That Good Night (27 page)

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 whatever 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.

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.

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.