That Good Night (20 page)

“Just past Portland,” I answered. “I should be at your place in an hour or so.”

Bob said, “Maybe as the crow flies. Better add about a half-hour for the twists and turns. Give these islands some room; lot of outcroppings out there.” He added, “Be waiting. See ya.”

“Hey, wait.” I yelled into the phone.

“What?”

“My boat's forty-six feet. I draw five feet. You have room?”

“To spare.” The phone went dead.

With islands sprinkled like snowflakes on a bare lawn, navigating through Casco Bay requires serious diligence. The chart plotter gave me Bob's location but I hadn't entered a route in the electronic wonder. I guess I was too excited to take the time before departing. I had taken the time to prepare for docking which meant attaching the fenders and laying out the docking lines. Anyway, I'm of the old school of following a paper chart. It's more fun and gives much more perspective on surroundings. I started the engine and dropped the sails. Beating a zigzag course around a bunch of close-knit islands with uncertain wind and a flood tide was not my idea of fun, at least at my age. There was a time when the challenge would have been normal procedure, but not now. Besides, I was pretty anxious to get to
Bob's place, so motoring it was.

Actually, Bob's suggestion to add a half-hour to the EPA was only off by ten minutes. As I approached his dock, there he was, waving a welcome like there was no tomorrow. He gave me a circling motion indicating that I should approach the dock starboard to. Once I turned, current grabbed the bow. I backed the throttle to dead ahead. I left the helm, readied the docking lines, kicked over the fenders that I had previously lashed to the guard rails and was back in the cockpit in no time flat. With a few bursts of the thrusters, I eased
That Good Night
dockside. I handed the breast line to Bob, who quickly chocked it down. As I slid down to his dock, I retrieved the stern line while Bob went forward to grab the bow line which I had coiled along the life line. With a few turns around the chocks,
That Good Night
was fast and secure. This was all done without a word. Like old times—there is nothing a sailor likes more than to work in sync with a knowing mate.

“So, you went for the bigger one, huh? Hell of a boat,” he added before walking along her length tapping the hull and caressing the toe rail. “Thirty-amp okay?” he asked.

“Yup,” I answered, stealing Bob's answer for nearly everything

I jumped back on board, killed the engine, went below and flicked off a few electronics and reappeared to see Bob holding a sturdy electrical cord. “This ought to fit. Where's the onshore hook-up?” I directed him aft. Once plugged in, I went below and flicked a few more switches to tie in the shore power. I poured us two hefty glasses of scotch before going topside. I sat to port, Bob starboard.

I looked past Bob, my eyes landing on a neat brick path bordered by flowers of various sorts. Grass spread from the flowered
edges to wooded land where to my right, a path reached back into a stand of pines. Crowning the path, about twenty yards from the dock, was a sturdy cedar-shake roofed log cabin. This was a slice of heaven. Spruce, fir, some oak and maple covered the island.

Bob quietly let me take it all in before saying, “Welcome to Maine.”

“My pleasure,” I said. We sat quietly sipping our scotch. Words would come later. For now, it was enough to enjoy the sweet aroma of fir trees and the soft sounds of lapping water.

Finished with our scotch, we set our empty glasses in a cup holder attached to the helm. Bob led the way.

Reaching the cabin we went up three steps to a porch that ran the width of the cabin. Adirondack style furniture sat invitingly on a shiny enameled dark green painted floor. Chairs, rockers, side tables, and a neat coffee table topped with live edged boards. Bob directed me to a rocker, went inside the cabin and reappeared with two cold cans of Miller Genuine Draft.

“Your favorite, as I recall,” he said, handing me the sweating can.

“Pretty good memory you got going there,” I said.

“Yup,” Bob replied as he sat in the rocker next to mine. “Some things are more worth remembering than others.”

A few gulps of beer later, I asked, “So where's that wood pile?”

Bob didn't answer. Instead, he rose from his chair declaring, “I need to go inside a bit. Enjoy the scenery.”

I put my can of beer on the coffee table next to Bob's. I walked around the porch noticing how every board and every rafter was perfectly fitted. His craftsmanship was akin to fine
machining. The cabin itself was constructed with untreated cedar logs that had mellowed into a shimmering grey. Bob had told me many times how he had built the place from ground up using timber that he had harvested from the island. I was admiring the view of some of the many islands dotting Casco when he returned carrying two more beers. “Just in case one isn't enough,” he said, lifting the shiny black-labeled cans in the air as if they were trophies. He set them on the table separating our chairs as we slipped back into the comfortable Adirondacks. I filled him in about buying the boat, some stuff about people I met along the way, briefly mentioned meeting Abigail in Boston, leaving out most of the details. I then asked what ever happened to the investigator.

“Vacationing on Stone Island,” he replied matter of factly.

“Stone Island? Sounds like a rather desolate place.”

“Yup, unless you're a cormorant.”

“How did you manage getting him out there?”

“Made a phone call. Forget about him. He's a storm gone by.”

“Any chance that he'll show up here?”

“Well, he can't swim here from there, can he? If he makes it, well, we'll just deal with that when the time comes.”

“My guess is that you have things covered?”

“Charlie, I've lived here all my life. My parents and grandparents were Mainers. There are things that people From Away will never understand about what it is to be of real Maine stock. So, yes, things are covered. Now, how about a tour of that boat of yours?”

Ever the mechanic, he spent a lot of time sticking his head into the engine compartment, looking under access hatches in the cabin sole, examining the futuristic electric panel, studying
the generator like he never saw one in his life and marveling at all the comforts akin to a swanky hotel suite. When I invited him to take a voyage Down East, he readily agreed with the comment: “Can't pass that up, but we're going to have to do that pretty soon.”

“We have all summer,” I commented.

“Maybe you do, but I have things to do,” he said, getting up and leaving the boat. I followed.

On our walk back to his house, I again asked to see the woodpile. After all, it was his reason for abandoning me in Annapolis. He took me around to the back of the cabin. A shed stood about fifty feet away, the construction similar to the cabin. The wood pile or where the wood pile should be was next to an access door at the rear of the cabin.

“Not much to show,” Bob said flatly. Motioning to a few rows of split logs, he added, “That's it.”

“So, you've decided to head to the Caribbean with me?”

“Nope. I'm dying.”

“Jesus, Bob, aren't we all?”

I had a sinking feeling. Quite honestly, since arriving, Bob seemed, well, not like himself. I figured that he had lost a bit of weight because of endless physical chores. And there was something lacking in his eyes, maybe a bit of jolly gone out of them. He directed me to the porch where I sat while he went inside for more beer. When he returned, we sat in silence for a good ten minutes before he opened up.

“Sailor's disease,” he said calmly. “Skin cancer. Too much sun and not enough brains, I guess. Spread all over the place like spilled stew. They want to put me on chemo, but at best that would buy me maybe a few months and who the hell wants to
spend their last few moments puking their guts out? Can you imagine going through that just to buy a little more time? It's not for me. I'd much prefer to be looking up at my own ceiling, the one I put there, than one in some hospital. I'll die right here, in my own creation.”

I struggle to get out a somber, “How long?”

“Three months, maybe. I don't know. I haven't told any of my family and I don't plan to. It is what it is.” Bob's voice had a tinge of anger laced to it.

“Now look,” I said, with as much as I could put behind it, “there's no way you can tough it out alone. Somebody needs to be here to help.”

Bob bristled. “Why? I've taken care of myself all my life. When the time comes, I prefer to be alone and not slobbered over.”

“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.

Adapted from the digital recorder of Private Investigator, Justin Roberts recorded July 27, 1104 hours
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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
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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
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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
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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
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