My sister and the rest of the clan had deserted the camp to visit a nearby Aquapark, so I arrived on Watchic Pond and sat outside under the pines. My grandfather and his friends had dammed a stream to create the pond back in the 1920s. It always seemed part of my life. Two years ago my brother and I had drifted down the Saco River rapids. It had been a happy day. We all loved Maine.
The next-door neighbor, Cary Kimball, shouted out his greetings. His wife waved for me to join them on the dock for a glass of wine. As much as I wanted to be alone, I needed company too.
They had lost his brother only two weeks ago. My brother, Michael, died less than five days ago. We spoke of the dearly departed wishing they were with us. None of us spoke of heaven or hell or said God moves in strange ways. Life had been shucked from our brothers. This shared existence without them was an unwanted communion and we raised our glasses to their lives.
Cary’s a pyschiatrist at Maine Medical in Portland. I told how my parents had brought to the Catholic Dioscian shrink to fathom my avowed atheism and that was the only other time I submited to having a mental examination was in kindergarten to divine whether my speech defects were from a diminished brain.
“I bet they used the word ‘retarded’.”
“They might have.”
“You seem fine now and I know crazy.”
“Postal workers.”
“Lots of them.”
“They go crazy having to deliver flyers people throw away. No love letters, no postcards. A meaningless job.”
“I wish that was the case, but people have mental issues, because they have life and they aren’t unaware of their psychosises until it’s too late. I deal with a lot of veterans from the Viet-Nam and now an increasing number from the Iraq War. Going postal is an exxageration.”
“Especially since we’re all mad.”
“More or less. I have this vet working at the SD Warren Paper Mill.”
“I know it well.” My grandmother had lived down the street. Its sulphur stench smelled of home to me an anyone living within ten miles of the mill on the Presumpscot River.
“He was dealing with his horrors with drink. One night coming home on a motorcycle from THE TOP OF THE HILL.” The local bar on 25. “He rearended a moose. Superman Ned it?s ass.Their fur is stiff as a brush and wiped off his skin.”
In 1990 I had front-ended a pickup north of Chiang Mai. I had been driving a 125 cc MTX. The impact had killed me instantly.
“Let me guess. He didn’t stop drinking.” I had no intention of getting sober. I was still in mourning for Micheal.
“He’s trying.”
“Good for him.” I held out my glass.
He filled it to the brim.