Free That Good Night by Richard Probert Page A

go it alone.
    Bob and I checked into the Annapolis Marriot Waterfront. Our entrance into this grand and luxurious hotel dressed as we were with Bob carrying a grubby gym bag and I with an army duffle slung over my shoulder caused a few stares. Even so, the staff was courteous and very helpful. Not having a credit card, I was asked for a fifty-dollar-a-day deposit for any charges I might incur. “How long will you be staying,” the desk clerk asked. I told him that I was uncertain, maybe a few days. I’d let him know tomorrow. I handed over two fifty dollar bills.
    Over dinner of tenderloin steaks finished with a demi-glace sauce, I tried to convince Bob to join me, maybe sell the truck and head out to sea, but he declined. He was hell-bent to get back to Maine as if his damn island would float away if he wasn’t there to keep it anchored.
    â€œIt’s summer,” he told me. “Time to get my wood in, else it’ll be a damn cold winter.” I countered that there’s no cold winter in the Caribbean, but he didn’t buy it.
    â€œA cold, snowy day reminds us how lucky it is to be alive,” he said. I looked at him like he was nuts.

SATURDAY, JUNE 30
    The bedside alarm jangled me awake at 2:30 a.m.
    â€œGo back to sleep,” Bob said. “I’m off. Going to beat the traffic.” The last words I heard were “Good luck.” Bob was gone—terse goodbyes were another hallmark of Maine Man. I heard the door click shut but wasn’t sure whether I was awake or dreaming. Bob said nothing about leaving this early before we went to bed. But that’s the kind of thing Bob did. I had been dreaming about walking on a path I couldn’t see or feel. I was lost, alone and there was no sound except the squishing of rubber clogs scuffling along a terrazzo tiled floor. Bob’s interruption had me sweating. Where the hell was I?
    I lay awake and listened. I wanted to be certain that squeaky clogs or moans, or wheezes, or the hum of fluorescents, or other dreadful sounds of Sunset were residual, not reality. Do freed prisoners have echoes like this? I couldn’t say, only guess that they did. Surely, I wasn’t afflicted with PTSD. No, not that at all. It was more like needing to be sure I was where I was. I reached over to the other side of the bed. Feeling the rough canvass of my duffle bag gave me assurance that I was who I was and where I ought to be. Comforted, I fell back to sleep.
    Earlier when I had flashed my passport to the Marriott receptionist, it struck me that my identity had to be proven. It felt good. At Sunset, no one asked for a credit card, or a driver’slicense, or anything else to prove that I was really me. I was a stranger to no one. There was never a reason to prove to anyone that I was who I said I was. Sometimes I felt like I was already dead. No one knew my history. During my first few weeks at Sunset, I must have told people who I was a hundred times over. I soon realized that it did no good. What really counts is people knowing who you are, not needing to be told who you are. And at Sunset, people just didn’t know each other. There simply was no history to any of us. New patients would often be seen clutching a purse or having a back pocket bulge with a wallet. They were ready to show their identity. But no one ever asked, and in time the wallets and purses were left in dresser drawers. That’s where I left mine. I never thought I would need it. How wonderful it is that now I do. The irony is, since I’m a missing person who wants to keep it that way, hiding my identity is important. I can’t just walk into a bank and deposit my money. I have no idea about registering the boat. If I get sick or need help, my cover would be blown. Even so, the suspense of the possibility of being discovered is far better than living in limbo.
    When I was running the machine works, I’d escape the tensions of managing the business by