Last Light

by Vanessa Blakeslee

Three days before Columbus Day weekend, the Aurora borealis was predicted to shine over New England with the best chances for clear night skies over coastal Maine, and the elderly father insisted that his sons drive him to see the phenomenon. He and their mother had always yearned to see the Northern Lights but had missed their chance, now that she had passed away in August. A trip to see the Northern Lights was something he wanted to do on what would have been their anniversary weekend, his first as a widower, to honor her memory.

“He wants to go where?” the younger son said over the phone to his older brother, who had made the call.

“Maine. Acadia National Park, specifically,” his brother replied.

“That’s a good five, six hours from you. A lot longer for me, from Brooklyn. What the hell? Why does it have to be there?”

“Because that’s where he and Mom spent their honeymoon, remember? They went back every ten years or so, I think.”

“I don’t. They never took us, remember?”

“Well, it was their special place.”

“Can’t someone else take him?”

“No, he wants us. Both of us. It’s important to him. Just come on.”

A beat or two of silence passed, some scuffling on the younger brother’s end of the phone before he said, “You realize this weekend is Columbus Day, right? Acadia’s going to be a madhouse. Hotels’ll be booked out for miles.”

“Already got one—Colonial Inn, Ellsworth. Come on. We haven’t hung out since Mom’s memorial.”

“I’ve got things to do here. Saturday night—”

“What things? Parties?”

“They’re not just parties, they’re networking events.”

“Oh, please. They’re the same old parties you’ve been going to for years. Will you get on the train up here tomorrow? You’re not leaving me to do this alone.”

“Fine, but I’m only doing this for you, not him. What time?”

His older brother told him to be in Massachusetts by Thursday morning and hung up.

*

A day and a half later, the older son gripped his car wheel, their elderly father beside him in the passenger seat, smartly dressed in a pressed button-down shirt and pants, his woolen beret, well-worn, snugly tilted above his silver brows badly in need of a trim. His brows remained the only part of him that appeared untidy; the woodsy yet slightly floral odor of his cologne, long familiar, filled the car. Behind them sat the younger son with his knees perched higher than his thighs, grimacing in the sedan’s cramped backseat. They drove along in silence. The father peered at the sky and said, “Last night was clear up here, they said—full Aurora borealis just like they see in Alaska. Just spectacular. Let’s hope we’re as fortunate tonight.”

“Looks like clouds rolling in to me,” the younger son said, and frowned.

“No point in worrying,” the older son cut in. “We’re almost there now.”

As the sun dropped late in the day, the leaves of the passing trees—orange, yellow, and red in their swirling brilliance—cast shadows onto the old man as the car sped up the highway. “Not much farther now,” he said quietly, “if I don’t still know every turn.”

“When’s the last time you came up here?” the older son asked. “You and Mom?”

“Oh, nine, ten years ago. Just before the drive got to be too much for my eyes.” He dug inside his inside jacket pocket and removed a park map, crinkled but still intact, and rested it on his knee. “Before she got sick.”

“How about you?” the younger son asked his brother from the backseat. “Ever visit Acadia when you were married?”

“No,” his older brother replied. Their eyes met in the rearview mirror, a brief, firm stare. “We always went where she wanted to go, and she never brought it up.” He shrugged, adjusted his grip on the wheel. “Who knows, maybe she went there with the other guy. One of their little weekend escapes.”

“I’m sorry, son,” their father said. He cleared his throat. “You’ll find another good woman. Give it time.”

“Well, right now, that’s the last thing on my mind, Dad.” They’d taken the exit and now sped past the outskirts of Ellsworth, past the first roadside lobster stand. Steam arose from the large outdoor cooking pots and billowed sideways in the gusts of wind; above, the banner which read, FRESH MAINE LOBSTER ROLLS rippled. The aproned man who worked over the pots waved as they sped past.

“Pull over, I’m hungry,” the father abruptly said.

“But we’re almost at the hotel—” the younger son began.

“Nonsense, let’s eat.” They turned around. Even before his eldest son could shut off the engine, their father opened the door. The older brother hurriedly unbuckled his seat belt, turned to the younger one, and said, “Don’t worry, this looks like a clean place, nice tables. We might as well eat outside while the light’s still out.” He paused. “He likes to eat early.”

His younger brother groaned but followed, fidgeting with his waist bag.

The wind whipped their jackets, and the older son shuddered from the chill. He’d forgotten how much colder it could get up here, how even shorter the days from where he lived in Massachusetts. A seagull cried overhead, bobbing on a gust as they huddled over their lobster rolls and coffees in Styrofoam cups at the picnic table.

“What did Mom love so much about being up here?” the older son asked their father.

The father sat back and neatly wiped his mouth before he answered. “Look around,’ he said. “Have you ever seen colors so glorious? One of the first things we did in the park was take a carriage ride on those old Rockefeller roads—you know about them? Under those beautiful stone bridges. My goodness, they knew how to build for beauty in those days, to uplift the spirit. The leaves and evergreens smelled so crisp, you just can’t imagine. On a clear autumn day, you could see Cadillac Mountain and beyond that, to the ocean. We were freezing cold, but they gave us blankets. We were warm enough. I’ll always remember that.” He nodded, adjusted his beret. “I know she did, too. Sometimes you’ve got to bear with the cold to reach the beauty.”

The younger son crossed his arms against his chest, gave a short laugh. “That kind of love doesn’t exist anymore.” He paused. “Maybe it never really did.”

“What?” their father exclaimed. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Of course it did, and does.”

“Did it work out for him?” the younger son said, with a curt nod toward his older sibling. “Or me?”

“If you’d quit going to those parties and bars, drinking and doing whatever you’re doing, it would. Having some new girlfriend every other week. That doesn’t work, but that’s because of you, son.”

“Is that right?”

“If you keep doing what makes you unhappy, don’t expect different results.” The father stared him down, jaw set, and sipped some coffee.

“Do you believe this?” the younger brother said to the other.

“He’s not wrong.”

“Even after your divorce?”

“What are you asking? Do I still believe in love? Marriage?” He raised his cup, half-empty, toward the younger man. “Just because you haven’t experienced it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, or isn’t good.”

“And now what? Mom’s gone, and here we are. What are we even doing?” The younger son pushed away from the table, gathered his trash and shoved it in the nearby bin.

*

They settled into their shared hotel room for the night in silence, the father lining up his toiletries beside the sink first thing. Then he hung his jacket in the closet, while the younger son cast his hastily over a chair and kicked off his hiking sneakers. The eldest son called for more towels and checked the forecast. “Not looking too clear for tonight, I’m afraid,” he said, tone grim. “But we can still try.”

“Maybe we should forget it,” his younger brother said, face muffled into a pillow.

“Absolutely not,” their father said. Chin high, he buttoned up a thick cardigan over his shirt. “I’m here to see the Northern Lights for your mother. This is our anniversary, and I want both of our sons to be there. It’s going to be glorious, just you wait.”

“If we don’t see them, then what?” came another flat, muffled retort from his younger son. “We fly to Iceland?”

“Iceland? What are you talking about? I’m far too old to go to Iceland, and that’s hardly the point. No, we don’t need to go anywhere but here. Acadia.”

“But where, exactly?” the older son interrupted. “Because it’s true. Bar Harbor and anywhere right near the park will be packed if the Northern Lights are set to appear. I don’t want to fight crowds.”

“Give me the map,” the father said, and whisked it off the desk, right out from underneath his eldest son. He unfurled it across the bedspread in the late afternoon light, and stabbed a long, pudgy finger at the peninsula to the north. “We go here. Winter Harbor. Schoodic Point.”

“That’s not part of Acadia,” the older son said.

“Like hell it isn’t. The Schoodic Peninsula, used to be an old naval base. See?” The father tapped the paper again; slightly faded, it bore some tears here and there, a relic of he and his wife’s final trip a decade past. “We can drive right out to Schoodic Point. I promise you, there’ll be almost nobody else out there.”

“Okay then. You know the place.” The older son tugged back the map, gently refolded it back into the familiar rectangle. He pinched his brother’s ankle through his jeans. “Better bundle up. It’s going to be chilly.” No response—the younger man had fallen fast asleep.

All three of them napped, falling easily asleep after the long car journey in the warm sun. The father napped fitfully, his own snores jerking him awake at times. A scene repeated from his past, of he and his wife’s many trips to Acadia, and the boardwalk they loved to stroll on the Jesup Path in autumn. In his dreams, her footsteps clicked sharply on the boards behind him—a fast walker, he’d a habit of often hurrying ahead—and then her voice called out to him, and when he turned around, there she stood in the deep blue jacket she’d kept all these years, crowned by the golden leaves and bright white birches. He joyfully joined her and for a bit they walked together, until they reached the great meadow where his wife told him she must go now, but that he should walk for awhile yet, onto the Hemlock Path as they used to when they repeated this loop together. And so, he walked on beneath the ancient hemlock grove, the cool darkness enveloping him, alone but unafraid. When he woke, he blinked back tears for the dream had felt so vivid, he could smell the hemlock yet as if they were in the room with him and feel her small hand squeezing his arm. And he found himself saying a prayer for his sons, that one day each of them might come to know such love, for God and for themselves as his creation, and for love and companionship to find them. And he smiled and nodded to himself, thinking how such a quiet, humble path through the woods and meadow meant more to him than all the peaks, summits, and rocky trails so many sought after. When what mattered was putting one foot in front of the other, no matter the ground, and keeping on, whether into brightness or darkness, whether one had a companion alongside, or not.

*

Night fell, and the three set out. Winter Harbor was a good thirty or forty minutes from their hotel in Ellsworth, the highways dark, a partial moon only occasionally peeking out from the shifting clouds—too many. We’re not going to see these damn lights, was all the oldest son could think as he drove, his gaze flitting along the roadsides and grip tightening on the wheel. And I’m going to hit a damn moose.

Again, they rode in silence, the younger brother listening to headphones in the back seat, drumming upon one knee, their father once again upright in the passenger seat. Occasionally, he said, “Turn here” before the GPS spoke; he was always correct. The tall shadows of the Maine woods towered over them on either side as the side road now dipped and wound toward the coast. “If it’s anything like last night, our timing should be just about right,” the father said. “That desk clerk said the skies went electric about eleven o’clock.”

“We’ll see,” the older son said. They’d passed the few buildings that made up Winter Harbor and now turned onto the Schoodic Peninsula Loop Road which after a short distance abruptly became one way, yet paved, speed limit twenty-five miles per hour, twisting and turning. To their right, Frenchman Bay suddenly appeared, vast and white-capped, the winds furiously churning atop the water. Little light pierced the skies; instead, they loomed intensely dark, stars twinkling here and there beneath the haze.

Just enough moonlight lit the road of the thickly-forested peninsula—the son who was driving felt grateful for that—until they took a curve, and a bulky shadow climbed up from a cove to the right and tottered into the road, straight ahead. The older son slammed on the brakes and cried, “What’s that?”

“It’s dragging something,” his younger brother said excitedly. He leaned forward and knocked his phone to the floor. “A big branch, I think. Look at the size of that thing. What is it? A bear? No.”

“A beaver,” their father said finally. “He’s dragged that driftwood from the cove over to that pond over there, on the other side of the road.”

The older son breathed hard, and once the creature had waddled off down the opposite bank, branch disappearing behind him, crept the car along again.

Minutes later, the road dead-ended at Schoodic Point. Only a handful of other cars sat idling in the lot, politely spaced apart from one another, lights off or low beams on. Before them, the night sky met the bay and they could see a great distance; now and then the moon broke out from beneath the carpet of clouds and glistened upon the endless, fast-moving waves. The three of them climbed out, hunching inside their jackets, as the salty wind stung their eyes and lips. Not far away, a young couple jostled outside their car, embracing and laughing, the hum of music playing from inside the doors. “Were you here last night?” the young woman called out to them. “It was so amazing.”

“Was it?” the older son replied. “We weren’t, unfortunately.”

“I’ve never seen anything so incredible in my life,” she called back. “It was like the universe was on fire.”

He didn’t reply. His younger brother began to climb down to the nearest big rocks lining the shores of the point. Nothing in the skies but a thick nest of clouds; if the Aurora borealis had enveloped them, they couldn’t see and would remain entirely unaware. “Sorry, Dad,” he said, but his father, although right beside him, didn’t reply. The father gazed out and recalled how he’d stood once on the other side of the shimmering bay at the shores of Compass Harbor, alone, the beach deserted but for the lapping surf as it rolled in, ice cold around his ankles, as it lifted the smooth stones and rolled them, clattering, into their new places; was that truly so long ago? How he’d scrambled back on the broken brick paths of a once glorious mansion from the pinnacle of Industrial Civilization, now nothing but burnt ruins grown over by woods, about to begin his married life, anew. How every day of that life he’d been fortunate without knowing it, no matter what he’d seen and done, or failed to see or do. His ears filled with the rush of wind from the bay. He clasped his hands together for warmth and smiled.

 

Vanessa Blakeslee’s latest book, Perfect Conditions: Stories won the Foreword Reviews’ INDIEFAB Book of the Year Award for the Short Story (2018). Blakeslee is also the author of  Train Shots: Stories and Juventud, a novel, both of which received prizes and accolades. Her writing has appeared in The Southern Review, The Paris Review Daily, Kenyon Review Online, Joyland, The Smart Set, and many other places.