Porch Lights

  “Great,” I said.

  “Here, I’ll take that,” Dad said to Steve.

  Steve put the bags on the counter and asked, “Everybody all right?”

  “Yeah, just waiting for Jackie so we can polish off some leftover pot roast,” Dad said. “Did you eat, Steve?”

  “No, but I’m good. I’ve got a fridge filled with sushi.”

  “Sushi? That’s sissy food, no offense.” Mom shot Dad a death-ray look. “No, I’m serious! I don’t know how you make a meal out of that stuff!”

  “It can be really delicious,” I said.

  “Humph. There ain’t but one way to eat fish in my book. Fried. Except for sometimes baked and stuffed with crab. Or in chowder.”

  “Dad’s a real gourmand,” I said and giggled. I started unpacking the groceries I had brought home. “Where’s Charlie?”

  “Charlie ate. He’s off on his skateboard,” Mom said. “I told him to be back by dark.”

  “Okay. Anybody want a little cheese and crackers? A little duck liver pâté?” I was already putting it all on a plate. Steve looked at it like he’d die if he couldn’t have some.

  “Steve? Why don’t you open a bottle of wine for you and Jackie? It’s in the refrigerator on the door. Annie and I are enjoying our second very small martini.”

  “Slowly,” Mom said. “Very slowly.”

  “Yeah,” I said and handed him the corkscrew. “Slow is a good idea. The last time I had two martinis, I woke up naked with my jewelry on.”

  “Jackie!” Mom said. “You shouldn’t tell a thing like that!”

  “Why not? I thought it was a riot,” I said. It was slightly odd for me to tell that story, but I knew there was something in me that wanted Steve to think I could be a wild child.

  “Um, excuse me for being on the other team, but I agree with your daughter,” Steve said and laughed as he pulled the cork. I could read his mind—wish I had been there. Aha.

  “Glasses?”

  I handed him two from the cabinet. There was no bar set up that night, which was probably wise, but it had not stopped my parents from finding their way to the olives.

  “Well, it’s about the most reckless thing I ever did in my life.” I pushed aside a place setting and put the platter of cheese and crackers on the table.

  “Right,” Steve said and clinked the side of my glass. “She carried a loaded rifle through the hills of Afghanistan, but two martinis were her undoing.”

  “Oh, please. I was with my husband, and we went to a Christmas party where everyone was drinking martinis. It was stupid, I’ll admit, but not especially risky. Try the Huntsman, Dad.”

  “Which one is the Huntsman?”

  “It’s the cheddar with the stripe of blue cheese in it. But here, I’ll fix you some.”

  I cut a chunk, put it on a cracker, and handed it to him. He ate it and made a yum-yum sound.

  “Pretty good, huh?”

  “Very good,” he said and turned to Mom. “Can I make one for you?”

  “Why that would be so sweet, Buster! Isn’t he darling?” she said to me.

  Mom was tighter than a tick. She must’ve been. Dad might have been too. But I knew one thing, they needed fresh air. And at least she hadn’t resurrected her red lipstick.

  “Yeah, darling was just the word I was looking for,” I said and laughed. “Why don’t y’all go sit on the porch?” I picked up the cheese board and handed it to Steve with my eyebrows as arched as I could arch them. He got the message. “I’ll join y’all in a few minutes. I just want to wash my hands and get out of these scrubs.”

  “That sounds great,” Steve said. “Besides, I have to get the kids home at a decent hour. School night and all that.”

  “No! Stay!” I blurted out. I don’t know why I said that, but I did. “There’s tons to eat.”

  “Well, all right. I’ll stay, then. Thanks.”

  Dad pulled Mom up from her chair, and they left the room arm in arm doing the wibble-wobble as they went. Nothing like a couple of shots of good gin to motivate Cupid.

  “Make them eat cheese so they don’t get tanked,” I whispered. “I’ll be out there ASAP.”

  “Got it,” he whispered back.

  I ran to my room and dug through my closet. I had a clean red linen shirt and a pair of white capris. They’d have to do. So I threw off my scrubs, brushed out my ponytail, put on my change of clothes, and slipped on a pair of sandals.

  I hurried back to the kitchen and checked the pot roast. Thankfully, there was plenty for everyone. I added another place setting to the table, and as quickly as I could I went to the porch to join them. Dad was holding court, reciting “Casey at the Bat,” which he did only when his blood alcohol level was beyond the legal limit. Maybe he’d been sipping some beer before they started shaking the shaker. My parents had too much to drink only when they were nervous, and what in the world did they have to be nervous about?

  Steve was thoroughly amused. Mom was shaking her head in disbelief, as she had not had the privilege of hearing Dad’s dramatic presentation in years. And Charlie, who had returned and somehow slipped by me, was completely enthralled.

  “Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt; Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt. Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance gleamed in Casey’s eyes, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.”

  Dad was quite the living room actor, reciting his favorite poem with all the accompanying movements, rubbing his hands on his shirt, sneering, and so forth.

  “Oh, hello, sweetheart!” Mom said. “Come join us!”

  “Oh, now, Annie, you’ve made me lose my place,” Dad whined. “Charlie? What was the last line?”

  “A sneer curled Casey’s lip!” Of course, Charlie sneered the most exaggerated sneer he could muster, and everyone was charmed.

  “Ah!” Dad said and continued his rendition until the final line was delivered: “But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out!”

  Charlie clapped and jumped up and exclaimed, “Oh, Guster! That was wonderful! Can you do it again?”

  Mom and I groaned. Then Dad realized he was hogging the mike and sputtered, “Another time, Charlie. In fact, I can teach it to you, if you’d like.”

  “Dinner’s ready,” I said, and we all went inside to the kitchen.

  Somehow pot roasts improve with a little age on them, and the one we had reheated was no exception. It was delicious, and there wasn’t enough left to feed the ants.

  “This was wonderful,” Steve said after wiping up the gravy on his second serving with a piece of bread. “Absolutely just like my mother used to make.”

  “And it was my mother who taught me to make it!” Mom said, not wanting a good pot roast to add to her age.

  “Well, I’m going to say good night because I have early appointments in the morning. See y’all tomorrow, and thanks again!” Steve was standing by then and went around the table to give my mother a hug and shake Dad’s hand. I got up to walk him to the door and get his dogs.

  “See you tomorrow! We’ll wash up the dishes, Jackie,” Dad said. “Come on, Charlie, help your Guster and Glam put the quietus on this mess, and I’ll tell you all about Mudville. There’s a big dispute over where the real Mudville is . . .”

  As soon as we stepped onto the porch, Stella and Stanley got up and ambled over. I could tell they were worn out. The heat was getting to everyone, even the dogs.

  “You know, Charlie has just loved taking care of them,” I said.

  “Yeah, I think I got the better end of the deal, though,” he said.

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, if Charlie didn’t have the dogs over here every day, I wouldn’t have the excuse to see you.”

  “Just what are you saying?”

  “Whoa, whoa! I’m not asking you to slow dance, okay? I’m just saying it’s nice to have someone to talk to who’s been through the same horror show.”


  “Oh, I’m sorry. God, why am I so touchy?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that one. So have you decided when you’re going back? That’s some awfully long drive, isn’t it? What is it, like eighteen hours?”

  “Yeah, it’s really terrible. Probably the end of next week.”

  “I’ll give you my e-mail. Let me know when y’all are coming back.”

  “Why?”

  “You know, you’ve got the wrong attitude here. I’m a nice man.”

  “You are. I don’t know why I’m suddenly so bitchy. I was just thinking today or maybe it was yesterday, I can’t remember. Anyway, I was thinking about what a great guy you are. Just so you know and don’t go get a fat head over it, I was a little jealous when I saw that cheap tramp with you on your deck. There, I’ve said it, and it doesn’t matter because I’m leaving anyway.”

  “Really? Tell me the truth, why are you leaving? Your family is here, not in New York.”

  “Isn’t your family in Ohio? You don’t live with them, do you?”

  “My family isn’t like yours. They’re stuffy and humorless. I got born into the wrong family, I think. Now, your parents? I am completely crazy about your parents. They’re like the two coolest people I know.”

  “That’s because they’re not your parents. I couldn’t live with them. Especially my mother. I’d lose my mind. I mean, I left here years ago to make my own life.”

  “Well, whatever you say. But I wouldn’t leave the Lowcountry if you gave me the south of France and threw in Napa as a bonus.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because it speaks to me.”

  “Seriously? Are you crazy?”

  “Maybe, but probably not. You’ve just forgotten how to listen, and I’ve just learned.”

  “Really? So what’s it saying?”

  “Hmmm, I don’t know if you want to hear it.”

  “Oh, please. Do I strike you as Nurse Sensitivo?”

  “Hardly.” He looked at me for a moment. “Okay, the Lowcountry is saying that I have a beautiful young woman before me with a lot of living left to do but she’s too unhappy to live like she should. And, it’s saying that happiness is a choice—”

  “Oh, come on—”

  “Wait! There’s more. And maybe her misery and some convoluted concept she has about what she thinks independence is, is more important to her right now than anything else. Maybe she thinks that if she stops being moody and unhappy her husband’s spirit will fly away forever. To be happy would be like him dying all over again, except now she’d be the one killing him.”

  “Jesus God, Steve, that’s pretty heavy.”

  “Yeah, well. Life’s heavy. Anyway, I gotta go. We both have to get up at six. Thanks for dinner.”

  “Sure,” I said and watched him leave and cross our yard to his. “Anytime.” My words were absorbed into the damp night air.

  With the way I tossed and turned, you would’ve thought I was sleeping on a bed of rocks that night. I kept dreaming about Jimmy. When Mom saw me in the morning she tried to hide her surprise, but I knew I looked awful. I filled a mug with coffee, wondering how many cups it would take to get my motor into gear.

  “Didn’t sleep so well, honey?” she said.

  “No, I kept dreaming about Jimmy. It’s the first time I’ve dreamed about him.”

  “I’ve got oatmeal and fresh fruit this morning. How’s that?”

  “Great.” She put a bowl in front of me. It was slow-cooked steel-cut oatmeal sprinkled with brown sugar and blueberries. The campaign continued in earnest. “Wow.”

  “You’re welcome. So what happened?”

  “He was on this boat in the distance—”

  “Crossing over the River Jordan—”

  “No, really, Mom. You want to hear this or not?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Anyway, suddenly we were at this funeral, I don’t know who died, but Jimmy was holding a baby and he turned to me and put it in my arms.”

  “Boy or girl?”

  “I don’t know. Girl, I think, but I don’t know why.”

  Mom stood there looking at me with this funny smile.

  “Okay, you’ve consulted your Lowcountry inner witch doctor. May we have the interpretation, please?”

  Dream interpretation was my mother’s specialty, taught to her by her mother and to her mother by her mother. But looking for signs in the Lowcountry always produced wonders.

  “That’s Jimmy telling you he’s fine and to go on with your life.”

  “If one more person says that to me I’m going to scream!”

  “Don’t look at me. He’s your husband, not mine.”

  Chapter 16

  Here Legrand, having re-heated the parchment, submitted it my inspection. The following characters were rudely traced, in a red tint, between the death’s-head and the goat:

  53‡‡†305))6*;4826)4‡.)4‡);806*;48†8¶60))85;1‡(;:‡*883(88) 5*†;46(;

  . . . “These characters, as any one might readily guess, form a cipher—that is to say, they convey a meaning; but then, from what is known of Kidd, I could not suppose him capable of constructing any of the more abstruse cryptographs. I made up my mind, at once, that this was of a simple species—such, however, as would appear, to the crude intellect of the sailor, absolutely insoluble without the key.”

  —Edgar Allan Poe, “The Gold-Bug”

  Annie

  Jackie left for work and I sat at the kitchen table, waiting for Buster to mosey out of his cave. Deb and I had decided to suspend our morning walks as long as Buster was there because I wanted to have breakfast with him. I was taking our marriage out of storage and, sort of but not completely, trying it on for size.

  “If you feel like walking, call me.”

  “I will,” I said.

  But more important, I was going to have a granddaughter. Oh! I was so happy! Who would be the father? Would she get married? She had better get married, or I’d take off my belt and wail on her little fanny. Wait, no, I wouldn’t. I had not worn a belt in years. I wasn’t sure I even owned one anymore. But I told Deb the story of Jackie’s dream. She understood and agreed with me.

  “That girl sure is a spitfire! May I just speak as one Lowcountry old salt to another? Don’t you just love it when people think they’re actually in charge of their lives?”

  “Yes, ma’am! Makes me laugh. You see, she’s forgotten that in the Lowcountry, the hand of God is alive and well.”

  I had no intention of telling Buster the news. Over the years, every time I had told Buster something from a dream meant thus and so was going to happen, he’d told me I was crazy and looked at me like I was one of the old witches from Macbeth stirring the pot. And when that predicted event came to pass, he’d harrumph that it was merely coincidence. Well, there were too many coincidences to be coincidences, okay? So Jackie’s remarriage and daughter-to-be would remain my secret, but maybe I’d start to crochet a pastel pink afghan and just let him wonder why. Wouldn’t that be fun?

  “G’morning, Mrs. Britt, how did you sleep?”

  Buster was up and poised for his morning hug. Because there was no one around to take our picture and put it up on Facebook, I gave the old bear a full frontal, arms around the neck, the whole nine yards. He did not object.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said and released me. “What’s for breakfast? Something smells very good.”

  “You’re smelling brown sugar. Sit, I’ll get you a bowl.”

  I scooped out a generous serving of oatmeal, gave it the full garnish, including a pat of butter, and put it on the table before him.

  “Thanks. I didn’t know oatmeal could be so . . . well, so dang pretty!” He smiled at me, and I thought he was still handsome, in an appealing rugged weather-beaten kind of way.

  He was probably living on cornflakes, and cooking oatmeal probably never occurred to him.

  “Thanks,” I said and handed him a mug of coffee.

  “I
s Charlie up?” he asked.

  “No, but it’s time for him to go get the dogs. I’ll go wiggle his foot.”

  “You mind if I make some toast?”

  “Gosh, no. Help yourself to whatever you want.”

  I heard Buster grunt as I left the room. It wasn’t a grunt of disapproval; it was one that sounded like Well, how do you like that? I can help myself! Don’t read too much into it, I thought.

  I opened Charlie’s door quietly and peeked inside his room. The only movement was the gentle turning paddles of the overhead fan and the rise and fall of Charlie’s back. He was sleeping on his stomach; his torso and one leg were on the bed and the other leg was in midair, hanging over the floor. At some point he had kicked the covers off, and the leg of his pajama bottom was pushed up to his knee. He was a study in boyhood, and if I’d been an artist I would’ve set up my easel right there.

  “Charlie?”

  “Huh?”

  “Time to get up, sweetheart. Gotta go get the dogs. And breakfast is ready.”

  “ ’Kay. I’m coming.”

  Was it possible that he had grown overnight? He rolled out of bed and walked past me, headed for the bathroom. It seemed that his bottoms were too short.

  When Charlie came back with Stanley and Stella and settled them on the front porch, we all sat down at the table. Buster announced that he was going fishing and did Charlie want to come along? I said that I would like to come along too, and they looked at me like I had just said Barack and Michelle were coming for dinner or some kind of crazy thing like that.

  “Why can’t I fish with y’all too?” I said, feeling a little defensive, but one of the things I’d told myself is that if we should ever flirt with a reconciliation, I would try to find out what it was about fishing that held such an attraction for him and thousands of other men.

  “No! Of course you can! You just never wanted to go fishing before!” Buster said.

  “Well, where are you going to fish?”

  “I was thinking Breach Inlet,” Buster said.

  “Wonderful! Can we stop at Thomson Park for a few minutes?”

  “What kind of Thomson Park?” Buster said.