At first I didn’t know what to do with it. I had never had a residence that was actually mine. Everything before this had been apartments, hotel rooms, or temporary officer’s quarters. The first few nights I couldn’t sleep inside. I would go outside to the long dock that extends into the deep blue waters of the lake, bundle myself up in a sleeping bag over a thin foam mattress, and stare up at the stars, listening to the loons getting ready for their long winter trip. The loons don’t necessarily fly south; the ones here go out to the cold Atlantic and float with the waves and currents, not once touching land the entire winter.
As I snuggled in my bag I thought it was a good analogy for what I’d been doing. I had drifted too long. It was time to come back to dry land.
After getting the power and other utilities up and running and moving in the few boxes of stuff that belonged to me, I checked the bulky folder that had accompanied my retirement and pulled out an envelope with a doctor’s name on it. Inside were official papers that directed me to talk to him, and I shrugged and decided it was better than sitting in an empty house getting drunk. I phoned and got an appointment for the next day.
His name was Ron Longley and he worked in Manchester, the state’s largest city and about an hour’s drive south of Lake Marie. His office was in a refurbished brick building along the banks of the Merrimack River. I imagined I could still smell the sweat and toil of the French Canadians who had worked here for so many years in the shoe, textile, and leather mills until their distant cousins in Georgia and Alabama took their jobs away.
I wasn’t too sure what to make of Ron during our first session. He showed me some documents that made him a Department of Defense contractor and gave his current classification level, and then, after signing the usual insurance nonsense, we got down to it. He was about ten years younger than I, with a mustache and not much hair on top. He wore jeans, a light blue shirt, and a tie that looked as if about six tubes of paint had been squirted onto it, and he said, “Well, here we are.”
“That we are,” I said. “And would you believe I’ve already forgotten if you’re a psychologist or a psychiatrist?”
That made for a good laugh. With a casual wave of his hand, he said, “Makes no difference. What would you like to talk about?”
“What should I talk about?”
A shrug, one of many I would eventually see. “Whatever’s on your mind.”
“Really?” I said, not bothering to hide the challenge in my voice. “Try this one on then, doc. I’m wondering what I’m doing here. And another thing I’m wondering about is paperwork. Are you going to be making a report down south on how I do? You working under some deadline, some pressure?”
His hands were on his belly and he smiled. “Nope.”
“Not at all?”
“Not at all,” he said. “If you want to come in here and talk baseball for fifty minutes, that’s fine with me.”
I looked at him and those eyes. Maybe it’s my change of view since retirement, but there was something trustworthy about him. I said, “You know what’s really on my mind?”
“No, but I’d like to know.”
“My new house.” I said. “It’s great. It’s on a big lake and there aren’t any close neighbors, and I can sit on the dock at night and see stars I haven’t seen in a long time. But I’ve been having problems sleeping.”
“Why’s that?” he asked, and I was glad he wasn’t one of those stereotypical head docs, the ones who take a lot of notes.
“Weapons.”
“Weapons?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I miss my weapons.” A deep breath. “Look, you’ve seen my files, you know the places Uncle Sam has sent me and the jobs I’ve done. All those years, I had pistols or rifles or heavy weapons, always at my side, under my bed or in a closet. But when I moved into that house, well, I don’t have them anymore.”
“How does that make you feel?” Even though the question was friendly, I knew it was a real doc question and not a from-the-next-barstool type of question.
I rubbed my hands. “I really feel like I’m changing my ways. But damn it...”
“Yes?”
I smiled. “I sure could use a good night’s sleep.”
As I drove back home, I thought. Hell, it’s only a little white lie.
The fact is, I did have my weapons.
They were locked up in the basement, in strongboxes with heavy combination locks. I couldn’t get to them quickly, but I certainly hadn’t tossed them away.
I hadn’t been lying when I told Ron I couldn’t sleep. That part was entirely true.
I thought, as I drove up the dirt road to my house, scaring a possum that scuttled along the side of the gravel, that the real problem with living in my hew home was so slight that I was embarrassed to bring it up to Ron.
It was the noise.
I was living in a rural paradise, with clean air, clean water, and views of the woods and lake and mountains that almost broke my heart each time I climbed out of bed, stiff with old dreams and old scars. The long days were filled with work and activities I’d never had time for. Cutting old brush and trimming dead branches. Planting annuals. Clearing my tiny beach of leaves and other debris. Filling bird feeders. And during the long evenings on the front porch or on the dock, I tackled thick history books.
But one night after dinner — I surprised myself at how much I enjoyed cooking — I was out on the dock, sitting in a fifties-era web lawn chair, a glass of red wine in my hand and a history of the Apollo space program in my lap. Along the shoreline of Lake Marie, I could see the lights of the cottages and other homes. Every night there were fewer and fewer lights, as more of the summer people boarded up their places and headed back to suburbia.
I was enjoying my wine and the book and the slight breeze, but there was also a distraction: three high-powered speedboats, racing around on the lake and tossing up great spray and noise. They were dragging people along in inner tubes, and it was hard to concentrate on my book. After a while the engines slowed and I was hoping the boats would head back to their docks, but they drifted together and ropes were exchanged, and soon they became a large raft. A couple of grills were set up and there were more hoots and yells, and then a sound system kicked in, with rock music and a heavy bass that echoed among the hills.
It was then too dark to read and I’d lost interest in the wine. I was sitting there, arms folded tight against my chest, trying hard to breathe. The noise got louder and I gave up and retreated into the house, where the heavy thump-thump of the bass followed me in. If I’d had a boat I could have gone out and asked them politely to turn it down, but that would have meant talking with people and putting myself in the way, and I didn’t want to do that.
Instead, I went upstairs to my bedroom and shut the door and windows. Still, that thump-thump shook the beams of the house. I lay down with a pillow wrapped about my head and tried not to think of what was in the basement.
Later that night I got up for a drink of water, and there was still noise and music. I walked out onto the porch and could see movement on the lake and hear laughter. On a tree near the dock was a spotlight that the previous owners had installed and which I had rarely used. I flipped on the switch. Some shouts and shrieks. Two powerboats, tied together, had drifted close to my shore. The light caught a young muscular man with a fierce black mustache standing on the stern of his powerboat and urinating into the lake. His half a dozen companions, male and female, veiled and cursed in my direction. The boats started up and two men and a young woman stumbled to the side of one and dropped their bathing suits, exposing their buttocks. A couple others gave me a one-fingered salute, and there was a shower of bottles and cans tossed over the side as they sped away.