tied up until I get there. Not one person more on that island until I get there, you got that?”

  I answered with a simple, “Yes sir.”

  “Good. I should be on the island early tomorrow morning. We’ll go from there.” Arden hung up.

  “Good going, Bob,” I said, looking over at the empty quarter berth.

  Walking up the path to the cabin, I saw Francis, Earl, and Dylan sitting on the porch, feet on the railing, each drinking a beer. I stepped up on the porch and took a seat. Earl handed me a can. “Damn,” he said, “that was about the hardest thing I ever did, putting Bob to rest.” He wiped away a tear. “We’ve been friends since Miss Potter’s class back in the third grade. Clammed, fished, drank, and pissed together since forever.”

  I raised my can of beer. “Here’s to Bob,” I offered.

  “Damn right,” Dylan chimed in. Our toast was followed by reverent silence.

  I told the lobstermen about my call to Arden Schmitt and they agreed to guard the island, Francis assigning each of us to various posts. I was assigned to the dock. “See something, do something,” Francis commanded. “We’ll lock this place up tighter than a bullfrog’s ass.”

  It was now getting late in the day and my stomach was in a full blown protest. Dylan and I went into the cabin and boiled up some potatoes, cut raw carrots, and grilled wh
atever fish it was that Bob had in the refrigerator.

  During dinner on the porch, I asked, “Where does Bob keep his boat? I haven’t seen it anywhere. There must be one.” The boys looked at each other with sadness all around.

  “Nope, and you won’t see none neither,” Earl said.

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “Because he gave it away,” Earl said, a look of disappointment crossing his weather-beaten brow. “It was a Beale! Know anything about lobster boats, Charlie?” I shook my head. He went on to explain in one hell of a long story about the famous boat builder, its design features, the turbo diesel, special handling characteristics, how it’s the envy of all the lobstermen and a few stories about Bob and his boat. “There was that time he was hauling up traps and found a bag of marijuana hanging from one of the traps. Kept us all pretty happy for a month or so.”

  Francis took over. “Just so you know, Charlie, a good lobster boat up here is a matter of pride. You folks From Away might like your fancy cars or McMansions, but around here we take to boats, and a Beale is status. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not like wearing diamonds or Rolex watches. The status here comes from power, grace, reliability, and safety. I must admit, when Bob gave that boat away, I suspected that he was on the edge of craziness. And I felt a real disappointment because I wanted that boat more than a good shade tree on a hot summer’s day.”

  “So, who did he give it to?” I asked.

  “That’s the craziness behind it all. He gave it to the bird people. The Audubon folks up to Hog Island. Why? He never said. One day it was here. The next it was gone.” Francis hung his head like a kid who lost his last quarter down a sewer drain.

  “When did he do that?” I asked.

  “Maybe two weeks ago,” Francis answered.