Harbor Lights

by Theodore Weesner

  Cup of coffee in hand, she found Warren’s note on the sunroom table. Oat cell cancer. Dear God, she thought as she read it, though it wasn’t really a surprise. His words filled her heart and eyes, but she knew—also in her heart—that his news wasn’t entirely bad, that she was going to be free of the burden of him at last. He would know peace, too, and even as she would have her guilt to manage, she would finally have a life all her own to plan and manage. She had only to survive the coming weeks, an uncertain season, and help him as best she could, though she knew he’d insist on doing everything his own way.

  Warren

  Another day. He savored it like a dollar to spend in childhood. How surprising it was to appreciate something as ordinary as the song his tires sang crossing the bridge into Portsmouth. That and the music of foghorns and shrieking gulls, the bell of the old bridge rising on the half hour to admit a freighter or high-masted sailboat. Life’s dime-a-dozen pleasures, now that the sale was ending.

  He did not go to the Lady Bee, though he felt the pull at the intersection where he always turned in the direction of Narrow Cove. She would stand at anchor until someone took her over, and even then her days of outlasting rough seas were hardly better than his own. Over Memorial Bridge, at the waterfront diner facing the harbor, opposite the naval shipyard, he sat at the counter as always and knew that a fuse was burning within, knew yet again that he had to win in this final test of wills with Beatrice. After their first years of marriage, when things had gone bad, he had lost every issue to come up between them. He knew that his need to have his way was making him frantic—he recalled his youthful desire to win—and urged himself to call up any possible expedience or guile. For once in your life make something work with her, he kept telling himself. Impress her with your perseverance.

  The challenge: to remain above her disdain and allow her to be the openhearted person he knew her to be, if only long enough to hear his appeal. Hadn’t he glimpsed her good side last night, sitting at the table? There were reasons she was well-liked, reasons Virgil was entangled with her. She was smart, generous, energetic. She had always been pretty. And sexy. And wasn’t her resenting him but an outgrowth of the guilt his presence had to make her feel? He believed it was. The only time he had deserved her wrath was when he forced the blood test on their daughter, to confirm once and for all that she, too, did not belong to that squid of a politician who counted so much else of York County among his holdings.

  In time—when she would have read his note and left for the store—he’d call and ask to meet for coffee as soon as possible and wherever she liked. Then—as he was still sorting it out in his mind—he’d tell the truth, that he was sorry their life had turned out as it had, was sorry for his part, that there was nothing to do about it now, and say that all he wanted was to shake hands and say “Farewell, I’ll see you on the other side.”

  He would not reveal his wish that they lay next to each other throughout eternity. At the same time, spiritual existence was becoming his belief, if it came from long-ago catechism or not. Ultimate companionship. Year after year, shoulder to shoulder, remaining together as husband and wife. Virgil would be elsewhere with his own wife, and in a generation or two, no one would connect their names ever again. It was Warren’s final dream: sailing through time, a pair that had become one in marriage and, though severely tested, had never been put asunder. After all, they were husband and wife.

  Rockabilly was playing, cigarette smoke joined an indoor cloud of bacon and home fries, and his cough—as, inexplicably, it did now and then—had fled (but for the sandpaper of cancer draping his esophagus like a colony of bats). He had no appetite for anything but coffee, and wondered why he should find hope in a butt-littered, waterfront diner never visited by the likes of Beatrice or Virgil Pound. But wasn’t it the way of Jesus, in stories from the Bible? For God so loved the world… Warren’s faith felt all the more real, and he sensed his mother, on high, being pleased.

  Was this heavenly diner a place to which to invite Beatrice—if she could find a place to park among the pickups, motorcycles, and clunkers lined up outside? No, there was no way she’d come here, and the last thing she’d do, should he offer, would be to ride in his pickup—though there had been a time when nothing had thrilled her more. What a sad mix they had turned out to be. Why hadn’t someone intercepted them in high school and given them the word?

  Well, because they wouldn’t have listened, Warren thought.

  And if he had failed to grow, had been possessive as she had charged, or if the problem was her abandoning ship, he wasn’t sure. Maybe they had just pulled in opposite directions. All he knew with certainty was that they had joined as one, had remained under the same roof, and that his resentment was gone now and he longed to offer forgiveness—to know peace and be together with her in the hereafter. The alternative was oblivion—an ache of never-ending aloneness. It was an ache life had taught him so well he wanted to be free of it at any cost. Nothing had ever hurt him as thoroughly as had aloneness.

  At the house, climbing from his truck next to where her car had been parked—a space as haunting as other things about her he’d been unable to touch or hold—he wondered if she might surprise him with a note, or a message on the answering machine. Not likely, he thought, as he entered the house through the sliding glass door. He had said he’d call her, and in spite of the sickness he had confessed in his letter, wouldn’t she assume he’d gone to work and would call her from the Co-op?

  So it was: no surprising note or blinking red light. The old hollow disappointment. But then why would she accommodate him now when she had never done so before? And even if she were pained over his being under attack by that fastest multiplying of carcinogenic barracudas—wouldn’t she be happy to be getting rid of him at last? He didn’t blame her. Who wouldn’t sense relief at the departure of a burdensome mate? Someone you had betrayed and over whom you suffered guilt? No, he understood and did not blame her.

  Still, feeling as anxious as a boy calling a girl for a date, he dialed Maine Authentic. He’d clean up and shave and meet her wherever she cared to meet. “It’s her husband,” he said to the woman who answered, and when Beatrice came on, he said, “It’s me, calling to set up a time and place.”

  “Warren, I was so sorry when I read your note. I can’t tell you—it makes me feel awful. I’m happy you called.”

  “Well, there it is. There’s nothing to be done about it.”

  “There’s no treatment?”

  “Nothing that would do any good.”

  “Is that what Dr. Dawson said?”

  “I could get treatment, but he didn’t say it would do any good. It just makes you miserable for a longer time. It’s too far gone.”

  Upon a pause, she said, “You’re at the Co-op?”

  “I’m at home. What I’d like is to meet you, say for a cup of coffee. Anywhere. I won’t bother you again after that. Just twenty or thirty minutes—it won’t have to take an hour.”

  “Warren, how long have you known? You sure there’s nothing that can be done?”

  “I’ve known awhile, I guess, a few weeks. I knew, but I didn’t know.”

  “You could have done something—is that what you’re saying?”

  “Just chemicals, get some more days is all. To what purpose? I’d rather have my wits about me for what time I have. I’d rather talk to you for half an hour—I’d like that more than a month being full of chemicals and feeling awful.”

  “Warren—how can you know how many days you’d get from treatment? I don’t understand that.”

  “Please, let me do this my way. You go through phases—which is what I’ve been doing. My whole life, with you, has been going through phases. This is the last one. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you feel like you do. I am sorry.”

  “All I want is to meet with you and ask a small favor. That’s all. Bring Virgil, if you want to. I just want to ask a small favor, of both of you, then I’d
like to settle in and watch the World Series. That’s all I’m asking, nothing more.”

  “Well, what else did the doctor say?”

  “If you mean how long—he said he can’t say. He said it could be weeks, even days, I guess. I’m okay with it; I’m sorting it out.”

  “Warren, God—this is awful.”

  “Well—I guess that’s nice of you to say. Is there a place we can meet—can we do it right away so I can have it done with?”

  “You want to ask a favor?”

  “A small favor—it won’t cost you a thing.”

  “It doesn’t have to do with Marian, does it?”

  “Nothing like that. Just something sentimental.” Warren covered his mouth as he coughed. “A last small request,” he said and coughed.

  “You can’t just say what it is?”

  “Well—what it is, what it is is that you meet with me so I can say it. That’s all. I want to meet with you. One last time.”

  “But what is it—you can’t just tell me?”

  “It would sound foolish if I said it over the phone. What I’d like, is to have a look in your eye and say what I have to say. A small favor—in a public place. Twenty minutes of your time, nothing more.”

  “A public place—what does that mean exactly?”

  “A diner, a coffee shop, that’s all, something like that.”

  “Do you know how that sounds—a public place? It sounds frightening—like something you see on TV or read in the paper.”

  He could sense from her voice that her guard was up, and she wasn’t about to give in. “There’s nothing to worry about. It’s just an expression.”

  “Warren, you know, I’m going to have to think this over. It makes me uncomfortable. I don’t see why you can’t just tell me what it is, so I can tell you how I feel about it to begin with.”

  Warren sensed losing to her yet again, but tried not to show it in his voice. “It’s not a big thing,” he got out, evenly.

  “Warren, I’m sorry you’re sick. I’m sorry your life has gone like it has. But you’re trying to get me to do something I don’t want to do—and it makes me uncomfortable. I just don’t like the sound of meeting in a public place. I don’t know who would.”

  “You name the place. It’s just an expression, good Lord.”

  “You can’t say what it is?”

  “Just to talk for a few minutes. I can’t do it on the phone!”

  Upon another pause she said, “I have to think about this. You’re at home?”

  “I told you I was.”

  “How long will you be there?”

  “You can’t give me fifteen minutes of your time?” His voice cracked with disappointment.

  “Don’t you see how threatening it is to have someone talk like you’re talking? You think about telling me what you want, over the phone—or when I come home, though I’ll be running late tonight. Warren, this isn’t easy—it makes me awfully tense, and I’m extremely busy here. Whatever the circumstances, I can’t just take time off.”

  “You’ll call back?”

  “In a while! I have to think about this. Warren, I’m sorry you’re sick, but it’s like you’re trying to rake me over the coals! I can’t let you do that, I’m sorry.”

  The dial tone came before Warren could ask if she wanted him to beg. The hum left him sinking in hopelessness. Was he asking so much? Did she think he was going to grab a knife like that football player? Couldn’t she see that he only wanted to get through to her, to them, for a moment, to take a measure of hope and peace of mind, a measure of her affection, into whatever lay ahead?

  Marian

  Arriving late, she was aware that a call had come from her father and wasn’t surprised when her mother buzzed the desk and asked her to come to the office. Meeting her and closing the door behind her—that in itself was unusual—her mother avoided eye contact, and Marian was uncertain if she should sit or stand. Something in her mother’s manner reminded Marian of being a schoolgirl and the acrimony between her parents being heartrending in ways she was never able to shed. During all those growing-up years, going to catch the bus from a household in which emotions were so angry left her frightened and anxious over returning home at the end of the day.

  “You don’t have to worry about calling his doctor—your father told me he has terminal lung cancer. He left a note this morning, and he just called.”

  “Oh God, I knew it was something like that,” Marian said.

  “I guess it’s what he wanted. I asked him, but he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  “It’s awful—and I feel responsible. His life’s been horrible, and now this.”

  Marian choked; all she could get out was, “He said he wanted to be a grandfather.”

  “Well, I always hoped he might find some happiness in his life,” her mother said. “It never happened.” She was teary-eyed, too, and they more or less embraced. “‘No family.’ What he wants is to make us feel bad.”

  “Did he say how long?”

  “He said the doctor said weeks, maybe days—I guess it’s a fast-growing cancer.” Then her mother said, “He’s all worked up about a favor he wants to ask me, only he won’t say what it is—unless I meet him in a public place.”

  “Unless you do what—what does that mean?”

  “It sounds threatening to me—does it to you?”

  “You mean like in a park or something?”

  “No, a coffee shop, or a diner, is what he said. He told me to invite Virgil, said he wanted to speak to both of us.”

  “Don’t do it, is what I’d say. It sounds strange; I don’t like the sound of that. He wasn’t like that when I talked to him.”

  “It does sound strange—that’s what I keep thinking.”

  “Have you told Virgil?”

  “I will. It’s all just happened. He left the note this morning, and I just got off the phone from talking to him.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t be meeting him in a public place. That’s what I’d say. And he won’t do treatment—he said that?”

  “He won’t have anything to do with it—wants to get back at me, I’m sure.”

  They stood sniffling, shaking their heads, using Kleenex.

  “I’m surprised he went to a doctor at all,” Beatrice said, and added, “I don’t mind granting him a favor, but I don’t see why he can’t tell me what the subject is over the phone.”

  “It’s hard to know what he might be thinking.”

  “I’ve treated him so badly. That’s what’s awful for me. I couldn’t have treated him more badly.”

  “Mother, don’t say that.”

  “I could have cut him loose a long time ago. He’d have been a lot happier.”

  “You can’t live your life over again—you’re the one always saying that.”

  “The problem is, I knew what to do, and so did Virgil—only we didn’t do it. Virgil’s career would have been threatened, and we never wanted to face it.”

  Her mother embraced her again, wept into her hair: “You’re the one I’ve loved. You’re the best friend a person could have. I mean that. You’re the one I’ve worked for.”

  Marian returned to the floor, but twenty minutes later was back in the office to be with her mother. “I feel like I should do something, but I don’t know what to do,” she said. “I can’t just go back to work.”

  “If I had it to do over again, I’d never get married,” her mother said. “I’d have you as my daughter, but I wouldn’t be getting married.”

  “You don’t mean that—but I do,” Marian said and they laughed some in their gasping and sniffling.

  “All I’ve ever wanted was to leave something nice for you,” Beatrice said. “That’s all I’ve wanted. For my daughter, and my grandchildren. I’m sure I’d feel the same if I’d had a son. Virgil has meant the world to me, and there was a time, believe it or not, when I was crazy about your father. But what became important to me was to leave something nice for you. That’s what I�
��ve worked for. Every time I’ve worked late, or done something hard, I’ve told myself I was doing it for you and your children—not that you have to feel obligated, because you don’t.”

  Marian stood there teary-eyed, and Beatrice came up with more tissues with which to press and daub. Knowing all along that one of them should be on the floor, Marian soon dropped hers in the waste basket and said, “I’ll get back,” and added, “Mom, I love you.”

  “Honey, I love you so much,” her mother said and hugged her again. “I’ll talk to your father—and see if there’s anything we can do. But I don’t think I’ll be meeting him.”

  Lori was checking out a young guy while a crowd of customers waited, and, moving into place at the other end of the counter, Marian nodded to say she was open. At the same time she could not get her father out of her mind. Didn’t he need friendship, especially now? She recalled fifth grade, when sharp words had intensified at home—stabbing into many nights over several weeks—and the day her father removed her from school and drove her in his pickup to the Maine Medical Center in Portland where, for reasons unknown to her, a needle was slipped into her arm and vials of blood taken. A decade passed before she learned that a paternity test had been performed, which determined she was not the child of her mother’s boss, but of the man identified all along as her father. No one explained anything to her at the time, however, and through seventh and eighth grades—when she spent an abundance of time around him and he was so kind and attentive—had believed the opposite, that the prominent state senator, the man whose picture was often in the paper, was her actual father. The truth was something she came to believe her mother should have clarified to her, even if doing so would have been to confirm what was apparently obvious. Her mother liked to say she was her best friend—who else to clarify something of the kind?