Porch Lights (11 page)

“No problem. I have to take Vern to see that cute physical therapist in Durst’s office. We’ve got a nine thirty, and I should’ve started getting him ready yesterday if I wanted us to be on time. The poor devil moves so slowly these days.”

“Okay. Let’s hustle!”

We did a U-turn and waddled back as fast as we could. Just to clarify what I mean by “waddle,” I mean that power-walking thing fast walkers do, slightly slower than a jog. When we got to my steps, Deb kept going without missing a beat, calling out “See you tomorrow!” I threw my arm up and waved at her over my head, feeling very lucky to have such a reliable friend.

I went straight to Charlie’s room as it was twenty minutes before eight. He was already up and in the bathroom, and lo and behold, his bed was made. Jackie was in the kitchen pouring coffee. She was wearing what appeared to be men’s boxer shorts and an old ill-fitting T-shirt. The backs of her thighs were as smooth as a baby’s bottom, and I wondered for a fleeting moment how mine would stack up next to hers. Probably just fine. All that walking had to be good for something besides endorphins and catching up on the news.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” I said, keeping my voice light and chipper, hoping she wouldn’t bring up last night’s discussion until I had something to eat. “How did you sleep?”

Wrong question! Wrong question!

She looked up at me with that
look,
the one that said, “How can you even ask that when you
know
I never slept a wink, thanks to you and your Poe story about coffin bells!”

Well, it was a new day, and I was having none of it.

“Listen, missy, for your information, Charlie slept soundly all through the night and I happen to know that you did too.” I took my favorite mug from the cabinet and filled it. “I know this because I was up almost every hour.”

“How do you know I was sleeping?”

“Because, baby girl, you snore like a man.”

“I do not.”

“Would you like me to record it tonight and play it for you tomorrow?”

“I don’t snore.”

“Surely you’re not calling your mother a liar, are you?”

“There would be no value in that.”

“Well, I’m just trying to tell you that I think you might be acting like an old worrywart about this one. Edgar Allan Poe is one of our most fascinating residents in the entire history of Charleston’s citizenry, and there’s no reason why Charlie shouldn’t learn everything there is to know about him.”

“Okay. Truce. Just tell him the dead people stuff in the daylight, okay?”

“Fine. Now, can I make a plate of pancakes and crispy bacon for you?”

“Sure. No bacon, though. Too fattening.”

“I buy that center-cut bacon that only has seventy calories in three strips. Then I nuke it for two and a half minutes. Honey chile? There ain’t a lick of fat in ’em when I’m done. Now, you want bacon or what?”

“Really? Okay, I’ll have bacon. Want me to fix it?”

“Yes, please. Use three paper towels. Two on the bottom and one on the top. And pour the juice too, please. There’s no time to waste this morning. We’ve got to get a workingman off to his new job!”

You see that? I could still delegate and produce an impressive showing on the breakfast table and settle a difference of opinion without bloodshed, all at the same time. I had not lost my touch.

Charlie bounded into the room with the kind of energy clearly wasted on youth, wolfed down six pancakes, God only knows how much bacon, and two glasses of milk and orange juice, and bounded back to the bathroom.

“Brushing his teeth?” I asked.

“Yeah, he knows I’m the toothbrush police,” Jackie said, absorbed in reading
The Post and Courier
.

I picked up the dishes and put them into the sink to rinse. There were two mourning doves outside of my window, the exact same color as a pair of soft gray suede gloves I once owned. The little darlings were cooing, presumably to each other, and so sweet to watch. I paused for a moment, feeling sentimental, thinking about how they mated for life. I liked to imagine that they cared about each other. Maybe they did. Didn’t
National Geographic
or someone do a study that showed penguins had actual affection for their mates? Well, it was lovely to think of the animal kingdom falling in love and living happily ever after. It couldn’t be nearly as complicated as what went on between humans. If Mrs. Dove got fussy about her nest, would the mister call her names and go off fishing for eleven years? I doubted it.

“Did you hear what I said?” Jackie asked.

“What? Oh, no. Sorry, sweetheart! I was lost in Bird Land.”

“Oh. I said I’m just going to take Charlie over to Steve’s since it’s his first time. You know, just to make sure he’s comfortable going in an empty house. Steve said he was leaving the key on top of the mailbox. I want to make sure he gets in.”

“Oh, yes! That’s a good idea.”

“Should I bring the dogs back over here? I mean, what about these dogs?”

Well, now I was in a nice pickle, wasn’t I? I hated having dogs in my house, and Jackie knew it. No matter how nice they were, they shed and did all sorts of things that dogs do, like sniff and squirt their calling card, and what if they decided to have a nap on my bed? Please! But there I was last night like a damn fool making them omelets and treating them like long-lost family. If they hadn’t belonged to Steve Plofker, I wouldn’t have let them in my kitchen for beans. What to do with the dogs? Great. I was about to get caught being a hypocrite. I hated that. So I dodged being the bad guy with the age-old trick of answering a question with a question.

“Gosh, what do you think we should do?” Throw the ball in her court, Annie. Good one.

“What do
I
think?” She paused for a moment. “Well, let’s see how they smell,” she said, “and then we’ll make the call.”

“They smelled fine last night,” I said with all the innocent benevolence of Doris Day, circa 1960 Hollywood.

“Yeah, but who knows? They might have found a raccoon or a skunk and rolled around with it. Ick.”

“Well, I’ll let you decide, then. If they pass the smell test, I’m thinking they might enjoy the front porch. What do you think? It’s nice and cool.”

“Yeah, I’ll get Charlie to take them for a run on the beach, and then we’ll come back here. Maybe we have something they could use for water bowls?”

Sure, what about my mother’s Limoges vegetable dishes? For the record, I did
not
say this aloud.

“I’ll find something,” I said. “You and Charlie had better get moving.”

“Right! See you in a bit! Thanks for breakfast!”

She blew me a kiss and was out the door with Charlie on her heels. Well, she seemed reasonably happy, and given the situation, that was more than I had hoped for. People always said that dogs had a way of lightening the mood. I put the last of the breakfast plates into the dishwasher and turned it on. It was time for me to grab a shower.

I had one of those nylon poufs that comes with my antiaging, extra-moisturizing, slight-exfoliation body wash, and as soon as I got under the hot water I took it to task, scrubbing every inch of my body I could reach, and used a washcloth and contortion to reach the areas I could not access any other way. Well, if there was ever to be another person in my shower, maybe the epicenter of my back would get the polish it deserved, but we all know that was looking less likely with each passing year. So what? I continued. I washed my hair until it squeaked and then gave it a small amount of conditioner, rinsed it out, stepped out onto my ultraplush bath mat Deb brought me home from a trip to Istanbul, and wrapped myself in a towel sheet. Why Deb went to Istanbul is anybody’s guess. Nothing but a bunch of hooligans over there, I expect. Everything I need is on this side of the causeway.

But back to the last vestiges of my youth? I will not go down without a fight, I thought as I rubbed moisturizer into my upper arms. I will try to remain as attractive and young-looking as modern cosmetics will allow—no knives, thanks. I had my cache of secret weapons. That cute Dr. Duke Hagerty downtown gave me a little shot of youth in my forehead from time to time to make the creases disappear. I’d used Latisse on my eyelashes and had regrown them to the point that I had to trim them. Can you imagine? And Julie Nestler down at Beauty and the Beach worked a little magic on my hair and eyebrows every two weeks and no one was the wiser.

But still the nagging question was the same: was I too old to be attractive to someone like Steve Plofker? Or anyone? Even with my daily exercise and watching what I ate, I could see undeniable signs of aging in my skinny but sagging upper arms. That deeply saddened me because I knew there was nothing to be done about it; but the bazillions of little crepe lines in my neck horrified me. Was I headed for an old age of wearing long-sleeved high-necked getups like Katharine Hepburn in
The African Queen
?

Hell, no! I would approach this as I approached other dilemmas. It was time for the ultimate test: a naked evaluation in a full-length mirror in broad daylight. Assess the situation and then make a plan. So I bravely stepped into my dressing room, where the mirror faced east. It was still morning, and the light was as heartless as it was unrelenting. Did I really want the truth? Could my battle-beaten ego really bear the truth?

“Don’t be ridiculous!” I said to no one. “You must do this!”

I held my breath, sucked in my stomach, dropped my towel, and looked straight into the mirror. (Results were lower than expected.) Then I exhaled, turned around, and, with a hand mirror, I looked at my backside and the backs of my thighs and the backs of my arms. (Dimples belong on faces.) Then I sucked everything in and up and looked at myself sideways. (Sigh.) In conclusion, may I just say that the jury did not indulge in a long deliberation and found that truth is wildly overrated. Extremely and wildly overrated.

It was no time for self-forgiveness and misplaced optimism. It was time to take action. I read somewhere, in
Southern Living
magazine, I think, that there was a woman in Charleston who did miraculous makeovers.
What was her name?
What was her name?
Did I keep the magazine, or did I throw it out in one of my manic recycling purges? Margaret. Margaret something . . . something with a D. Oh, hells bells, I’d Google her. Maybe I didn’t know anything about GPSs and texting, but I could Google with the best of them.

I threw on a sundress of red tulips and sandals to match and brushed my hair back from my face, pushing it behind my ears. I gave the old face a quick coat of powder and a few strokes of blush and applied a bright rosy lipstick. Then I looked in the full-length mirror again, blowing myself a kiss. Well, maybe I’d never be breaking hearts at thirty again, but I didn’t look like fifty-eight, whatever that looked like. Now, where did I leave that issue of
Southern Living
? It was the one with all the casserole recipes in it. I’d turn the house upside down until I found it.

Chapter 7

“Jupiter and myself are going upon an expedition into the hills . . . in this expedition, we shall need the aid of some person in whom we can confide. You are the only one we can trust.” . . .

. . . “but do you mean to say that this infernal beetle has any connection with your expedition into the hills?”

“It has.”

—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Gold-Bug”

Jackie

O
nly eight in the morning, and it was already as miserable as the weather in Afghanistan. At least we didn’t have the infernal dust and swarms of flies. And I could wear flip-flops instead of boots.

“Come on,” I said to Charlie.

We crossed the yard and slipped through the oleanders that separated Steve’s property from my mother’s. His Expedition was in the driveway, and his BMW was gone. Why one person needed two cars was beyond me. Just as we took the key and heard the metal move in the lock with a distinctive click, we could hear Stella and Stanley hurrying to meet us, barking happily. We opened the door and one of them, Stella, I think, jumped up on her hind legs, threw her paws on Charlie’s shoulders, and licked his face over and over. Her culinary benefactor had returned.

“I think she likes you, Son,” I said, marveling at the love and enthusiasm of the dog and, not surprisingly, Charlie’s. Stanley, obviously the better trained of the pair, sat at my feet. “Good boy.” I scratched his head.

“Yeah. Okay, now. Down, girl. Okay, now. That’s enough,” he said, rubbing Stella’s side. “I’ve got this handled, Mom. You can go.”

“Well, it’s your first visit inside a strange house, and I thought it might be a good idea if I came along.”

The real reason I had come with Charlie was to be sure Steve Plofker had not left his porn collection all over the place, if he had one, that is. I know that sounds very cynical, but I had known the man for less than twenty-four hours and for all I knew, he did. And my mother wouldn’t know a sexual deviate from a turnip truck, so don’t go there.