Something tugs at the edges of the world conjured in “Forever Welcome,” subtly distorting its picture of retired life and the tranquility we might expect to find there. The characters are exaggerated like those in a David Lynch film, not to the point of caricature but just enough to suggest a grotesque universe underpinning even their politest interactions. “Forever Welcome” revels in a perspective that’s not a full thirty degrees off center but a mere three, and in this way, it gleefully brings the menace of everyday life to the fore. —The Editors and the Fiction Staff
Forever Welcome
Peter and Julie sat sipping their morning coffee on the deck of their summer house, looking out at the water. The sun had risen and the ripples sparkled like diamonds. It was going to be yet another beautiful day in Boothbay Harbor.
Then the text arrived. “They’re coming to visit,” Julie said. “Your sister and her husband.” At least they would stay for only two days on the way to Bar Harbor.
Peter and Julie debated whether Tuesday and Wednesday entailed three nights or four. Julie figured that two days meant four nights, while Peter argued it was only three. Julie proved her counting with her fingers. Tuesday and Wednesday meant they would arrive on Monday afternoon and leave Thursday morning.
Peter sighed. “They’ll want to stay up every night and talk.”
Julie laughed when she saw his expression. “We can manage,” she said. “We’ll put them to bed early. We’ll tell them salt air makes them sleepy.”
“And not us, too?” Peter asked.
“We’re used to it. We’ve got an immunity.”
“But they’re family. We have to show them a good time,” said Peter.
“Your family,” said Julie. “Same genetic code. That’s why Laura loves you so much. There’s some kind of magnetic attraction.”
Peter nodded. “And it always brings out the worst in me.”
“If she weren’t family, you wouldn’t care.”
“If only Laura hadn’t married Larry. That’s the problem. He’s too nice. He’s a bad influence.” Peter was deadly serious. He felt himself descending into one of their familiar conversations about the family, but couldn’t help himself. “Mother would say, ‘Why can’t you be nice like Laura?’”
“And what would you say?”
“That I’d rather be dead.”
“And then?”
“Father would step in, and Laura would rush to the rescue.”
“And then?”
“‘He’s just kidding,’ she’d say. Then she’d kiss me, when what I really deserved was a kick.” He took a sip of his orange juice. It was nine o’clock in the morning, too early for a real drink.
They had four days to get used to the idea of the visit. They considered the differences among kindness, sensitivity, and niceness. They asked themselves why Larry and Laura couldn’t be more like their friends at the yacht club, people who didn’t require you to ratchet up yourself. They examined the ramifications of what Shylock had to say about niceness. They considered the relevance of the parable of the Good Samaritan.
The last morning before the arrival they decided to be Good Samaritans. Julie baked two blueberry pies, and Peter called in an order for four two-pound lobsters. That afternoon they sat waiting in the living room. Twice they heard the sound of tires crunching the gravel in the road. Each time they bolted upright only to see neighbors driving past. The third time they forced themselves to sit and wait.
Then they heard Larry and Laura singing to the tune of “Auld Lang Syne” as they walked up the path: “We’re here because we’re here, because we’re here, because we’re here!” The four of them embraced and laughed together. For a short time Peter felt a rush of goodwill. After all, they were family.
In snatches they discussed the weather. So beautiful. But not always. Rain sometimes, fog even. No such thing as a bad day in Maine. What a long drive from North Jersey. Lobster rolls at Red’s, of course. No air conditioning here. Cool nights. Blankets maybe. And the children. Fine, each and every one, thank God!
The pace began to slacken, and Peter suggested they bring in the luggage from the car so that they could get settled.
“No, no, no!” Laura said. “You mustn’t see our special present in the back—not yet. It’s a surprise!” Then she giggled and clasped Peter’s hands.
“It’s a very special surprise we hope you’ll like!” added Larry.
“A present we know you’ll like,” said Laura.
“I just can’t wait!!” Julie pitched her voice high with excitement, nearly as high as Laura’s.
Peter did his best to contribute: “Just like Christmas morning!” He sounded forced, and he knew he had missed the mark.
Laura didn’t seem to notice. “Yes, it WILL be just like Christmas, Peter dear!”
The four stood smiling at each other, and Peter felt desperate. “Time for drinks,” he announced. He looked at Julie for approval and felt relieved when she nodded. “I’ve made a pitcher of iced tea, too,” she said.
“And real drinks,” said Peter.
“Tea or drinks! What a wonerful choice,” said Laura.
“Wonerful” was a family joke. When Laura was a baby, she’d had difficulty pronouncing the “d.” Peter tried to reciprocate. “You’ll notice that the sun is over the wonerful yardarm,” he said.
They all laughed, and Peter was relieved.
“We don’t want you to go to any trouble,” said Larry.
“What would you usually have at this hour?” asked Laura. “We want to have what you usually have. We mustn’t be an imposition.”
“That’s the last thing we want,” Larry said.
“As for me, I am thirsty, very thirsty,” said Peter. “Actually, I am dying for a real drink. In fact, I think I’ll dry up and blow away if I don’t have something soon.”
He opened the liquor cabinet, and the light flashed on invitingly. He poured a little gin in a glass, and swallowed, just to be sure it was all right. He winced.
Laura laughed at him happily. “Yes, I’m about to dry up too, just like you. Just tell me what you’re having,”
“Gin,” Peter said. ”I want a martini. And I want one this very second.”
“Oh, good! I’ll have what Peter is having,” said Laura.
“A martini’s strong, you know,” Peter warned.
Laura considered. “Well actually, I thought you liked tea. If you had said tea, I would have been just as happy.”
“I do like tea, but I drink tea at tea time. Now it’s cocktail time, and the bar is open.” He thought he sounded angry. Everything seemed to be coming out the wrong way. Speaking as gently as possible, he said, “As I remember, you always liked Campari and soda.”
“Yes, but I thought maybe all you had was gin.”
“I have all kinds of nice things. I can fix you a Campari and soda. Do you think you’d enjoy one? How about a Campari and soda?”
“Only if you have a bottle already open!” said Laura. “I wouldn’t want you to open one just for me. I could be just as happy with a gin and tonic, and if you don’t have the tonic I could….”
“Campari and soda coming up!” Peter nearly shouted. “A fresh bottle. As it happens, a brand new bottle. I am opening a new bottle just for you.”
Laura took his hand. “Oh, dear, dear Peter! You are just the most perfect host who ever lived, and I love you so.”
Peter looked at her, feeling how precious and fragile she was. “I love you too,” he whispered.
“I know it, Peter. Of course, I know it.”
At that moment Peter swore he would never ever say anything again that wasn’t sweet and generous. Then he turned to the others. Julie wanted white wine and for Larry a gin and tonic.
“He might not have any tonic,” whispered Laura.
“No. He does have tonic!” Peter said, abruptly. “Whole cases of tonic. A truckload….”
Julie came to the rescue. “While Peter makes the drinks, the three of us will go to the deck and see the water.”
“You two go ahead. I want to stay here and watch Peter perform his miracles,” Laura said.
Peter tended to the drinks while Laura commented. “All right, you pour in the gin first, and then add the tonic.” Silently he put the drinks on a tray, and she followed him out to the deck.
“Just look out there, everybody!” Laura pointed to the water. “Look at that sweet little island. Think how lonely it must be—out there all by itself.”
Peter asked if she didn’t remember Cabbage Island, which was not all that lonely. Every afternoon, boats took passengers out there for lobster bakes.
Laura seemed comforted. They stood and breathed in the salt air deeply, as Laura instructed. And Peter somehow felt moved to tell them the story about the Great Stench. Only three weeks before, the tuna or bluefish or something had driven so many little pogies up into the bay that they suffocated and rotted all along the shore. Peter and Julie had to move into a B&B until a high tide swept the dead pogies out to sea.
“Oh those poor, dear little pogies! I’m so sorry.” Laura clutched her hand to her breast.
Then the most dreadful sound bubbled up from Peter’s lung, out of his mouth into that pure salt air. “Facortuabinsata.” It revealed disgust, disdain, disapproval, despair—all of the above, and more. Peter stood frozen, wishing he could disappear.
Larry looked as if he hadn’t heard, but Julie looked stricken. Laura, dear Laura, looked at him with acceptance. She reached for his hand. “I apologize. I’m so sorry. Truly, my dear Peter.”
Peter struggled for something to say. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began. Too much stress. The house! So much wrong. Work needed. And the dock! Rotten—we could all fall in! And those shingles up there? Rotten. Rotting away!”
Laura stepped forward and embraced him. “I know, dear Peter. But don’t forget we have each other.”
Peter felt in a flash how fragile Laura seemed compared to his own brutishness. “Oh, Laura, I love you. Promise me you won’t change,” Peter pleaded.
Laura promised.
“Isn’t it time we give them the present?” Larry asked.
Peter and Julie joined in protest. “Oh no! No! You shouldn’t….”
Laura interrupted. “You’ll be so pleased! Larry and I will go out to the van and call you when we’re ready.”
With dread, Peter watched them go out the door. He swore that he would be kind and gentle forevermore. Yes, from then on—yes, or may God strike him dead. Had he changed so very much since he and Laura were children in the magic of Christmas. Together in the morning they would wait impatiently until Father announced Santa had arrived and they would bounding down the stairs. Laura had remained uncorrupted somehow, while he….
“We’re ready!” Laura called.
Peter and Julie found the two of them standing beside two large red posts on the ground. In between lay something covered by a piece of canvas.
“This is so exciting! I can’t imagine what it is.” Julie said.
“Guess!” said Laura.
“Two posts and a tarp in between,” said Peter.
Laura looked disappointed, and Julie came to the rescue. “Just let me think,” She clasped her hands under her chin and thought. “I’d say it’s a raft that’s going to take us out to Cabbage Island for a lobster bake!”
Peter forced a weak smile.
“Guess again! You’re not even close!” Laura said. “We’ll have a count of three, and then you’ll see!” She led with her hands as they counted slowly together. “One…two….” And after a pause, “three!”
Larry whipped off the tarp to reveal a big, heavy wooden sign. Peter winced. It was ugly—too large, too colorful—all wrong. The words “THE BRADFORDS” stared up at them, carved into the wood and emblazoned with gold paint. Fancy scroll announced “24 Sea Shell Lane,” and below that the words “All Welcome,” followed by three exclamation marks. It all emerged from an oblong wreath of colorful flowers. “Oh,” said Peter slowly. Clearly, something more was expected. “Oh!” he managed again.
“It’s…ah.” Julie strained for the right words. “Totally unique.”
Peter could tell it was meant to be displayed along the side of the road in plain sight, prominently, for everyone to see.
Larry turned the sign to show the other side. “You see!” Laura said. “People can see it both coming going.” Sure enough, the same thing was inscribed on the back, too.
“Now people won’t get lost!” Laura said.
Peter forced himself to speak. “Yes, I see. Well done.”
Then Laura pointed out the shiny finish of the posts, but she stumbled over the word “polyurethane,” and Larry corrected her, adding that the last coating would protect it for a hundred years.
After a period of questions and answers, Peter looked at his watch and attempted to change the subject. Didn’t they all think it was time for more libations?
They didn’t.
“Wouldn’t it be really fun to hang up the sign first, and then they could really celebrate?” asked Laura.
Accepting defeat, Peter headed to the shed to get a shovel. On the way, he made a detour through the kitchen, poured out two fingers of gin, and swallowed it.
He pulled himself together and found Larry holding the sign at different angles, while Laura pretended to be a car. She was moving closer from the curve in the lane, and Larry moved the sign until Laura had what she believed to be the best view. Then the approach from the other direction needed to be considered too.
Finally Larry was satisfied. He took the shovel, marked the location for the two posts, and started digging. Almost immediately came the clank of metal upon rock.
“Not a good country for digging holes,” explained Peter. “We might not be able to get this done after all.” But Larry tried again a few inches away and, worst luck, had no trouble.
Laura insisted on being the one to drop the posts into the holes. Then Larry filled in the dirt around them, and Peter helped stamp it down.
“Just look!” Laura spoke in an awed voice.
They all looked. Laura waited for Peter’s praise, and he responded obediently. “Yes, it’s really something,” he said.
And it was something. It glowed radiantly in the rays of the setting sun.
“It will attract attention,” said Peter.
“It will let everybody know where you live,” Larry smiled confidently.
“That’s the end of people getting confused,” said Laura.
Peter agreed. He took a deep breath. “Now!” he said decisively, “I declare the bar reopened.”
It so happened that the moon was rising, and they sat on the deck watching it grow bigger and brighter as the last light from the sun faded.
The Wharf delivered the cooked lobster and potato salad, and Julie set the table. Of course, Laura announced that the lobster was the best she had ever had, and that the moon was the largest it had ever been. The construction and installation of the sign provided the topics of conversation, and by the time the clock had struck ten, they were all snug in their beds.
Peter and Julie had planned the next two days carefully to keep everyone busy. Wednesday they drove to Rockland for the Wyeth museum. Thursday they visited the Boothbay Railroad Museum and bought tickets for an afternoon ride on the schooner “East Wind.” They had dinner at the Club with its view out to the ocean. Peter tried to steel himself against Laura’s enthusiasm and gratitude, but several times found himself close to the breaking point. The pressure built onboard the “East Wind” until Peter broke. “I have an idea,” he said. “For the next three minutes, let’s talk about something terrible.” Everyone laughed, and Peter’s comment made no difference at all.
The last morning Julie and Peter woke up early, and lay in bed pondering. Certainly, the sign should be advertising frozen custard on Route 1. It just didn’t belong on a narrow, winding road along the ocean. Even the word “welcome” was inappropriate. Didn’t the signs at either end of Sea Shell Road say clearly, “Dead End. No Turnaround”?
Maybe they should have been honest from the start. After all, wasn’t the sign a labor of love? They should have praised the artistry, but then simply explained from the start that it didn’t fit in. They would happily display it, of course, but not so close to the road, maybe back by the garage. After thorough and heartfelt discussion, they decided that, given another chance, they would tell the truth. Honesty WAS the best policy.
With the matter settled, they worked together to prepare a special final breakfast. First the four of them toasted each other with mimosas and then enjoyed eggs Benedict, blueberry pancakes with maple syrup, and bacon.
Laura rejoiced throughout. They reviewed every detail of the visit and agreed that absolutely everything had been sensational. Peter agreed with everyone as he watched the seconds roll by far too slowly on the clock over the refrigerator. He must remember to change the batteries.
After breakfast, Peter spread out his map of Maine on the table. They should drive straight up Route 1 to Ellsworth and then 3 over to Mt. Desert. They would need three hours, more if they wanted to stop at the big flea markets on the way.
For the return Peter strongly recommended that they take Route 95 South back home to New Jersey. This would be the best, but (what a shame) they would be too far west for them to stop by on the way.
Peter insisted on carrying out the luggage unaided. Larry and Laura gave the sign a final examination, and Julie and Peter waved until the car disappeared around the curve in the road. At last they were gone!
Still, Peter and Julie felt deep in their hearts they had been good hosts. With conscience clear, Peter embraced Julie and they danced over to the sign. They unhooked the board and carried it inside the garage, leaving the chains and posts for another time. Then they returned to the deck to finish their mimosas.
It was later in the morning that they heard the crunch of tires on the gravel, followed by footsteps.
Laura and Larry were so terribly sorry, but just before Route 1, Larry had the feeling that they’d forgotten something. You know the feeling. And they had stopped to check, and, sure enough, they might almost have returned home without Larry’s toilet kit.
Of course, they were most welcome back, always welcome. “We’d just begun to feel a little lonely,” Julie smiled grimly.
Larry’s things successfully retrieved, the four of them walked out to the car. Peter hoped that maybe, somehow, God would cause them to walk by the posts unaware anything was missing.
But no such luck. Larry and Laura stopped and stared. They looked out to the woods, as if possibly some troop of squirrels might have carried it away. They looked to the water to make sure it wasn’t swimming out to sea.
No explanation appeared possible. His mouth opened, and words emerged spontaneously without thought. “A seagull pooped on it.” He paused. “It seemed too beautiful to allow that, so we put it in the garage…for safekeeping.”
“Until we decided what to do,” Julie added. Her voice dropped at the end, losing energy. They all stood there in silence.
Finally she recovered. “Peter was joking, of course. The truth is that one post was higher than the other, so we put the sign in the garage until our handyman comes by, who’ll fix it.” She took a deep breath.
“We just can’t stand to have it less than perfect,” added Peter.
“Oh, you’re just too sweet!” said Laura. “But we want to leave it perfect.”
“It is perfect. It’s better than perfect,” Peter was desperate. “It just needs an adjustment.”
But Larry spoke with resolution. “Get the shovel, we have work to do!”
Julie protested valiantly. “You need to be on your way. You have a full day’s trip ahead of you.”
“Yes, you’ll be late!” said Peter. “Our man can finish it. He’s a wild man with a shovel.”
“But so is Larry! Such a strong man.” Laura put her hand on his arm. “You’ll see. We just can’t leave until it’s perfect!”
“But it’s hot. The sun is high in the sky. See?” He pointed to the sun. “And the heat is coming. Can’t you feel it?”
“It’s going to be a scorcher! I can feel it,” Julie wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “There’s nothing like a hot day in Boothbay Harbor!”
“Oh, no,” said Laura. “It’s going to be a beautiful day. There’s no such thing as a bad day in Maine.”
“Just right for digging holes,” said Larry. “Get the shovel.”
“We’ll make everything perfect. You’ll see.” Laura clapped her hands joyously.
Peter obediently walked to the shed to retrieve the shovel. He was too old to cry.