Free That Good Night by Richard Probert

all about it.”
    Laughing harder than I had in years, I exclaimed, “You’ve got to be kidding!”
    â€œNo man. I’m telling it like it is. Anyway, Kingdom is fine. Like, it’s not like you made America’s Most Wanted. Anyway, tell the Maine Man I said peace. I’m off to a skateboarding rally. Happy day. And good luck.” Cat clicked off. After telling Bob about Cat’s phone call, I sat in gloom. Why in the world would my firstborn’s first reaction to my missing be to sue the nursing home? Why not mount a campaign to find me? Both Lori and I grew up with extended families where grandmas and grandpas and uncles and cousins were within an easy Sunday’s drive. Back then extended families were the norm. You were born, raised by a tribe of relatives, nurtured into old age by loved ones and buried in the family plot. I remember my grandparents dying: first Grandma, then Grandpa. No nursing home for them. They died at home, both in their late seventies. We were all there. Grandkids, aunts, uncles, cousins. Right there when they died. My parents got the same treatment, though there were far fewer family members around. Then our generation came along. As we got old, extended families were pretty much a thing of the past. The new way is to hire out, let somebody else deal with the old.
    Bob’s sudden braking of the truck kicked me out of my dark thoughts.
    â€œSquirreled,” Bob said. “Better than a moose, wouldn’t you say?” Bob laughed. “So where have you been for the last half-hour?”
    â€œYour kids,” I said. “Do you ever see them?”
    â€œAll the time. They come out to the island near the end ofevery month. When their bills are due.” He continued, “Maybe that’s not fair. They try. My youngest boy works two jobs. He works his ass off. But with three kids and a wife with MS, he’s strapped. Writing a check to him is an investment. The other kids don’t need the money, but by God, giving it to one seems to empower the others to demand the same. But, I don’t give it to them. The louder they holler, the less I listen. What about yours?”
    Sparing Bob the details, I just told him that my kids are ingrates and I’ve pretty much written them off.
    Nearing Baltimore, Bob’s driving became more and more defensive. His white knuckled fingers gripped the steering wheel like he was just waiting for screeching tires and the crunching sound of metal. Seldom did he exceed fifty miles an hour. Traffic blew by, horns blaring, middle fingers stabbing the air. This was no place for a Maine Islander. As we neared Annapolis, Bob gave me the word: “I have to get back,” he said quietly.
    â€œHow about we make the last pick-up, find a place to stay, and you can be on your way tomorrow morning,” I offered. Bob nodded his assent. Visiting The United Bank of Maryland completed my pick-ups. I was surprised at how much I had hidden away. I guess it was time to get it back into the economy. I can tell you, I was damned nervous about having all this cash with no safe place to put it.
    Bob and I had talked earlier about my plans to buy a sailboat and head off into the unknown. He wasn’t convinced that at eighty-four I would be strong enough to single-hand a boat. I wasn’t so sure myself. Whatever stress and strain might be in the offing though, sailing into the sunset was far better than dying in Sunset. We discussed hiring crew—there were a lot of young people wanting sea time. I wasn’t averse to the idea. It might befun; having some young people around is always a good thing for an old man. But, then again, it scared me to think of myself as an observer. I’d go to bed early, lie in the stateroom, and listen to youth out in the cabin having a good time. I feared being on the outside looking in, peering under the tent rather than being ringside. I didn’t want that. I’d rather