Many people are taking advantage of all this social isolation to devote themselves to a whole host of self improvement projects, yet another unintended consequence of the Coronavirus. I’ve seen the pictures on Facebook and have been quite impressed with the vigor and industry on display. People are baking like never before. Cross-stitching seems to be making a comeback. Attics are being rummaged through, long-delayed yard work is being attacked with pent-up vengeance. It is all so creative and inspiring...so much so that I have determined to renew an old passion of mine as well...
Yes, I have for too long now neglected the menace that is the squirrel population in my back yard. During the winter, I usually cease hostilities due to the fact that there is nothing left for them to destroy. The temporary armistice starts around Christmas and ends around Mother’s Day. But, thanks to COVID-19, I am determined to open my Spring campaign early this year, hopefully catching them napping. Lucky for me, after four months of peace, the little tree rats have gotten extraordinarily cocky and as a result are over confident. My Daisy-35 is fully loaded and I am ready to once again turn my back yard into the squirrel killing fields. On a related topic, I certainly hope that the CDC is exploring what role squirrels may have had in the spread of this virus. Although I have no scientific data to back up this claim, anecdotal evidence is everywhere around us, not the least of which is the very expressions on their little pinched and drawn faces. Nevertheless I will do my part despite the lack of concrete evidence..out of an abundance of caution.
6
It hadn’t taken Jack long to figure out that coming to Maine without Evelyn had been foolish. The place was practically a shrine to her. What was he thinking? It was as if everything he did, every decision he made, revealed itself as perfectly ridiculous in hindsight. But this wisdom never manifested until after he’d executed some ill-advised plan.
Jack sat in his recliner, staring across the lake at nothing, feeling worse than he had in months, when his cell phone rang. Bobby Landry. While ordinarily this intrusion would have provoked an eye roll, Jack found himself answering with surprising eagerness.
“Hey, Bobby. I suppose you want to schedule our ‘state of the cottage’ meeting . . .”
“You read my mind, Mr. Rigsby. How about I come over a little later this morning?”
Jack was about to agree when another oddball plan hatched, fully formed and of questionable origin. He heard himself saying, “Bobby, instead of you coming out here, how about we meet at the Midcoast Café in about an hour?”
“Well, sure Mr. Rigsby . . . but we always meet at the lake so I can show you stuff I’ve done and stuff that needs doing, you know . . .”
“Yes, I’m aware of what we normally do, Bobby, but this year is different. So if you want to have this meeting, I suggest you meet me at Midcoast in an hour.”
“Okay, Mr. Rigsby, you’re the boss.”
“One more thing, Bobby. How long have you been my caretaker? Ten, fifteen years now? Enough with this Mr. Rigsby shit, okay? My name is Jack. I don’t call you Mr. Landry, do I?”
“No, you don’t. That’s a fact.”
“So from now on, I’m Jack. I’ll see you in an hour.”
Jack placed his phone on the coffee table and marveled at the words that had come out of his mouth. He marveled every minute of the twenty-minute drive into Camden, then parked around the corner on a side street by the library and waited for Bobby’s truck to appear. When it did, he briefly entertained the idea of bolting, standing him up, driving back to the lake. But then he found himself walking in the door and hearing the cheerful voice of Emmett Waller—owner of the Midcoast Café, home of the best pancakes in central Maine. Said so right on the sign above the door.
“Well, if it isn’t Jack Rigsby! What in the world are you doing in my place in April, for God’s sake?!”
“Hey, Emmett. I just had to have me some of your pancakes, couldn’t wait another day. You got any country ham?”
Jack spotted Bobby at a table in the back overlooking the bay, acknowledged him with a wave, and listened to Emmett complain about the price of ham or bacon or something. Exchanging a quick smile and a handshake with Emmett, Jack then pulled up a chair next to Bobby, who looked as nervous as he’d ever seen him. In that moment it occurred to Jack that he knew virtually nothing about the man he’d employed for over a decade, other than the superficial exterior stuff he’d picked up from other locals—his Social Security disability dodge, his epic gossiping powers, and his marginal skills with small engines and carpentry. Was he married? Did he have a family? As Jack sat down, he looked closer, saw the nervousness clearly now.
“Bobby, relax. You think I’m going to fire you or something?”
“Well, it had crossed my mind.” Bobby glanced at the front door expectantly. “. . . Ms. Evelyn be joining us?”
“No Bobby. Evelyn is dead.”
It was the first time he had ever spoken the words. For the past seven months, it had been implied. But here he was, in a Café overlooking the Penobscot Bay, speaking those three words for the first time with a virtual stranger. Bobby’s face registered the shock with strained wrinkles and a quivering lower lip.
“Holy shit, Mr. Rigsby . . . what happened?”
“She was murdered by a drug addict while I was buying beef jerky . . . and remember, it’s Jack.”
More wrinkles, more lip quivering. Jack recognized sincerity in Bobby’s tortured face, felt his empathy, and it startled him. Still, he forged on.
“It happened in September. All of us are trying to recover from it, with varying degrees of success.”
Bobby leaned forward and cupped his hands around his coffee mug. “A drug addict, you say? A worthless piece of human scum like that killed your Evelyn? Mr. Rig . . . Jack, I don’t know what to say. Your wife was a beautiful person . . . I hope that punk rots in jail for the rest . . .”
“Nope, afraid not,” Jack interrupted, newly eager to share the story. “The bastard cheated the hangman. The police killed him in a shootout at a roadblock just a few hours after the murder. So, although he is no doubt rotting somewhere at the moment, it’s not in jail.”
Emmett placed three steaming pancakes on the table in front of Jack, along with a small plate stacked with fried country ham. He poured coffee into Jack’s mug, looked at Bobby, and asked, “Sure you don’t need anything to eat, Bobby?”
“I’m good, Emmett.”
Suddenly, Jack discovered that he had an appetite. He looked at the food in front of him and realized he was hungry enough to eat it—all of it—ravenously. He started with the ham, carving off a healthy piece and shoving it in his mouth, overwhelmed at its salty perfection. He hastily spread butter between each pancake, then smothered the stack with maple syrup—the real stuff, not the knockoff Aunt Jemima grocery store stuff. Mid-bite, he glanced up at Bobby and noticed his eyes, wide and brimming with tears. Jack put his fork down and picked up a napkin to wipe the syrup from the corners of his mouth, suddenly embarrassed by his own behavior. Apparently, there was more to Bobby Landry than met the eye.
“I’ve never known anyone . . . never had a friend to get murdered.”
“Me neither, Bobby.”
“How are you holding up?”
Jack had been asked this question a thousand times and had answered each inquiry with something disarming and perfunctory like, “I’m hanging in there,” or the even more meaningless, “about as well as can be expected.” But sitting in the Midcoast Café, looking into the wounded eyes of his caretaker, Jack tried honesty.
“Actually, Bobby, I’ve been going through the motions. Most of the time it feels like I died along with her. Since she’s been gone, I’ve just gotten out of bed each morning and searched for a life to live—a new one, really, because my old life isn’t coming back.”
Jack gathered himself, sipped his coffee, surveyed the ancient, moss-covered rocks surfacing at low tide, watched the birds balancing on the rocks, sunning themselves, teetering in the morning breeze.
“I thought I might come up here early, recapture some magic from her favorite place in the world. But the thing is . . . this was always her favorite place. I had forgotten that part until I got here. That’s the thing, Bobby—I’m not thinking clearly when it comes to Evelyn. Any fool could have told me that coming up here was the worst possible move, since all it would do is remind me that she’s gone. But I didn’t think it through. It seems like I don’t think anything through anymore. So here I am, eating pancakes at Waller’s place in freaking April, having our annual ‘state of the cottage’ meeting at a café ten miles from the cottage. Ha!”
Bobby studied Jack Rigsby as if he were a total stranger. He had no idea who this man was. He preferred the old Jack Rigsby—the guy who held him at arm’s length, who patronized him a little but was fair, even generous. He liked to know where he stood with his owners, hated the ones who tried to act like they were old pals, who pretended to care about him, always asking about the family and whatnot. He never had to worry about that sentimental crap with Jack Rigsby. Jack was strictly business, with a sharp wit and a refreshingly sarcastic attitude. But what was Bobby to make of this new man across the table? He even looked different, his face drawn and colorless, his eyes bigger somehow and fixed on one thing at a time instead of darting all over the place like before. Now, after admitting how lost he felt, he’d attempted a joke? What the hell?
“ . . . So, what’s new with Loon Magic?”
Wait . . . what? Were they supposed to talk about the cottage now? After all of this? Bobby hadn’t even begun to comprehend that someone as sweet and lovely as Evelyn Rigsby had been murdered, and now he was supposed to discuss their leaky faucets?
“Listen, . . . Jack, this is a lot to take in at one time. I don’t even know how to talk about cottage repairs after hearing this terrible news. I . . .”
“It’s okay, Bobby. I understand.”
Jack returned to devouring his breakfast. Bobby, more uncomfortable with each passing minute, desperately sought a way to excuse himself, but his brain didn’t work like Jack Rigsby’s. He wasn’t quick-witted, could never mitigate awkwardness with clever remarks.
“ . . . Looks like you might have to put some new tires on the dock, the old ones have dry rotted.”
“You warned me about those last year, didn’t you?”
“I may have said something about them, yeah. They lasted what, twelve years?”
“Ten years. But if they need to be replaced, then replace them.”
Bobby took another sip of coffee, glanced out the window at the birds. “The kids planning on coming up in July?” It felt easier having this conversation while looking at something else . . . anything else.
“I imagine they will, yes. I haven’t heard from them definitively on the subject, though. What would you do if you were them?”
Bobby felt a strange wave of panic rising in his heart. How to answer such a question? Why was he even asked in the first place?
“Oh, I don’t know . . .” Bobby began cautiously, ready to stop on a dime and deliver a new opinion if his answer distressed this suddenly bizarre man eating pancakes in front of him. “I would think that Liz and Kevin would want be at the lake, especially this year. I imagine it would be comforting, ya know?”
Jack picked up his napkin to wipe his mouth, then emptied his coffee mug. “See . . . that’s what I thought. I thought that exact same thing. I thought that if I came up here and spent some time at the lake, it would be just the ticket to get me over the hump . . . that being up here at that house surrounded by nothing but good memories would do the trick. But you know what I’ve discovered, Bobby?” Jack leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table, and redirected his glare from the birds to his mystified caretaker. “Those good memories don’t belong to me anymore.”
Jack snatched the check from the table, glanced at it, dropped a twenty-dollar bill, then stood and backed away from the table. He reached out to shake Bobby’s hand, muttering something about seeing him again before he left, and then disappeared out the door without looking back. Bobby lowered himself into his chair. He scanned the bay for the birds, but they had flown away.
Bobby sat for the rest of the morning, trying to understand what had just happened. Poor Ms. Evelyn. Bobby had always had a soft spot in his heart for Jack Rigsby’s wife. She was everything that Jack wasn’t . . . kind, big-hearted, and approachable. He remembered the year when it had rained so much in July that one of the skylights in the master bedroom sprang a leak. Bobby had gone out on the first clear day and re-caulked it while the rest of the family was in town for lunch. He’d been surprised to find Evelyn there. She hadn’t felt well or something and decided to stay behind and oversee his work, greeting him with a characteristic smile and immediately offering to fix him something to eat.
“No, I’m good, Ms. Evelyn . . . but I will take a cup of that coffee.”
They spent the better part of the afternoon chatting about everything that came to her mind, which was a lot. As he busied himself with his work, she expressed her adoration for Maine, the lake, and her wonderful house. She asked him all about his life—his family, his health, everything. Bobby remembered how easy it was to answer her questions, how little effort it required to talk with her. After an hour of conversation with Evelyn Rigsby, he would have confessed his deepest, darkest secrets if she’d asked. Then, her voice changed, became melancholy, as she began to talk about her husband.
“I just wish Jack could learn to love this place as much as I do. He bought this place just for me because he loves me, but he doesn’t love it like I do. He just can’t let go of things and relax, you know? His mind is never here—right here in the present. He’s always thinking about what’s next. For Jack, it’s always the next big adventure out there. I guess that’s why he’s been so successful. He’s really quite driven, my Jack.”
Bobby had been astonished at her honesty, but it wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable to hear. She was just discussing what she cared about . . . with a caretaker she hardly knew. When he had finished up, she walked him to his truck.
Suddenly, the last thing she’d said to him that day resurfaced in his memory: You know, I’ve always said that I hope Jack dies first, because if I die first, he would be a disaster without me. Ha!
Bobby left a couple dollars on the table, glanced out at the bay one more time. The tide was coming back in. The rocks had disappeared under the sea.
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