That Good Night

by Richard Probert

  Each of us became lost in our own thoughts. Our quiet was filled in with the now familiar sounds of an island in Maine: birds, buzzing insects, croaks with a background of tidal swishes and lapping saltwater.

  Francis broke our collective reverie by reviewing our guard assignment. “We’ll spot anyone nearing the place and that’ll be that,” Francis assured me before walking off. “You can stay here and relax, we’ve got things covered.”

  I slumped down on an Adirondack. Soon enough a deer meandered its way across the lawn. A light sea breeze stirred the branches and brambles which framed both sides of the mown grass. It was quiet and peaceful, but empty now that Bob was gone. Things were not the same, would never be the same for me and I just wanted to leave, get off this island. But to where? I’ve never sailed to nowhere before.

  In time, Francis wandered back to the cabin for insect repellent, the perfume of dusk in Maine. I said my good night and headed down the brick path to my boat. I sat up for a long time that night thinking about where to go or what to do. I wasn’t one to take to the deep blue sea without having a clue of where to go. I thought of calling Cat, see if he was interested in sailing. I scrapped that idea. Three scotches later, I decided to just head south along the coast putting in here and there. Perhaps things would become clearer if I just gave myself some time. A good sleep would help.

  TUESDAY, JULY 31

  Arden Schmitt stood all of five feet, four inches tall with an equator for a waistline. Tufts of wiry gray hair jutted at strange angles from his balding head. Thick bushy eyebrows shaded deep-set brown eyes that were solid and focused. He was dressed in an off-white linen jacket, wrinkled and unkempt. No tie. Thick kakis and leather boat shoes. We were having breakfast when we heard his launch approach the dock and met him halfway up the path. He greeted Francis, Dylan, and Earl like they were old friends before turning to me. “You must be Charlie,” he said, proffering his puffy hand which once around mine, squeezed the bejesus out of it. “Hell of a boat you’ve got there,” he said, casting his eye toward the dock. I was about to say something when he continued, “So boys, we have some work to do. Coffee?”

  We filled Arden in on Bob dying on my boat, the sail back to the cabin, putting him into his bed, and making the call.

  “Given the circumstances of your needing anonymity, Charlie, I’d prefer to keep you clear of all this, but that’s not going to happen, given that word of Bob’s demise has already reached shore. A parade of lobster boats and all that VHF chatter saw to that. What I’m saying is that the medical examiner who got word of all the chatter wants to come over here and be sure everything’s on the up and up. Expect him to be here by noon. I’ve got Bob’s medical file in my briefcase, so cause of death won’t be an issue.”

  “So, what’s the problem?” I asked.

  “Well, you see, Charlie, when somebody dies on a boat, the Coast Guard gets involved and when the Coast Guard gets involved it’s a matter of homeland security. And since that’s the case these days, who knows what the hell they’re going to do. They might want to see your papers, you know, bill of sale, documentation, and all that crap. From what Bob told me, that might be a problem. Is it?”

  “Not really,” I answered. “I’m leasing the boat.” I didn’t tell Arden about the demise of poor old Doris Heller. That was none of his business. I did say nonchalantly, “I’m not worried about it,” which caused the lawyer to frown an unspoken question. I let it go.

  Arden continued. “From the look of things, your boat should pass inspection without a hitch. I’ve already got Bob’s will ready for probate, so once the Coasties leave, we’ll have to get Bob to the funeral home before I contact the family. The island here gets locked up until the Nature Conservancy takes over. As far as Bob’s stuff is concerned, it’ll have to sit here until the will’s settled.” Arden turned to me. “Exception of course, Charlie. Stay as long as you like, just leave things as they are.” I thanked him with a nod.

  As it turned out, the medical examiner only asked a few questions, glanced at Bob’s medical report, and declared everything on the up and up. As the ME was leaving, three Coasties showed up in one of those inflatable fast-boats outfitted with two 150 HP Mercs, flashing lights aplenty. A machine gun was mounted forward. Arden walked up to the cabin, leaving the four of us to deal with the ritual of boat inspection.

  The Coasties were all business. “Permission to board your vessel, sir,” Chief Coastie asked.

  “Permission granted,” I answered.

  I was asked for my ships papers: lease, insurance, documentation, personal identification (the out-of-date passport was acceptable). On to safety: life jackets, fire extinguishers, flares. They checked the bilge for oil.

  Back on the dock, the Coastie that seemed to be in-charge asked me, “Did you transport a dead body, sir?”

  “No, I did not,” I stated.

  “Your radio transmissions seemed to indicate otherwise.”

  “What you heard, officer, was a memorial parade honoring a dead sailor whose body is in his bed up there,” I said, pointing toward the cabin.

  Francis chimed in, “That’s right, sir. Old Bob died in bed. We came to pay our respects. Care to take a look?”

  The Coastie shook his head. “Well, I guess nothing can be proven. As long as everything is in order, we’ll be on our way.” He turned to leave but hesitated. Looking around at us, he asked, “You know about the missing person, suspected drowning?”

  “Yes sir, we do,” answered Francis.

  “Any signs of him?” the Coastie asked.

  We all looked at each other like truant kids standing before a principal.

  “Nope.”

  “Nary a hair.”

  “Couldn’t say I saw any.”

  “Not on my watch.”

  “Well, keep your eyes out,” the Coastie said before turning to me. “And you, Mr. Lambert, take care of yourself and good luck out there. Need anything, give us a call.”

  With that, the Coast Guardsmen returned to their speedboat and roared off toward Portland.

  Officials out of the way, Arden prepared to leave. “Some folks from a Portland funeral home will be by soon to claim the body. Can you guys handle that?”

  “Well,” Francis offered, “if it’s all the same to you, we need to tend our traps before those lobsters start eating each other. We can’t be letting that happen, can we, boys?” Earl and Dylan shook their heads.

  I offered to stay until the funeral folks come for the body. After all, I really wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere. Following in short order, Francis, Dylan, and Earl bid farewell, headed to their boat and cast off with a smoking stack and the roar of their diesel.

  I walked Arden to his boat.

  After handing him the now redundant envelope Bob gave me just in case, I said to Arden, “I have a favor to ask,” I said.

  “Go ahead,” he replied.

  “I want to retain you for some unfinished business.”

  “Consider it done,” he said. “What business?”

  I explained the whole nine yards, escaping Sunset, leasing the boat, having a bag of warm money and that I would never under any circumstances return to a nursing home.

  “I’ll probably head south,” I told him, “maybe end my days in the Caribbean somewhere. I need to get my affairs in order and I need to do something with my money.”

  “Where is it now?” he asked.

  “On my boat.”

  “A lot?”

  “A lot,” I answered.

  “Traceable to anything other than you own it clear and free? In other words, did you steal it?”

  I answered, “No, I didn’t steal it. It’s mine free and clear. I earned it, Arden; that’s where I got it, blood, sweat, and tears. So?”

  “I could set up an account at the firm, an escrow account. We can send you a check whenever you ask for it. There’ll be a fee, of course.”

  “That works for me. Another thing, I want to name you as executor.” />
  “Like I did with Bob?”

  “Yes, like you did with Bob.”

  “Can do,” he said.

  “When?”

  “Well, not here. Not this minute. Any way you can get to Portland?”

  Glancing over to That Good Night, I said, “I think I can handle that.”

  Handing me his card, he said, “Call me and we’ll set up a time. We can take care of the money when we meet.”

  “How about tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow morning’s fine. Can you make it by, say 10:30?”

  “I’ll be there,” I said. We shook hands, Arden jumped aboard his launch, I tossed him his docking lines and he was off.

  I climbed aboard That Good Night, sat down in the cockpit and watched his boat until an island took him out of sight. The roaring sound of the engine lingered a bit longer. Then silence. I went below, poured a scotch, and then made my way back to the porch to wait for the folks from the funeral home. The subtle rustling of a breeze soughing through the trees. A chattering squirrel. Bird song. Lapping water. The distant sound of a bell buoy. An unseen osprey chirping to its young. I looked down the flower-edged path to That Good Night bobbing softly to the rhythm of the tidal flow. The water was sunlit blue. Without Bob’s care, I figured the flowers might have a few weeks before the weeds start crowding them out. The grass was already getting a bit long. Death of one is the death of many, I suppose. My eye caught the flit of a butterfly, then moved to watch a spider on a porch roof rafter dash quickly along its web to capture a fly. Bob’s lingering presence was all around me. I closed my eyes and drifted off. I woke to the soft clatter of a diesel.

  Two men from the funeral home tied up their grey cruiser to the dock, right behind That Good Night. It was all rather formal: They came, bagged Bob’s body, wheeled it on a gurney to their boat and left. We said only a few words. I had to sign a paper. And that was that.

  I had lost my best friend. The last one alive. I was alone. Very much alone. It was too late in the day to sail down to Portland. I felt myself giving in to inertia but was suddenly jolted when my mind scooped up an image of Sunset’s television room: Booming from its squeaky speaker was The Price is Right, around me sat huddled figures, some nodding off, some watching the screen, some sound asleep under hand-knitted blankets.

  I stood, gathered my thoughts and headed off the porch to give Bob’s plantings a final shot at a good life. I found an old gas mower in his shed and dragged it to the lawn. It started on the first pull. When I finished mowing, I put the mower back in the shed, grabbed a weeding hoe and cleaned up the flower beds. I put the tools back in the shed, knowing that they might just sit for a long, long time. The grass and flowers lining the walkway beamed contentment. A little tending was all they needed. Don’t we all? I retrieved my empty scotch glass from the porch and retreated to That Good Night. I thawed some frozen lasagna, ate what I could, put on a recording of Glenn Gould playing Bach, crawled into my berth and, to end the longest day in my life, fell fast asleep.

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 1

  I didn’t bother with sails; it was too busy with all the islands about. Slow ahead, it took a bit more than two hours before I was tied up at Portland Marine. A short cab ride had me at Arden’s office. It was 1015 hours.

  I tipped the cabbie and, being the old tar that I was, slung my duffle bag of money over my right shoulder, and walked briskly. The storefront office could easily pass for a 19th-century movie set: electrified gas lights, a pot-bellied stove, an oak wall clock with roman numerals and swinging pendulum. Green felt covered the receptionist desk. The computer was disguised behind an oak paneled screen. Miss Ethanridge, Arden’s secretary, greeted me with bright hazel eyes behind cute wire-rimmed glasses. Her grey hair was pulled tightly into a pinned bun on the back of her head. She led me along a short hallway to a quaint waiting room just outside of Arden’s office.

  Directing me to a dark burgundy high winged-back leather chair complete with tufts and the wrinkles of age, she asked, “May I take your bag, Mr. Lambert?”

  I answered, “No thank you, ma’am, I’ll just hold onto her.”

  She gave me a quiet smile. “Will you be having tea or coffee, Mr. Lambert?” she asked politely.

  “Coffee, black please.”

  “My pleasure. Please make yourself comfortable,” she said, turning and leaving the room.

  I placed my duffle to the left of my chair and sat down. On wood-paneled walls hung oil paintings of ships and commerce, portraits and renderings of old Portland, each painting with its own focused light. The floor was covered with a thick, fringed Sarouk carpet. To my right, separated by a leather topped end-table was a matching wing-backed chair. A damask covered sofa was across the room. Above it was a large gold-framed abstract seascape which reminded me of approaches to Bass Harbor Light.

  Miss Ethanridge returned with coffee in a bone china cup and saucer, which she set on the table next to me. “Mr. Schmitt will be with you momentarily,” she said before exiting.

  I hadn’t sipped coffee from a china cup in…hell, I can’t remember such formality. My lawyer back in upstate New York ran his business out of a scruffy office with a secretary dressed in a man’s flannel shirt and blue jeans. Jackson Catrini was his name. He handled all the crap associated with running a business and let me tell you, he was one tough son-of-a-bitch. Once when I was being sued by a client for disregarding the explicit tenets of the contract, Jackson went at him with such fury that we settled out of court with the client giving me two grand just to dump the counter suit. Jackson died right around the time I lost Lori. Hell, everybody I knew is dead or has disappeared from my life. And here I am in Portland, Maine sitting amidst law office splendor, wondering what the hell I’m doing here. But what’s the alternative? If Arden Schmitt was good enough for Bob then he’s good enough for me. I’ve got to trust somebody.

  Arden appeared from behind a heavy paneled door just to the right of the sofa. White shirt, striped red, gold and blue tie, dark blue suspenders, perfectly pressed charcoal gray pinstripe trousers and cordovan wingtips were in complete contrast to what he had worn yesterday. Here I was in wrinkled kakis, an equally wrinkled blue short sleeved shirt, and worn Docksiders an army surplus duffle bag at my side.

  “Good to see you again, Charlie,” Arden said, coming over. I stood and we shook hand. “I trust that Bob’s place is all set. The funeral home called and reported that everything was in order for the arrangements.”

  “Arrangements?” I asked softly.

  “Bob’s wishes are for his ashes to be spread around the island.”

  “That sounds like Bob.” I was glad now that I tended to the lawn and flowers.

  Arden’s office carried on the décor of old New England prosperity. His antique mahogany desk sat in front of a large window overlooking Portland Harbor. Out there somewhere was That Good Night, waiting. That boat had become my home, my refuge, my future. Whatever I was or have become was tied to that vessel. She was my partner, my friend, protector, guardian of my soul. I was damn antsy to get back to her, to finish my voyage wherever it might take me.

  Arden positioned himself behind his desk. I sat down in a comfortable chair facing him, clutching my duffle on my lap. “So, let’s get down to business.” Sliding a paper my way, he said, “This is a bill of retainer. Sign it and we’re all set. Our retainer charge is $10,000. Is that okay?”

  I nodded my approval and signed the form.

  “First of all, I need to deposit most of this,” I said, tapping my duffle. “My preference is that I can contact you for any amount I need. We’ll need to figure out how you can get it to me. I have no address other than my boat and sending funds to a Lat/Lon will probably not work.” Arden chuckled. “My guess is using a post office wherever I happen to be. Secondly, I want to write a will.

  We spent a good part of two hours getting everything in order. Miss Ethanridge was charged with counting the money while Arden and I dealt with the will. I left his of
fice just past noon with $25,000 dollars in cash stuffed in my pockets and a certified check in the amount of $10,000 as backup, which I had neatly folded in my buttoned shirt pocket. I decided to walk back to the marina dock even though it was hot and muggy. On my way, I stopped in at a sandwich shop, had a quick lunch, then bee-lined it back to That Good Night.

  With the help of an experienced dock attendant, I moved That Good Night to the fuel dock to top off her tanks with diesel fuel and water. I took some extra time to run down my check list and found everything to be in order. I could have spent the night in Portland but, antsy to get underway, I decided to head down the coast, maybe stop in at Biddeford Pool or go further down to Portsmouth. The sky was clear blue, the barometer steady. I cast off from the fuel dock at 1310 hours.

  Once clear of Portland Light, I raised the main, set the jib, trimmed to twelve knots of west-south-west wind, engaged the auto helm, and sat back to a glorious sail at a steady seven knots. What a beautiful day, a celebration, actually. The cool sea air was a welcomed relief. I went below, slipped a disc into the stereo, pushed the external speaker button and returned topside to listen to Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto # 5. I grabbed a cushion, sat down on the starboard side and just listened: Bach accompanied by swishing saltwater flung aside by a slicing bow. There are few words to describe the feeling that enters a sailor’s soul when all the elements are working in favor of a great sail. One might think that these moments occur frequently in a sailor’s life, but not so. More often than not, winds are on the nose, or there’s no wind at all, or it’s blowing snot or gusting all over the place. Absolute contentment is rare and needs to be savored. Sort of like life, huh?

  Biddeford Pool was soon off to starboard but there was no way that I was going to put in, not sailing like this. The wind had shifted a bit north. I eased the sails to a reach picking up another knot and a half. Sunset was late this time of year, probably around nine or so. I could probably make Portsmouth by nightfall, especially at this rate.

  Luckily, I hit the Piscataqua near slack ebb. This river has one of the nastiest currents in North America and hitting it at the wrong time is no fun. With the wind now nearly on my nose, I furled both main and jib, favoring motoring up river, Maine to starboard, New Hampshire to port. There’s enough eye candy on both banks to make this harbor entrance one of my favorites. After rounding a few bends, I spotted the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, actually a misnomer considering that the installation is really in Kittery, Maine. I swung That Good Night to port and tied up at the Portsmouth City Dock.