Porch Lights Read online

  “What?”

  “You’re going to a RiverDogs baseball game with Dr. Steve!”

  “I am? When?”

  “In about two hours. And guess what else?”

  “What?”

  “Bill Murray is going to be there! You do know who Bill Murray is, don’t you?”

  “Duh! Ghostbusters, SNL, and Groundhog Day Bill Murray?”

  “The one and only.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “Well, apparently he has some money invested in the team.”

  “Do you think I could get his autograph?”

  I could almost see Charlie’s heart pounding against the face of Edgar Allan Poe on his shirt.

  “Well, I don’t know, but I’m sure if you asked Dr. Steve he might be able to figure that out. And Mr. Murray is supposed to be a prince of a guy. He’s got kids.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because, Little Mr. Inquisitive, he used to live down the island.”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “I never lie! Now, go get a shower.”

  “Oh, my Lord!” I like to think the young one exclaimed in a prayer of Thanksgiving. “This is the coolest vacation ever!”

  Steve was prompt, Charlie was ready, and the dogs were happy to see Steve.

  “Y’all are so spoiled!” he told his dogs.

  “They’re delightful!” I lied.

  “Sorry about reading ‘The Gold-Bug’ together, Glam. We can start tomorrow?” Charlie said as he pushed his hair back from his face. “I got a little pad of paper, just in case, you know, in case we see him.”

  “See who?” Steve asked.

  “Bill Murray,” I said.

  “Well, we’ll likely see him if he’s there because we’re sitting in the owners’ box.”

  “I’m gonna faint,” Charlie said.

  “Don’t faint,” Steve said. “So you’re reading ‘The Gold-Bug’? That’s a tough one.”

  “That’s why we are going to read it together,” I said.

  “Use my e-reader,” Steve said. “It’s probably public domain. You can download it in, like, two seconds and when you don’t know the meaning of a word you just highlight it and it gives a definition. Couldn’t be easier to read old books and classic works. I’ll leave it on the table for you tomorrow morning. How’s that?”

  “Awesome!”

  “We’d better get going, or we’ll miss the opening pitch!”

  “We’re outta here!” Charlie exclaimed. He opened the screen door and hung on it, waiting for Steve.

  “What time do you think y’all will get home?” I said.

  “Oh, probably by dark. Here’s my cell number if you need us.”

  Steve reached into his wallet and handed me his card.

  I started getting nervous then. What if Charlie got lost in the crowd?

  “Oh, no worries! Y’all just go have fun! Behave yourself, young man! And make sure you don’t lose sight of Steve for one minute. You know how crazy crowds can get.”

  “Don’t worry, Annie. I’ll keep an eye on him the whole time. Should I take Stella and Stanley home?”

  “Oh, no. They’re so comfortable here. And they’re good company.”

  They left and I thought, Oh, hells bells, Jackie is going to come home and kill me dead. And she just about did. She came waltzing in around seven thirty, just as I was sliding a nice piece of flounder into the grease.

  “Hey! You hungry?” I asked, trying to sound like Mrs. Blithe Spirit. “I’ve got a ton of flounder.”

  “Sure. I’ll just go wash up. Where’s Charlie?”

  “Oh, Jackie! The most wonderful thing happened!” I had practiced the story over and over since Charlie and Steve left. “Steve had tickets to the RiverDogs game to sit in the owners’ box with Bill Murray! Isn’t that grand? Charlie was beside himself with excitement! They should be home any time now because the game started at five.”

  “You did what?”

  “I told you—”

  “You told me you let my only child go off alone with a near-perfect stranger and you didn’t even call me to ask if I thought that was all right?”

  “He’s not a stranger, Jackie. I know Steve very well, and he has a wonderful reputation. Pristine, in fact. There’s no reason to think that there’s a thing to worry about.”

  “Really? What if something does happen to him?”

  “Since when don’t you think you can trust your own mother’s judgment? Now, you go wash your hands and come back in here and apologize to me. I’m losing patience with your paranoia, Jackie. It’s not right, and it puts unnecessary stress on Charlie.”

  Well, that shut her up for the moment. We ate dinner in relative silence until we heard the car door slam. Charlie came bursting into the room, practically floating.

  “Guess what? The RiverDogs won by one point, I sat with Bill Murray the whole time, I have five of his autographs—I’m gonna sell four on eBay—and he gave me a T-shirt and a baseball and a hat and he signed them all!”

  Steve was standing by the door smiling, pleased as punch that he had done a very nice thing for Charlie and that it had worked out so well. Jackie’s face was bloodred with embarrassment.

  “And I ate four hot dogs, I got to go in the dugout and meet the team, and then I threw up, but only once. And I’m fine now. And I’m starving. Is there any more fish?”

  Chapter 9

  . . . the tulip-tree. . . . Embracing the huge cylinder, as closely as possible, with his arms and knees, seizing with his hands some projections, and resting his naked toes upon others, Jupiter, after one or two narrow escapes from falling, at length wriggled himself into the first great fork . . .

  —Edgar Allan Poe, “The Gold-Bug”

  Jackie

  So spank me, I was wrong. My mother might be right. Maybe I am paranoid. So what? If she was in my situation, wouldn’t she be a little freaked out? I think she would be. I’d seen children beaten to within an inch of their lives. Children who’d been raped. I’d seen atrocities so horrible that they registered in my mind as something I’d seen on a screen on film, not in real life. And listen, that said, I don’t want to be that mother who won’t let her kid go places until she has the life history and ten references on the person who wants to take him somewhere either. Pick up any newspaper. News flash! The world is crawling with perverts! Clergy, coaches, and politicians! Who can you trust anymore? I know, I know, I overreacted. But sorry, anyone who doesn’t believe horrible things happen to innocent children should spend some time in Kandahar. She should’ve given me a heads-up. I mean, that’s just common courtesy. Isn’t it?

  It was barely six o’clock in the morning, but I was still smoldering, tossing and turning in my sheets and self-righteous indignation. I decided to get up, go out for coffee, and buy myself a copy of The New York Times. Maybe that would lighten my mood, to read some news from the big world out there, like maybe Jane Brody’s health column. I’d always liked her so much, and since I’d been in the Middle East I’d missed a lot of other things that made it worth the expense and aggravation it took to live in a major metropolitan area like New York. Like great pizza and the chance to see the Statue of Liberty anytime I felt like it. The Macy’s Day Parade on Thanksgiving morning and the Bronx Zoo. The Cyclone roller coaster on Coney Island, Chinatown, Little Italy, and so many other things and places . . . Central Park, Radio City and the Rockettes, on and on. It would kill my mother if I told her this, but I really loved New York.

  Everyone was still sleeping, so I left a note on the kitchen table: “Gone out for a newspaper and a cappuccino. Be back soon. On my cell. Xx”

  I got into my car and backed out of the yard, headed toward the Ben Sawyer Bridge. It was too early for the bookstore to be open and it was the only place I knew of that sold the Times in its café. So I went in the other direction, remembering Page’s Okra Grill, where I could sit and read and amuse myself with the paper until a decent hour and a better mo
od rolled around. While I was in nursing school I’d spent hours there, studying for exams. I wondered what Dad would have to say about what Mom had done. Maybe I’d call him. He’d side with me. I was sure of it. Of course a great deal of planning had gone into how he was going to see Charlie without Mom going nuts. Mom was just going to have to suck it up.

  I bought my paper, saw that Page’s Okra Grill had moved to the location where Alex’s used to be, and went there. I was getting reacquainted with Mount Pleasant whether I wanted to or not.

  It was not even seven, but Page’s already had customers. I went in and took a seat against the back wall at a table for two. The waitress, a mature woman whose name tag said LIBBY, was there in moments.

  “Mornin’, hon! Can I start you out with a cup of coffee?”

  “Thanks.”

  She filled my mug and asked, “Juice?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Fine. Well, here’s our menu. Have a look, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I had no intention of ordering breakfast, preferring to eat later in the morning with Charlie, but after watching steaming plates of fluffy scrambled eggs and sausage patties pass within smelling distance, I was weakening to the point that if I didn’t get some breakfast I was going to start crying. Well, not really crying, but I might whimper if the next plate going by wasn’t for me.

  “So, did y’all decide?”

  “Yes. I’d like two eggs over easy, grits with no butter, sausage patties, and a biscuit with no butter.”

  Libby stared at me like Who are you kidding? Have the butter.

  “Watching my cholesterol. You know. Gotta watch that stuff.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, would you rather have egg whites and turkey sausage?”

  “No way. Isn’t it enough that I gave up butter in my grits?”

  “If you say so. I’m just pointing out the fact that you have options. Personally? I agree with you. You couldn’t pay me folding money to eat turkey sausage. Pretty little skinny thing like you doesn’t have to worry about all that mess. You’re too young!”

  “I’m a nurse, and I’ve seen the horrors of blocked arteries.”

  “Oh. Well, I mix up my eggs in my grits so as I don’t miss the butter.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m intending to do. That’s what we always did around here when I was a kid.”

  “Oh? You from east of the Cooper?”

  “Yeah, I grew up on the island, but I’ve been gone for a long time.”

  We always said “the island” to mean Sullivans Island. If you were from the Isle of Palms you said “Isle of Palms,” and more recently people had begun referring to it as the IOP.

  “Uh-huh. I can hear a teensy bit of a Yankee accent, but that’s okay. My ex-husband is a Yankee, and so are a lot of my friends.”

  “Well, that’s nice.” She didn’t say it like “Some of my best friends are lepers,” so I didn’t take offense. “I’ve been living in Brooklyn for a dozen years.”

  “Oh, so you’re here visiting?”

  “Yeah, I just got out of the army.”

  “Oh! So you’re an army nurse? Where did they send you?”

  “Afghanistan.”

  “Afghanistan! Wow! Let me just put your order in, and I’ll be right back. I want to hear this.”

  I poured two tiny containers of nondairy half-and-half into my coffee and stirred it, looking around at the scant population of early risers. Some were retired men who probably came here every morning to discuss whatever it is that old men discuss—health and money, I guessed. Some were tourists dressed in crazy outfits obviously on their way to an early-morning tee time. There was a table of two people, an older man and a younger man. The older man was being interviewed and it didn’t look promising because the younger man looked very ill at ease. Some looked like construction workers, and others, older ladies, probably had doctor appointments or were on their way to the grocery store or to Mass. Everyone in the restaurant had a story, and I was sure that every story had its share of joy and pain, regrets and ambitions. I wondered what they thought my story was or if they wondered about me at all. One thing was certain about my mother’s assessment of life: what my mother had done last night did not seem so horrible as the morning light continued to grow. Maybe the night brought out something feral in me that needed to howl at the moon. The night was when I thought about the enemy or any enemies of my family and what I wanted for us. I was good under the cover of night. Very good. Maybe I really was being overprotective of Charlie.

  Libby returned with my biscuit and said, “The rest will be up in just a minute. So tell me, what in the world were you doing in Afghanistan?”

  “Taking care of the injured and trying to understand the culture. Trying to figure out how to make it better for the women and children without getting our heads blown off.”

  “Wow. My ex-husband, Raymond, did four tours in Vietnam. He was a son of a bitch, between us girls. Came home as crazy as a loon.”

  Was I as crazy as a loon? I didn’t think so. Just jittery.

  “Yeah, boy. He got liquored up all the time and went down the dock to shoot fish with his hunting rifle. That wasn’t any kind of a life for me! No, ma’am! So are you going back over?”

  “I can’t. I lost my husband last month, and I have to stay stateside because we have a son who’s just ten.”

  “Oh, hon! That’s terrible! I’m so sorry! Y’all still got family here?”

  “Yeah, my mother. She’s still on the island. And there’s my dad, who’s up in Murrells Inlet.”

  “Oh, they’re divorced? I’m sorry. I always say I’m sorry when I hear news like that. I mean, maybe it is the best thing for them both, but it’s still sad when families fall apart.”

  “Well, they’re not divorced. They just can’t seem to work out their differences. Not that they’ve tried very hard, that I know of anyway.”

  “And you’d like to see them back together, I imagine?”

  “Of course. Who doesn’t want their family to be intact and happy?”

  “I hear you, darlin’! Let me go check on those eggs for you.”

  Libby returned a few minutes later, put the plate in front of me. I had inhaled my biscuit. She lingered as though there was something she wanted to say. When she couldn’t seem to find her words, I spoke up. “So I guess you’re divorced, then?” I cut into the egg white, scooped up some grits with it, and ate it. It was so damn delicious I couldn’t believe it.

  “Yeah, but it’s all right. I met a nice guy. Mike is his name. You know, I was thinking, why don’t you just tell your daddy he needs to come home? Daddies always listen to their little girls.”

  “Well, I’m not so little anymore, and I’m afraid I did something worse than that. I rode up to Murrells Inlet yesterday and told him that the man next door was flirting with Momma. He didn’t like that much.” I took a deep sip of my coffee and cut another bite of egg, letting the yolk fully integrate with the grits. I couldn’t get it into my mouth fast enough. “Actually, the truth is that my momma’s flirting with him. But you know, my dad’s been gone for eleven years and I can’t blame my mother, really.”

  Libby stood back and swallowed hard. Then she narrowed her eyes. “Hold on, sister. You told on your momma? You’re kidding, right?”

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly like that. Besides, my mother is well, taking grandmotherly liberties with my son—”

  “What do you mean—liberties?”

  “Oh, no!” I could tell by the look on Libby’s face that she had the completely wrong idea. “No, last night she let him go to a baseball game with a friend of hers. It was a RiverDogs game, and he went without my permission—”

  “While you were off seeing your daddy?”

  “Right.”

  “Wait a minute, you didn’t even know all that when you were up the road telling your daddy about this man flirting with your momma, did you?” Libby’s face was incredulous.

  “No. I mean, you’re righ
t. One thing has nothing to do with the other.”

  “Uh-huh. You want a piece of advice from a tired sixty-three-year-old waitress who has seen it all?”

  “Sure.”

  “Love your momma, honey, and try to treasure every minute you spend with her. Forgive her everything she does. She’s not out to aggravate you. I’d give every last tooth I have left in my head to have my momma back for just ten minutes. I’m not lying either. She was the best friend I ever had, and well, I didn’t know it until she was gone. Cried a river.”

  “Oh, I know she’s my friend. I mean, I usually know. Just lately, things have been rough.”

  “I’m sure, losing your husband and all.”

  “Yeah, especially because he died in a fire. He was a fireman with the NYFD. Pretty gruesome.”

  “Great God in heaven! I’m gonna pray for your whole family. Oh, I’m just so sorry.”

  “Thanks.” Why was I telling this old woman the story of my life? But, on an odd note, she was honestly moved by my story.

  “Now, as far as your daddy and the man next door? Let the two roosters work that out. Listen to old Libby. I’ve seen it all. Don’t get involved. Just sit back and see what happens. You done planted the seed.”

  She stepped away, got the coffeepot, came back, and refilled my mug. “I’m gonna get you another biscuit. On the house. I saw them pulling fresh ones out of the oven a minute ago.”

  “Thanks,” I said, thinking I couldn’t swallow another bite.

  But somehow I did, and that biscuit disappeared as well. I needed to join a gym.

  The truth was that Charlie had not been kidnapped, that Steve Plofker was probably an extremely nice man, and that I was obviously a wall-licking lunatic when it came to Charlie’s comings and goings. Old Libby might have made a donation of most of her molars to no purposeful end, but I knew she was right. And I needed to get a serious grip on my emotional judgment. This was the Lowcountry, for heaven’s sake, and the last serious crime on Sullivans Island had been committed by some local breaking curfew by riding around on his golf cart after dark. And my mother was the most well-intentioned person I’d ever known. I mean, Aunt Maureen was great, but nobody loves you like your mother loves you. I needed to give her a break. I needed to give Aunt Maureen a call. And I needed to calm down.