Harbor Lights

by Theodore Weesner

  This cool night, however, and for the first time in a decade and however late, there was a smell of food cooking and it took her by surprise. Seasoned rice, a stir fry with onions—she wasn’t sure, but was hungry, and the aroma released an urge in her belly. She had parked beside his pickup and moved across the lighted patio onto the rear deck where a sliding glass door let into the kitchen. The sad, frail man was at the stove, and he glanced her way, nodded pleasantly enough while being at once taken with suppressing his cough to the side and could not have spoken if he’d wanted to. No words, no greeting. Life as usual—except that he was preparing food at so late an hour, looked like he wanted to please and speak, and gestured at the frying pan, offering a bite to eat.

  Well, why not, Beatrice thought, and on a nod of her own she indicated yes, fine, she’d join him. She had no wish to open a door to his lament (now or ever). Sharing a meal would be sympathy enough for the moment. Passing through to the stairway and upstairs, carrying her shoulder bag, she changed to jeans, sweatshirt, and house shoes, and returned to the kitchen. Vague curiosity and sympathy at the sad-sack sight of him seemed to draw her along. Poor Warren, dear God.

  Early on, she’d have to admit, she had loved coming home to warm meals, especially in cool weather after dark. They might have to go back to their first years of marriage to find occasions of Warren, as the first one home, fixing dinner, but it had been their pattern for a time. She enjoyed it for a year or two—his meager cooking skills notwithstanding—but squelched the routine when she sensed his using dinner as a way to control her coming and going. Besides, eating out with associates from state government had become the real fun for her, the action and excitement of the day. Running Virgil’s district office had been frantic in those early years, and she hadn’t been about to put off persons, projects, or being a player because Warren was home early from fishing and had warned that dinner would be ready to eat at six.

  And yes, she had her regrets: things, if given another chance, she would do differently. There was the time she was packing for the Hartford Conference and Warren, home early, entered her bedroom to talk. She had purchased face-powder beige lingerie for the trip—not least of all in anticipation of what she knew the garments would do for Virgil in their hotel room—and had to decide on the spot whether to pack them in Warren’s presence or not. Knowing they would taunt him, she removed the garments from tissue paper and placed them in the open suitcase. The perverse teasing made her feel warm inside—then scornful of Warren for failing to respond.

  “I hear you’re sick—how are you feeling?” she said.

  He coughed to the side but there again was something like a smile trying to occupy his face. “Okay,” he got out. “I’m okay.”

  “Marian’s pretty worried.”

  “I have this cough—I’m okay. She’s coming to see me.”

  “She told you about the baby?”

  He nodded, said, “I’m happy for her … it’s nice.” Trying once more to smile, he nodded toward the concoction in the frying pan. “Farmer’s omelet,” he got out.

  Beatrice knew by then that he wanted something from her; still, the omelet smelled enticing and she decided she’d deal with whatever it was as it came up

  Warren retrieved an egg carton from the refrigerator, and she stood by as he removed a brown shape and cracked it, plop, into a mixing bowl where others waited to be whipped. On the stove in the big Teflon pan was a faintly crackling mix of potatoes, bacon, onions, green pepper, and she said—knowing it may have been the most wifely remark she had offered to him in years—“Anything I can do?”

  “Toast?”

  Well, her one dietary temptation of the month—not really a rationalization, she thought as she proceeded to make toast and he poured the mix into the pan. Bending away, he coughed again into his fist, but got it under control and resumed his task. “Something we need to talk about,” he said.

  Well, of course, she thought, but determined not to submit to what she imagined he had in mind, she said, “Do we have to right now? I’m exhausted. Can we put it off for tonight?” He seemed not to respond, and they continued seasoning, buttering, carrying plates to the sunroom breakfast table. “I mean, I’m not surprised you want to talk; I figured you did, but it’s been a terribly long day—I wouldn’t be very good at it right now. How are you feeling?”

  He nodded, made an expression. “Maybe it’s better we don’t do it here anyway. But soon, it’ll have to be soon.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Well, something I need to tell you, and a favor I want to ask—but they can wait until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? I don’t know about that—I hope you’re not serious. I’ll be tied up tomorrow, all day long.”

  “Well—has to be. I won’t need much time. No later than tomorrow.”

  She took a bite, tried to sort through tomorrow in her mind, tried to sort through what was happening. “When tomorrow? We’re getting into an important new account, and I’m really pressed. I understand this is important, or you wouldn’t be saying this,” she added. “But when, and for how long?”

  “Not long,” Warren said. “What I’d like is to meet you in a public place, like a coffee shop. Have a cup of coffee. That’s all. Coffee and a few words. Or your office, though I know you don’t like having me there. Thirty minutes is all, the time of a cup of coffee. Anytime.”

  Beatrice sighed. “Where is it you’re inviting me exactly?”

  “Some place where you’ll hear me out. I try to tell you here, you’ll close yourself into your room, we both know that.” Once again, suppressing his cough, Warren tried to smile.

  “Is it that bad—what are you saying?”

  “A small favor,” he said and coughed. “Won’t cost you a thing.”

  “You’re losing me here.”

  “It’s news, something I have to tell you.”

  “About being sick?”

  “Let me say at the time. That’s what I’d like to do. I need to think it out, and I have a couple things yet to do, tomorrow. I just want to ask a small favor of you, that’s all.”

  “Warren, I’m tired—but I’ll hear you out right now if you like.”

  “Tomorrow would be better. I have to sort out what I want to say.”

  “What I’m saying is that I don’t know about tomorrow. We’re busy with this new account; it’s extremely important, the biggest thing we’ve ever done, and I won’t have time to slip away for thirty minutes, which always means an hour. I just won’t have time for that.”

  “It’s just a small favor. Thirty minutes, that’s all.”

  “What’s the subject? Is it your sickness?”

  “I want to tell you when I tell you.”

  “You fixed this meal to paint me into a corner, didn’t you?” she said, trying to appear amused. “I guess it worked. Nearly worked.”

  “Lost my appetite long ago,” Warren got out and, as if she were a stranger, tried once more to send a relic of a smile her way. “It’s nothing you’ll mind hearing,” he said. “Just a small favor. Sort of a peace pipe is what it is.”

  The pathetic man, Beatrice said to herself as she retreated upstairs. His life had been a misery, and the blame fell squarely on her, there was no getting away from it. She had thought hundreds of times how happy he could have been with any other woman, and how easy it would have been, twenty-five years ago, to have cut him loose. Of course it wouldn’t have been easy for Virgil, and that was the nub that Warren had never put together: A key female aide, divorced (and involved with her boss), could have destroyed Virgil politically if word had gotten out. Warren had to be tolerated for appearances, a circumstance of which he appeared to remain endlessly unaware. At the same time it weighed on her conscience and made her cringe every time she thought of it. Complimented for niceness, liveliness—often for loyalty, though to her boss—her guilt thrived within. The worst part was using Warren for cover down through the years while knowing it was a form of tortu
re. He had spent his life thrashing, neither dead nor alive; she had spent hers looking the other way.

  Now Marian was having problems in her young marriage, and Beatrice thought that no matter the Church or any temporary inconvenience, she’d support divorce all the way. Nothing, unless it was something as substantial as her own store, would be worth the guilt and unhappiness that surfaced everyday. Getting ready for bed, she recalled a time last winter when she had suffered yet another nightmare over Warren—one that clung to her throughout an entire day—and how she had tried, inviting Marian for a late bite to eat, to confess to her the dilemma with which she had lived most of her life. Who else than your best friend to whom to bare your stricken soul?

  Her confession took a surprising turn, however, as Marian came up less than sympathetic. Dry snow was blowing, and on an invitation to join her after work, Beatrice led her to one of the high-walled booths at Cafe Balderacchi in Portsmouth where, speaking of Warren, she soon confessed that she feared she was torturing him, that he appeared to be suffering mental anguish, that she herself had been losing sleep over it. To her surprise, Marian did not argue to the contrary, did not say her father’s problems had been of his own making, as Beatrice had anticipated, but said, “I’m sure it has been torture for him, especially with the store catching on as it has.”

  Vaguely hurt, Beatrice took a moment. “You think I have tortured him?”

  Marian made an expression more yes than no.

  “I guess it’s true,” Beatrice said at last.

  “He’s had his lobstering business,” Marian offered.

  “I’ve damaged him, I know I have. I’ve never wanted to admit it to myself.”

  “Mother, he’s had a life,” Marian said.

  “I’d give anything to believe that was true—I know it isn’t.”

  After a moment Marian said, “No one ever made him do anything he didn’t want to.”

  “What I wouldn’t give to believe that,” Beatrice said.

  Warren

  In his bedroom down the hall he had turned on the TV and was sitting in a chair, gazing more within than without. Having a meal with Beatrice was unheard of and his hopes felt up for the favor he wanted to ask: that they forgo their terrible past, that she and Virgil shake hands with him and agree that life hadn’t turned out to be what any of them had thought it would be, and fare thee well… that he might lie back in peace, watching the World Series and sinking into eternity.

  Otherwise Warren had little idea of what to expect in the coming days. He knew only that he was failing fast and had no wish to lose his place next to his wife in the hereafter. However long it might take to occur, he hoped ultimately to be with her along the expanse that lay ahead. If he was trying to put anything over on her, it was only to gain the peace of mind that forgiveness might bring, to avoid alienating himself on the infinite journey ahead.

  Sitting with her at the table had been pleasant if bittersweet. They had done things together on occasion—not unlike other couples—but Warren had to strain to recall the last occasion: a town meeting several years ago to hear an appeal for variance to convert property near the town green to commercial parking. Married property owners each had a vote—as they had been reminded in a campaign of calls and fliers—and he and Beatrice joined other residents to hear the debate and to voice yea or nay. The parking scheme was objectionable even to independent fishermen—larger devaluation of the town devalued everything—and being rallied to a common cause had afforded them the occasion of doing something together. Then the meeting itself turned into a surprising if modest celebration: greeting lifelong acquaintances, climbing onto bleacher seats, seeing who had aged, who had prospered. They looked like any other Kittery couple, Warren thought, until the vote was taken, and it was time to make their way outside. Beatrice, popular as always, was signaled by smiles and words all along, as he trailed a few steps behind, though he also smiled once or twice, fooling himself that all was well and life had yet to make its irreversible turn. But as they exited the building, she turned with her keys—they’d come in her car—and asked if he minded driving home; she needed to talk mall business with Grant and Karina and would have them drop her off.

  Warren’s heart sank, but he could only say he didn’t mind. Why should he—hadn’t their evening out been merely an accident? But as she left, engaged in ongoing chatter along the path of a summer night, an image of their life from beginning to end gripped him, and he had to pause in shadows to steel himself against raging into madness. He wanted not to be alive, wanted to hurt her, and his impulse that forlorn night was to drive home, attach a hose to her car’s exhaust, and leave his remains in the driveway to be found by her on her return. As it ended up, he drank himself into a stupor, and when he awakened at the kitchen table she was already home and locked in her room upstairs.

  Lapsed Catholic or not—neglectful more than expired—Warren’s growing belief was that the world would go on forever and would somehow take him along. He had been searching his beliefs here in adulthood: if one were not lost into oblivion—the fate of suicides, mortal sinners, nonbelievers—might there not be a hereafter, perhaps in a form of one’s mind continuing to exist? In time, other minds would join that greater sea of consciousness sailing through eternity, and Beatrice would arrive and fall in beside him. His self-loathing over his failures with her, over having worked as a lackey for her boss and lover, would be as nothing in that ultimate universe. They would sail on as husband and wife, in the eyes of their Creator and beyond flesh and aging. All they had been taught as children would prove to be so, and they would be as children once more and throughout all time.

  The vision encouraged Warren’s damaged heart, at the same time that it raised a hollow feeling in his throat. It had come to this. He was gaining faith in faith, while craving death, he knew, as one craves a fatal storm gathering on the horizon. Take me unto Thee, he thought. Oh Lord, let me be free in Thee at last.

  Warren was not a reader or writer of letters, but he had a notion to write a note indicating his condition, to leave it for her to find in the morning after he had left the house—to prepare her and remind her that he would be calling to arrange a time to meet. Thus did he return downstairs, to use stationery they kept in a cupboard there:

  Dear Beatrice,

  This is to let you know that my days are numbered. Call Dr. Dawson if you want to. He did X-ray, biopsy, and so forth. He said it is oat cell cancer, which explains the cough. He can’t say how much time is left, but it could be days which is why I need to talk to you right away. What I’d like is to have us make up. I want that more than anything. I don’t mean in every way, only as friends so I can know some peace at last. I’ve been your husband all these years. I want you to be happy. I want Virgil and Marian to be happy. I won’t ask for anything more.

  Love,

  Warren

  TWO

  Beatrice

  At daybreak she heard Warren’s truck drive away and experienced the relief she felt every time he left the house. During the night she had thought about his wanting to talk and had grown increasingly suspicious. The news had to be his health—more than thin, he looked frail—at the same time she couldn’t help sensing he was trying to manipulate her. Meeting in a “public place” felt ominous to her. True, she had occasionally retreated to her room, but did he really think she would not sit through his “news”? A public place? It sounded like those awful crime stories they report on TV.

  Above all she felt burdened with guilt and responsibility. He remained her husband, and if it were up to her, she’d have him live a hundred years, and in good health. He had been the one to suffer, after all, and the last thing she wanted was to see him suffer more.

  Brushing and washing in her bathroom, rubbing in lotions, she recalled the time when he was too sick with pneumonia to go to work, and she felt obligated, as his wife, to care for him. To his credit he tried to make her task as minimal as possible. She was running Virgil’s district offi
ce at the time and though she could take time off, Warren knew she didn’t really want to and—when she had been home an hour past her usual departure time and had ordered medicine by phone—he asked her to please leave and let him take care of himself.

  In time he told her she was making him feel worse and insisted she leave. He said he couldn’t stand the idea of her resenting waiting on him. For her part, she said she wouldn’t do it if she resented it, and when he told her to please go, she paused awhile longer, fixed him soup, and drove to Laverdiere’s for the medicine. It was a curious experience for her, driving away, as she recalled the strength about him that had appealed to her years earlier, and why they had married. It was the same mix of guilt with which she had lived throughout her first decade or so of being with Virgil: knowing in her heart that she and Warren could have built a life together. They would have had more children and—who knew? In time he might have been running half a dozen boats, making good money, and she’d have been at the center of life on shore as a topliner’s wife and business manager. A solid citizen in town. From the vantage point of how things had gone, the thought was bittersweet, because she knew it could have happened had she given it her best. Warren was not bad at heart, and they would have been happy with their clambakes, cookouts, children, and community life. They would have succeeded, because she would have made it happen; it had been her dream in the first place, when she selected shy, gangly Warren as her husband, back in eleventh grade, when she had bought into the idea of being a good woman behind a successful man. How astonishing that she had ended up as the other woman in a powerful politician’s life. How strange the turns of fate. She guessed there were scores of women like herself out there, companions of attractive, influential men, but she didn’t think it was a career any of them had studied for or anticipated. Though they could have; the role wasn’t that unusual.