Porch Lights (27 page)

“Who? You mean that crazy blonde?”

“Yep, the nice lady who wrapped her leg around your waist.” I giggled.

He started to laugh. “You’re funny. Do you know that?”

“On occasion. But you didn’t answer my question, did you?”

“She’s this girl I dated once or twice who’s calling me all the time. She just broke up with her boyfriend, and she wanted some company. I was just trying to be nice. That’s all.”

“Really?” I was on my second glass of wine, and my tongue was as loose as an overdone lasagna noodle. “You sure looked like you were being
awfully
nice! From where I stood, that is.”

“What are you saying, Mrs. McMullen? Are you maybe a little jealous of her?”

“Don’t be absurd. That kind of cavorting in the moonlight isn’t my thing!”

“I’ll bet it is. I’ll bet you can cavort with the best of them. Not today and not tomorrow, but soon, cavort again you will. Yoda sees all and knows all.”

“Yoda. Tell Yoda to kiss it.”

“Yoda would love to.”

Chapter 14

Ah, hereupon turns the whole mystery; although the secret, at this point, I had comparatively little difficulty in solving. My steps were sure, and could afford but a single result. I reasoned, for example, thus: When I grew the scar-abœus, there was no skull apparent on the parchment. When I had completed the drawing, I gave it to you, and observed you narrowly until you returned it. You, therefore, did not design the skull, and no one else was present to do it. Then it was not done by human agency. And nevertheless it was done.

—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Gold-Bug”

Annie

S
ince Jackie went to work so early, I got up Sunday morning with the birds to make her an egg and some toast. I walked her down the back steps and picked up the newspaper at the bottom of our driveway as she backed out. I waved good-bye, and she waved back to me and I thought, Lord, please bring my daughter and my sweet Charlie home to me permanently. Then I thought, Well, hells bells, as long as I’m praying I may as well go to church. I had this theory that praying in church sort of put your petitions on a scud missile to Heaven, like giving them a priority delivery. I certainly did not agree with everything about my church these days, but I still believed in its basic tenets. So I went inside, poured myself another cup of coffee, and went to my bathroom to fix my face.

I could hear the rhino sawing wood through the walls. Did I really want to live with that again? Maybe. But was he asking to come back? No. I looked in the mirror at myself and tried to see past all the reminders of fifty-eight years of living. My eyebrows were turning white. I wondered if he would be more anxious to come back to me if I was forty-eight years old instead. I could not be certain, but I suspected the answer was a lousy, inequitable, damn-Madison-Avenue-to-hell
yes
. Hide my soapbox on
that
topic, or we’ll be stuck here forever.

I put on my new aqua linen trousers and shirt with my choker of freshwater pearls and brushed my hair. Well, screw it, I said to my dressing room mirror, I look good for my age and that’s the best I can do.

When I got to the kitchen, Charlie was there, drinking a glass of milk and eating a banana.

“Well, good morning! Why are you up so early, baby? You don’t have to work today. It’s Sunday.”

“I know, but I’m used to getting up now. Does that make sense?”

“Yes! Of course it does! Your body has its own alarm clock or something like that. Hey! I’m going to Mass. Want to come? I’ll take you out for breakfast afterward?”

“Deal! Just gotta brush my teeth.”

Charlie zoomed out of the room and was back before I could find my car keys and sunglasses.

“Let’s go,” I said.

During Mass, I caught the monsignor looking at us and I would’ve stuck needles through my eyeballs rather than acknowledge him, so I did that thing where you sort of glaze over and let your attention drift elsewhere. After Communion, Charlie was kneeling, and I noticed that he seemed to be praying so fervently that it worried me. I put my arm around his shoulders and gave him a squeeze. He looked up at me with those eyes of his and smiled, but I could see his little heart was filled with sadness. I knew without asking that the larger part of any sadness he might be feeling had to come from missing his father. The rest? Who could say? Maybe he was remembering the funeral. I would talk to him over breakfast and try to gauge how he was handling his life. Life is a struggle, I would tell him. Some days are better than others, and every person’s life is bittersweet, filled with joy and pain.

As true as all those sayings might have been, they really didn’t help. Pancakes helped. Running down the beach with a couple of happy dogs helped. Having friends helped. Mainly the best help was diversion for the short term and the passing of time in the long term. I had buried enough people in my life to know that was the absolute truth.

We arrived at Page’s Okra Grill in Mount Pleasant, and the place was crawling with families just out of church. The men who’d served as ushers still had on their navy or seersucker blazers, and the rest of the men were in shirtsleeves. The ladies of my ilk wore sleeveless sundresses no matter the state of their upper arms or a nice linen outfit that covered the sins. The young people dressed as though they had no respect for the sanctity of the occasion of worship, but don’t get me started on that either. Church is no place for shorts and jeans, even if one attends the twenty-eighth splintered-off sect of some minuscule, hardly-heard-of Protestant church that holds its services in a barn. Sorry. You’re going to worship the Lord? Dress for the occasion, please. And brush your hair. Anyway, no one had asked me to establish a Sunday-morning dress code for all the Christians of the world, so I’d just keep that nugget to myself.

“What looks good to you, Charlie?” We were finally seated in a booth for two and going over the menus.

“There are so many choices! Have you ever had a western omelet, Glam?”

“Yep, I have, and that’s the best way I know of to eat eggs, except for a Swiss cheese and mushroom omelet. Unless, of course, you’re talking eggs Benedict with extra hollandaise sauce on the side. And a Bloody Mary. Made with Zing Zang. Why?”

“Zing Zang? What the heck is that?”

“It’s a spicy mixture grown-ups use to make Bloody Marys. You don’t need to know that for another decade, I hope. The waffles here are good too. But you should try the western omelet if you like chopped-up green peppers.”

“I love them.”

The waitress, whose name tag read
LIBBY
, stopped at our table. “Coffee?” she asked.

“Please,” I said, “and iced water.”

She put a mug down in front of me and filled it. “And for you, hon?”

“Chocolate milk?”

I looked at Charlie, thinking I had not offered him chocolate milk since he’d been here.

“It’s Sunday,” he said. “Why not go all out?”

Libby and I exchanged smiles.

“Too precious,” Libby said. “I’ll be right back to get y’all’s orders.”

I stirred my coffee and looked at my beautiful grandson. What a great gift he was to all of us. It was so wonderful to have a young person like Charlie in my life to shape and guide.

“Did you hear my question, Glam?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart. My mind was a thousand miles away. What did you say?”

“I said, if it doesn’t rain this afternoon, we’re going to have our treasure hunt!”

“Well, I know, and I’m so excited for you! Do you think they will make it really hard for you to find?”

“I don’t know. Probably. Those kids can be pretty diabolical.”

“Fifty-cent word,” I said. “Good one.”

“Thanks. I just think the whole thing was such a great idea. I wish we could’ve found disappearing ink like they had on the cryptogram in ‘The Gold-Bug.’ ”

“We could probably find it on the Internet. Too bad we didn’t have more time. Next time! Right? There’s always a next time.”

Libby reappeared with Charlie’s chocolate milk. “So, what’s it gonna be, young man?”

“I’d like the western omelet with French fries and ketchup.”

“Sounds good. And for you, ma’am?”

“Oh, I think I’d like an egg-white omelet with Swiss cheese and mushrooms. No potatoes. No toast.”

“Yeah, I’m always on a diet too. Not that it ever lasts. Son? You want a biscuit?”

“Sure!”

“I’ll bring you two,” she said and left.

“So, Glam? What’s up with you and Guster? Is he moving back in?”

I nearly choked. Is this how his generation communicated respectfully with their grandparents?

“Why on earth would you ask such a question?”

“Well, because I think you need to have someone around the house. I mean, I can do things like take out the trash and change lightbulbs that are too high for you to reach. I like climbing ladders. And I can wash the car and cut the grass.”

“Sweetie, you already do many of those things to help me, and I appreciate it so much.”

“Yeah, but if I stayed and went to school here, it would be so much better for all of us. Don’t you see? I mean, what’s going to happen to Stella and Stanley if I have to leave? They’ll die from loneliness!”

So will I, I thought, so will I.

“You know, Charlie, I think you have to do what your momma wants you to do. She’s your parent.”

“You don’t know how awful it is to live in Brooklyn compared to here.”

Libby put our food in front of us. It looked delicious. “Y’all enjoy!” she said and walked away.

“May I have the ketchup, please?” he called after her.

She turned back to us and slid the bottle across the table. The ketchup bottle had been right in front of us all along.

“If it was any closer it woulda bit your little nose off! Ha ha!” she said, and Charlie rolled his eyes.

I was sorely tempted to roll mine.

“Listen, Charlie, if your momma wanted to stay, she’d be welcome, just as you are, and I think you know that. But she has to make that call, not us. And whatever she decides, we have to honor it, right?”

“I
really
don’t want to go, Glam.”

“I know, sweetie. I wish you didn’t have to, but I’m afraid you will. Look, once you get home and start school, time will fly. You know it will! And before you can whistle Dixie, Thanksgiving will be here and you’ll be back! Right?”

“You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

“Our house
smells
like Dad. Everywhere you look there’s a
picture
of him or
something
that reminds you of him. When Mom gets back, she’s going to get depressed
all over again
. I don’t think I can take it, Glam. I really don’t.”

What he really meant was that
he
would get depressed. I would have to speak to Jackie about putting away pictures and mementos and maybe even repainting so the rooms smelled fresh? Maybe Buster and I could buy them a new sofa so the old one wouldn’t remind him of sitting there with Jimmy watching television. Oh hell, I didn’t know what to do. I’d ask Buster.

“I’ll speak to your mother,” I said. “Now let’s eat. There are starving children all over the world.”

We finished up our breakfast, which was delicious beyond description, paid the bill, and went home. When we got there, the house was empty. Jackie was at work. And I found a note on the kitchen table from Buster that he and Steve had gone to the fish and tackle store to buy Charlie a rod and reel.

Charlie looked at the note and said, “Awesome! Meanwhile, can I go see Jessee, Johnnie, and Jojo? Pleeeeeease?”

“Sure! Go have fun! But if you leave their house to go
anywhere
else, you must call me, okay?”

He gave me a thumbs-up, grabbed his skateboard and helmet, and was gone.

I called Deb. “You busy? Want to go for a walk?”

“Great idea. I need it. I’ve been doing nothing but eating since the funeral. I feel like a slug.”

“Meet you at my beach steps in ten minutes?”

“Puuur-fect,” she said and hung up.

I changed my clothes and pulled on my sneakers, wondering what there was to be done about Charlie. I knew how Jackie felt. I had not moved a single picture of Buster in all the years he’d been fishing. Well, to be honest, I should say “since he had left me,” but I had told myself it was temporary so many times that now it was! And those pictures marked happier times: Jackie’s wedding, our vacations, and so on. Who wouldn’t want to be reminded of an occasion that gave you pleasure? So I could easily understand why she didn’t put pictures away. Still, I’d have a chat with her. And Buster.

Deb was waiting for me, and in record time we were off and walking.

“So do I look bloated?” she asked.

“Of course not! If you feel bloated, eat asparagus. Or drink hot lemonade. You know that.”

“I know, I know.”

“But here’s the twenty-four-million-dollar question.”

“What?”

“Do I look like I had sex?”

She stopped dead.
“WHAT?”
She started to laugh, and so did I.
“With who? Buster?”