Harbor Lights

by Theodore Weesner

  Now the old Jonesporter he had named after her. The boat would need a new motor soon, and, if she were going to last a couple more seasons, a new painting overall, top and bottom. She also had to be cleared out in anticipation of Beatrice putting her up for sale, and pleased to be back in the balmy air, Warren began the process of vacating the small and infinite world wherein he had spent so much of his life. If he could get his life settled, he thought he’d simply lie in peace and watch the baseball play-offs down through the end of the season. A number of days or weeks. Perhaps some pain, but no stupefying drugs. With luck he’d persevere, in his bedroom, until frost touched upon the manicured ball fields. A season tucked away in the books. A time to live, and a time to die.

  Traps and fishing rights he’d pass on to the Co-op, and they could assign them through a drawing. The coastal grounds were overfished and not all that much anymore anyway. Still, it was a pity he didn’t have a strong young son, even a certain daughter to pass things on to, because it wasn’t a bad life and fishing always made comebacks. Often cold-handed, still you were your own person and that was worth something—of greater substance than selling out to bosses up on land. There were fishermen whose wives conversed with them by shortwave all day, and much of lobstering depended on luck in your marriage. However solitary you might be on the water, only a rare bird ever did it successfully alone. Topliners, like his father, had family support—and wouldn’t his father turn over in his grave if he had seen his son wear that brown uniform for eight years and slip into being a marginal fisherman? And Marian, there had been a time when he thought she’d be a young tomboy daughter to him, a daredevil daughter, and where had she gone, how had he also lost her to that foul politician?

  Yet again Warren sat on the Lady Bee’s gunwale, to gather breath and bask in near peace. He wondered what else he should attend to, to avoid leaving anything in a muddle. His assets and insurance all went to Beatrice and to Marian in time. He had no other family—a cousin up around Casco Bay, also working the water—but had never considered leaving anything to anyone other than Beatrice. Nothing large remained that would not take care of itself, he decided, and he used a lobster crate into which to load his personal possessions.

  Weapons. He had always kept two aboard, a .22 rifle and, in an oily pouch under lock and key in the pilothouse, his old Colt Python .357 Magnum. He kept the .22 rifle racked in its case under the instrument panel, but did not believe either weapon retained much value and decided to leave the rifle in place for the boat’s new owner. Pistol and rifle had been for protection against possible mad dogs and desperadoes at sea—rough traffic did roar into view at times, and turf wars, misunderstandings, and thefts were not unheard of—and also as a means of killing an oversized shark or tuna, should one be brought alongside. In all his years he’d used the rifle to shoot but one tuna, an eight hundred pounder, and maybe ten sharks, but had never had an encounter with a man that led to gunfire.

  If he had had the nerve, he thought, or not loved Beatrice as he had, he might have run off and found someone to love him for who he was. But he had not run off; Helen at the diner was long gone in time, and now it was all water under the bridge. He remained attached to his wife—if in devotion or in doglike enslavement, he wasn’t sure. He tried to think it out as he lowered an added box and seabag into the dinghy for the last trip to shore. Had he been an ordinary fool? A victim? A man netted? He wished he knew.

  The boxes he placed in the truck’s bed, the pouch holding the old Python he hefted once, contemplated its power, and placed in the glove box. And as he backed around, he thought of the next day’s trip to the Co-op as a way to avoid admitting he was turning his back forever on the Lady Bee. His boat and life. His everything. If there was a time to not look back, this was it, and he maintained eyes front as he rolled away. Dear sweet Jesus. A time to look only ahead.

  Marian

  The sun was a new penny on the horizon, and quiet hour was settling over the seacoast and over Maine Authentic. Few evenings were more pleasantly relaxed than weekdays in early October, late in the season for tourists and early for Christmas. Car headlights had been coming on out in the dull air, and while the pull was usually to an evening meal—in a restaurant with friends, at home, alone at a counter with a magazine before returning for an evening shift—the pull for Marian tonight (not a very pleasant one) was to call her father, to convey her news and attempt to come to terms with what was happening to him.

  She rang up a sale and returned the credit card upside down, glancing to see that one signature resembled the other. It was often this way: the wife making the selection—ceramic candle holders as a wedding gift—the husband producing the plastic and signing the receipt. Husband and wife doing an errand on their way to dinner along the coast. An attractive couple, Marian thought. Not glamorous, but mature and comfortably together. Not an old pair of shoes either, but wool sweater and silk blouse, capable yet of little sparks, content in their intelligent life and lack of problems—the kind of customers her mother loved to serve.

  And a way she and Ron would never be, she thought. No matter what good fortune might come their way, sophistication wasn’t in the cards for them. Theirs would be yet another spat in his Firebird over driving too fast, over money, over her going alone in her Miata—because she had so come to prefer being by herself to being with him. Yet her anger was not so strong tonight; venting to her mother and Virgil had lifted the cloud she had been carrying, and, in fact, she was suffering a twinge of betrayal over trashing Ron as she had. He was immature, but he remained her husband.

  No other customers were pressing, Lori and John were visible in front, and Marian took the break she had been waiting for. It was close to six, and her father would be home from running his traps, while her mother was giving the evening to repositioning the rear woodcraft and pottery sections—in further anticipation of the new line—and would not be leaving until seven-thirty or eight. Conditions were important to Marian: privacy in the office as she called and privacy at home as he received the call. She told Lori she’d be back shortly and remarked to her mother on the way, “I’m going to call Dad,” to forestall being followed into the office and hearing a mini-lecture on the bonding psychology of working late hours together.

  Marian punched the numbers she knew from growing up. At the same time, as the telephone rang on Kittery Point, shortcircuits of Ron and herself, of her mother and Virgil, of life and death, even of the middle-class couple she had just served, ran through her mind. She had never disliked her father, but for many years she had been unable to love him as she had when she was a child and he picked her up in his truck after school when it was raining, treated her as his best friend, took her on his boat as first mate. Her mother and Virgil had confused everything for her; there was no getting around it. They provided clothes, cars, money, meals out, and, as the years passed, especially after her summer on the boat, distances widened and the air at home grew ever more empty and quiet. In time, at her wedding, there was her father, standing to speak, visibly uneasy, while Virgil, proposing an elaborate champagne toast, was funny and touching and, however long-winded, would have struck strangers as the doting father surrendering his daughter to marriage. There was her own youthful heart, embracing the paternal figure who offered the sweetest and most engaging words, while circumstances compelled her father to stand as little more than a guest.

  Still, she loved him—how could she not? Today may have been the first time she had seen how horrible it had to have been for him to have Virgil hovering about his life as he had. Virgil and his power as a politician, from which she had benefited—though even to her it was disturbing to see such influence exerted over another man’s family.

  Was love to be measured by gifts and a confection of words? By cars and connections? For a time in childhood she had thought Virgil was her father, until the blowup about blood testing. Even then she had remained confused, and that her mother assumed all along that she knew the truth had always be
en a sore point with her. She believed her mother should have clarified things earlier, not when she was eighteen and leaving for college but when she was eleven and told of the school nurse whispering to her teacher in the first-aid room, “Now, who’s her father, is it Mr. Hudon, or Mr. Pound?”

  “Aye?” was how her father answered the phone, as always.

  “Daddy, it’s me. How are you?”

  “Oh, could be better, I guess. How are you, sweetheart?”

  “What do you mean—could be better?”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” Warren said. “Just have this cough—hope it doesn’t flare up too much or I won’t be able to talk very well.”

  “You’ve been to the doctor?”

  “I’ve been—it’ll be okay. How are things—are you at work?”

  “Daddy, listen, I talked to the Kittery Clinic. I know you’re going there for treatment.”

  “Well, I have been doing that, but things’re under control.”

  “What do you mean—what’s under control?”

  “Well, they’re helping me with this cough. It’s coming along.”

  “Daddy, that’s a cancer clinic—do you have cancer?”

  “I’m not in the greatest shape, I’d have to admit that,” he said after a moment. “I’m doing okay. You playing detective?”

  “They said—I asked for information about what was going on, and they said your file says you have no family. Did you tell them that?”

  “Honey, listen—I’m taking care of this as best I can. I don’t know what their files say.”

  “Did you say you had no family?”

  “I’m not sure what I said.”

  “Well, will you tell them, when you go back, will you say you have a daughter—and one who cares about you and wants to know what’s going on? Can you call them and tell them that?”

  “Marian, this has been a hard go. I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Can’t you just say you have a daughter?”

  “I can do that. I’ll do that.”

  “Daddy, I’m so sorry the way things have worked out, I really am. I mean, the distance that’s grown up between us. It’s my fault, I know, and I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you’re sick. I feel awful about it.”

  “Well I do too, Marian, I mean about the distance. It hasn’t been the greatest way to live, for sure. Hasn’t been anything I wanted. It’s been hard.”

  “Can I come see you?”

  “Of course you can. Anytime.”

  “I don’t mean right now, but maybe tomorrow night, after work. Are you still going out every day in your boat?”

  “Well, usually, not always these days.”

  “What I’d like is to talk to the doctor at the clinic, then come see you—maybe around six o’clock tomorrow night. Would that be okay?”

  “I think so. I’ll be here.”

  “So you’re not going out every day?”

  “Not as much as I used to. Cough’s had me down lately.”

  “Do you have some kind of cancer?”

  “Honey, I don’t know. I’ll let you know soon as I can.”

  “Daddy, I have some news—I think it’s good news: I’m going to have a baby. I’m over two months along.”

  “Are you! Now that is news. Congratulations—to you and Ron both. That’s wonderful news. I’m going to be a grandfather.”

  She would never speak to her father of her doubts about Ron, certain his response would be different from what she’d heard at lunch, and she said, “I hope I’m up to it.”

  “Why wouldn’t you be? It’s wonderful news, Marian. I’m pleased for you, for myself, too. Always wanted to be a grandfather.”

  “Daddy, you know, I think every day about that summer I went on the boat. It’s something that’s more important to me all the time. It’s one thing we had together.”

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  “I love it more every day, I really do.”

  “I do too, sweetheart.”

  “Daddy, maybe we could use your name in some way, you know, if it’s a boy—though I’m pulling for a girl, I have to admit.”

  “Oh, a little girl would be nice. It was always a surprise, what a treat it was having a little girl.”

  “You mean a really little girl.”

  He laughed, even as he coughed. “Of any age,” he got out. “As for my name, whatever you do will be fine with me. I’d be flattered, that’s for sure, but it’s something you better talk over with Ron.”

  “Daddy, please tell your doctor you have a daughter. Call tomorrow and tell them, will you? Then when I come see you I’ll know what’s going on. Okay?”

  Her father coughed and did not entirely answer, but when Marian replaced the receiver she felt better—felt she would find out at last what was happening to her father as well as to herself. Maybe then, as Virgil had said, she’d begin to be able to deal with it.

  Marian lingered in her mother’s office, resting her chin on her hands, not wanting to have to explain what her father had had to say. What had he had to say? A bad cough—he wasn’t fishing much—he would tell the people at the clinic he had a daughter. Conversations with her father had always been restrained, and the brief exchange she’d just had was as good as it had ever been. He’d never been anything but kind, though for years there had been that widening space between them. She had become, really, her mother’s daughter, with a perception of her father that had long ago begun shifting to her mother’s side. Then too, Virgil was always kind and loving, always present and more forthcoming with support of all kinds, and also uninhibited with affection and words. She had not intentionally forsaken her father, but was not unaware of what she had done. Her mother’s marital deceit was so old it seemed hardly to matter. If only her parents had ended their marriage long ago—what a difference it might have made in all their lives. Maybe her father would have found some happiness. They might have been better friends, too, as father and daughter.

  Marian got to her feet, wishing she could deal with Ron in a phone call of the kind. No way. Her pregnancy would elicit no joy or sympathy on that front, she felt certain, and his response would be we-can’t-afford-it, your-job-will-have-to-go, your-mother-better-unload-some-bucks-our-way. All the old deep-seated hostility, the shallow land mines in their thirty-month-old marriage. How had she let herself walk wide-eyed into such a hopeless situation?

  Well, let him lose his cool, she thought, because nothing would make it easier for her to pack his bag, hand it to him, and show him the door. To think that her feelings for him had fallen so far—not least of all because of yet another immature joke about a bodily function he’d been unable to leave alone for weeks. One thing she knew, she had to tell him soon, because however negative she was feeling, it would be unfair—would set off an endless blowup—to have him learn from someone else that he was going to become a father.

  Tonight, come what may, she told herself. And let his hostility rear its ugly head, what did she care—for nothing fitted him less than the term father. Father to a six-pack, she thought. To mag wheels and a two-barrel carb. To jokes about cutting the cheese. He who whispered, “Hey baby, fuel’s on fire,” when he wanted to make out. Tonight, she told herself, assuming he came in before midnight.

  Beatrice

  Of course he was sick; she could see that now and wasn’t going to deny it. His coughing, and avoiding passing her in the house in recent weeks. There was no way, however, that she would be nursing or babying him. If he wanted “no family,” let him have it his way. It would be fine with her if he just stayed out of sight. And if he didn’t—well, she’d help if he should ask, but otherwise she was going to go on as if all were normal. All he was trying to do was get back at her, she thought, and what good was that going to do any of them?

  Marian did not seem to have learned much from talking with him on the phone, and here, driving home, Beatrice wished she had taken her daughter out to dinner, to have an added chance to talk things over. Larger things.
She felt guilty over the life she had imposed on Marian—but not that guilty; she’d taken a thousand steps toward making her growing up successful, easy, manageable. Friendship, financial support, cars and clothes, a fullblown business to take over. Had any child been dealt the cards she’d been slipping into her daughter’s hands?

  If anything, Beatrice thought, she should have seen Warren’s sickness coming, for what was more inevitable than death? What choice did she have except to survive this season in their life and go on as before? She’d help if she could and would give comfort to Marian. It was going to be sad, for sure, awful at times, and she was certain Virgil felt the same way—but they wouldn’t be turning life upside down to accommodate Warren being sick. They’d do what had to be done, would make things easy for him, and easy for Marian, but the larger picture would be to survive and go on—with precious freedom looming ahead at long last.

  She and Warren had a pattern and she wouldn’t change that either, unless he asked her to: he did most of the shopping, most of the laundry and house cleaning—none of which he seemed to mind doing, being home many more hours than she—and they rarely crossed paths, only when he was late leaving in the morning because of a low tide or, more rare, when she returned early in the evening from the store, which almost never happened. More likely,ninety percent of the time, she came home at eight or nine, or ten or later, had a light snack, and retreated to her suite of rooms upstairs to watch TV and putter and plan before going to bed, while he was sleeping or watching TV in his bedroom down the hall. One thing she had made clear years ago was that she had no interest in eating food he might prepare or leave for her. She knew that he wished, in the awful psychology of their relationship, to perform tasks and cook for her, to please her, yet food posed an obligation she could not accept. To eat what he prepared was like sleeping again in the same room or same bed, and the mere thought of intimacy with him repulsed her. She knew he couldn’t help himself, but believed also that his state of mind was his to look after. However sorry she was that their life together had turned out as it had, there was nothing she was going to do to change it now.