Porch Lights Read online

  We probably would have spent the whole night on the porch, just swapping old memories and stories and reliving easier days. I wasn’t even hungry because lunch was on the late side and I had eaten a lot more than I usually did. I guess I was sitting there in that rocker just time traveling back to my childhood. Maybe I was too exhausted to get up. Maybe I thought Charlie would just sleep through the night. I never expected what happened next.

  Mom got up to go to the kitchen to pour us a glass of wine and to get a box of Cheez-Its, which are my personal devil to resist and she knew it.

  “Do you want me to flip on the porch light?”

  “No, I think I like it like this. Check on my boy, will you, please?”

  “Of course!” she said and closed the screen door gingerly.

  Slamming screen doors, car doors, cabinet doors—doors slamming was a shared pet peeve. Anyway, a few minutes later Mom reappeared with Charlie at her side. Even in the dim light I could see that he had been crying.

  “Sweetheart! Come here! What’s wrong?” I held out my arms to him, and he climbed up on my lap, burying his face in my shoulder. “Tell me, baby. What happened? Did you have a bad dream?”

  “No . . . I was just . . . listening to him . . .” Charlie choked up and began to cry in earnest. I could feel him shudder, and with each sob my heart broke a little more.

  “Oh, my poor sweet boy! Tell me, honey. Tell me who you were listening to.”

  “He was listening to his voice mail,” my mother said, holding up his cell phone. “There’s a long message on here from Jimmy.”

  “It was the last time he called me,” Charlie said. “I just don’t want to erase it.”

  “You don’t have to, sweetie. You don’t ever have to.”

  It was then that I realized that no first-aid kit in the world could fix this. But at least I didn’t have to worry about Charlie working Mom’s nerves; he already owned her heart.

  Chapter 4

  Nonsense! no!—the bug. It is of a brilliant gold color—about the size of a large hickory-nut—with two jet black spots near one extremity of the back, and another, somewhat longer, at the other. The antennœ are—

  —Edgar Allan Poe, “The Gold-Bug”

  Annie

  Well, I don’t have to say this, but I’m going to say it anyway. When I found Charlie listening to his father’s voice mail, it just about broke my heart into a million and one pieces. After I pulled myself back together and I could really see just how off kilter Jackie was, I decided I simply had to step in and take over. I was going to keep the boy’s mind busy. And I was going to find plenty for Jackie to do too. My mother always said, “Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop.” The same thing applied to brains. Mercy! Was that the truth or what?

  So at seven thirty the next morning, while the house still slept, I called Deb. “You up?”

  “Of course I’m up! Already worked the word jumble and read Dear Abby. What’s going on?”

  “Can’t walk with you this morning. I’m throwing you over for a younger man.”

  She whispered, “Dr. MD?”

  I sighed. “Unfortunately, no. Younger. Charlie.”

  “Oh! Well, I guess I’ll live. How’d the first day go?”

  “A little rough. But they’ll be all right in time. They just need time.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Nothing. But thanks. I’ll call you later.”

  I went to the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee, and started making a batter for pancakes. I heated some syrup and blueberries in a small pot with some butter and put some bacon in a pan to fry. I knew the smells of maple and bacon would rouse them and then we could all launch our day. I was going to ask Jackie to wipe down all the windows that faced the ocean because they were covered in salt spray and I was taking Charlie out to discover what treasures had floated to shore overnight.

  Within fifteen minutes they both wandered into the kitchen, rubbing their eyes.

  “What smells so good, Glam?”

  “Come give me a smooch and I’ll fix you a plate!” I said. Charlie obediently gave me an antiseptic peck on the cheek and plopped into a chair. “Be a good boy and pour some OJ for all of us, will you, hon?” I gave a nod to the juice glasses on the counter.

  “Sure,” he said. He got up again, opened the door of the refrigerator, took out the carton, and began shaking it.

  “Shake that over the sink, Son,” Jackie said, filling a mug with steaming coffee. “Morning, Mom. We got any half-and-half?”

  “Here it is,” Charlie said, putting the carton on the table.

  “Hi, sweetheart.” I blew her an air kiss and said, “Oh wait, Charlie! We don’t put the cartons on the table.”

  “We don’t?” he said.

  “No, baby. We pour the juice right into the juice glasses and the half-and-half goes in my special cow.” I took my white ceramic cow from the cupboard and filled it through the hole in its back. “Now watch this.” I began to pour the cream in a trickle into Jackie’s mug. “Moooooooooooo!” I said in a low-pitched bovine voice, and Charlie looked at me with eyes the size of saucers like I was out of my blooming mind.

  “Glam likes a side of theater with her breakfast,” Jackie said, rolling her eyes.

  “Oh, come on,” I said, “let’s lighten up around here! It’s a beautiful day!”

  We were all finally seated, and I said, “Should we put a blessing on this?”

  Charlie said, “Sure!”

  “Do you want to say grace, sweetheart?” Jackie said.

  “Okay. Um, bless this food, Lord, and us, and thanks . . . uh, amen.”

  “Amen,” I said and cut into my pancakes with the side of my fork. “That blessing of yours sounds a little rusty, sweetheart.”

  “Yeah, well, back home, Aunt Maureen always says the blessing, and boy, does she go on and on and on . . .” Charlie made a face to reflect the extreme suffering he endured for the sake of a sanctified meal.

  “And let’s see. You’re sitting there and the food’s getting colder by the minute and your stomach is growling like you haven’t eaten anything in months?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Well,” Jackie said, “Aunt Maureen is very devout and she means well. The pancakes are so good, Mom.”

  “Thanks, hon. Well, Charlie, I think there’s real merit in thanking the good Lord for a nice meal, but I agree with you, it’s the intention that matters, not the length of the prayer. How is Aunt Maureen?”

  “She’s great,” Jackie said. “The whole world could use a dose of Aunt Maureen’s heart. I mean, she’s picking up our mail while we’re gone and sorting it in case there’s anything important. And she’s watering the plants so they don’t die. I mean, she just can’t do enough to help us.”

  “Isn’t that grand?” I said, hoping I sounded genuine. Yes, I was a little jealous of their obvious affection for her. I couldn’t help it. “I wish she’d come and visit me some day.”

  “She should get out of Brooklyn once in a while,” Charlie said. “I don’t think she ever goes anywhere on vacation except to Chicago to see her relatives who are so old and smelly they can’t even get out of bed.”

  “Charlie!” Jackie said. “That’s not nice. Maureen has to go see about them once in a while. She’s the youngest member of her family by at least ten years.”

  “How is the rest of Jimmy’s family? I haven’t heard about them in ages.”

  “Nursing homes. All of them. Except for Uncle Thomas and Aunt Ellen. Uncle Thomas is the one who was a priest? He lives in the archdiocese’s retirement home. And Aunt Ellen, well, she’s just not the same as she was.”

  “What happened to her?” I asked.

  “She’s got signs of Alzheimer’s,” Jackie said. “She needs to be in assisted living, but she won’t go. She wants to stay in her own home. She goes nuts if anyone tries to talk to her about it.”

  “What’s Alzheimer’s?” Charlie asked.

  “It’s the meanest disease in th
e whole world,” I said. “Would you like some more, Charlie?”

  “Uh, no thanks. But it was delicious!”

  “Alzheimer’s is a terrible illness that makes you lose your memories a little bit at a time until you don’t know who anyone is,” Jackie said.

  “Oh,” Charlie said and drained his juice. “Gross.”

  “Charlie? Sweetie? Why don’t you put your dishes in the sink and let’s you and me go for a walk on the beach?”

  “I don’t feel like walking the beach,” Jackie said.

  “You never did,” I said with a forgiving smile. “I was just thinking that it might be nice to spend some time with my grandson. That’s all.”

  “That’s actually a great idea,” Jackie said. “I’ll clean up the kitchen.”

  “Thanks! Let’s get out of here, Charlie.” We started out of the room and I stopped. “Jackie?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Listen, remember how we always wiped down the front windows?”

  “I’m all over it, Mom. Y’all go have fun!”

  In minutes, we were on the other side of the dunes. I slipped off my sandals and left them at the bottom of our steps. Charlie was barefooted. We were heading toward the lighthouse. Within twenty yards of our walkover, Charlie spotted a horseshoe crab.

  “Wow! Look at the size of this! It’s a monster.”

  Without any trepidation, he kicked it over with his big toe. It was predictably empty.

  “Probably a female,” I said.

  Charlie looked at me with the most curious expression and then a devilish grin. I knew what he was thinking. Where, exactly where, were the genitals?

  “How do you know?”

  “Because, my young scholar, this shell is easily twenty inches long and males don’t get this large.”

  “But it’s got this long thing . . . doesn’t that make it a boy?”

  “No, that long thing you refer to is a tail spine, not a tallywacker.”

  “Tallywacker?”

  “Yes. And you know exactly what I’m talking about too! But it’s probably best not to tell your momma I said that word, okay?”

  “Sure. Then what’s it for? Defense?”

  “Well, defense against its own habitat, I suppose. You see, sometimes a wave can flip them over on their backs. They stick that tail of theirs in the mud and flip themselves back over on their stomachs. Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Yeah. Way cool. Can I keep it?”

  “Of course! Why don’t you run it back up to the house now before someone else comes along and takes it.” Charlie was gone in a shot. “And makes a lamp out of it.” I was talking to myself and lost in the moment of watching my grandson filled with the joy of discovery. Oh, he had seen horseshoe crabs on this beach before, but this was the first time he had touched one without thinking twice. He was growing up. Before I could think about the tide or the dogs on the beach Charlie was running back. What energy little boys have! I thought.

  “I put it on the deck to catch the sun!” he called out.

  “Good, because if it’s not completely dried out—”

  “I know, I know. It draws ants. Meanwhile, I got the biggest crab shell in the world!”

  We picked up our walk, moving to the water’s edge so the incoming tide would wash over our feet.

  “The horseshoe crab isn’t really a crab, you know.”

  “It isn’t? Well, then, what the heck is it?”

  “It’s an arthropod. Related to the scorpion and spiders in general. Hasn’t changed a thing about itself in two hundred million years!”

  “For real?”

  “Yep. People call them living fossils.”

  “Wow.” Charlie was quiet for a few moments before he spoke again. “So what else do you know?”

  “What else do you want to know?”

  A flock of seagulls was wandering around the shore, and they began to scatter and fly away as we approached them. Charlie, as any little boy would, ran toward them waving his arms and growling like a crazy lion. When the remaining few took off in a panic, he laughed.

  “Dumb birds. A lot of stuff. Like what’s the story on that lighthouse?”

  “The lighthouse?”

  “Yeah. It’s really weird-looking. Aren’t they supposed to be round?”

  “Well, they usually are, but a triangle is a stronger shape. See the way the edge faces the ocean? This one has survived hurricane winds over 125 miles per hour. But I agree with you, it is weird-looking.”

  “Can we go in it? I mean, not right now. But sometime?”

  “Oh, I think I could get us an invitation for a tour.”

  “Sweet. Totally sweet.”

  “Ah, Charlie, there are so many wonders here, just waiting for you to find them.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, Charleston’s very historic. I mean, even this island has its share of important history that happened right on this very sand.”

  “History is a snore. Boooor-ing!”

  “Really? Really? Do you think pirates are a snore?”

  “Oh, please, Glam. All that baloney is just made-up junk.”

  “Pretty cynical for ten years old, aren’t we?” He shrugged his little shoulders, and my heart melted. “How about Blackbeard? He was here all the time. Did you know that?”

  “Come on.”

  “No, you come on! Grandmother never lies. I’m going to give you a book to read that will tell you all about Blackbeard and Stede Bonnet and all those characters. Their very real lives of danger and mayhem were a huge influence on Edgar Allan Poe, you know.”

  “Who’s Edgar Allan Poe?”

  I stopped dead in my tracks, grabbed my blouse over my heart, and gasped long and loud for effect. “What? You don’t know . . . he was here! Stationed at Fort Moultrie before the war!”

  “Which war?”

  “The only one that mattered, dear heart. Poe is the father of the detective novel and a pioneer of science fiction . . . oh, Mother McCree! I can see I have my work cut out for me!”

  By now Charlie had his arms folded across his chest and was staring at me through his bangs. I caught a glimpse of the man he would become, strong-willed and determined, but the stubborn little devil was caught in my snare. I had him right where I wanted him. So rather than lecture him, I began to walk again, making him beg me to tell him stories. He was amazed to learn that Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island was actually Poe’s “The Gold-Bug,” just re-imagined.

  “I read Treasure Island last year in a comic book! But I never even saw a copy of the bug book.”

  “ ‘The Gold-Bug.’ I’ll give you my copy if you’d like,” I said. “There’s even a Goldbug Island right over the Ben Sawyer Bridge!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Most people think ‘The Gold-Bug’ takes place on this very island because it is also believed that Blackbeard and a lot of other pirates used to bury their loot here. And they made maps to come back and find it. Pity the poor fellows who had to dig the holes to bury the booty.”

  “Why? And Glam, booty isn’t a nice word either, you know.”

  “What?” I could feel my face turn red. “ ‘Booty’ means ‘treasure.’ Anyway, because the captain would throw them in the hole with the treasure!”

  “You mean, they were buried alive?”

  “I imagine they shot them first. But being buried alive was a recurring theme in a lot of Poe’s work too.”

  “That is some seriously creepy stuff, Glam.”

  “Well, it could never happen today, but back in Poe’s day they didn’t have funeral homes who prepared bodies for burial. So the family would see about all that. And sometimes people in deep comas were accidentally buried alive. You should read The Fall of the House of Usher. I’m telling you, Poe was like Stephen King!”

  “Stephen King? The guy who wrote that movie Carrie? It’s Mom’s total favorite.”

  “Really? Well, Stephen King wrote the book on which the movie was based. If there is one,
you should always read the book before you see the film.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Oh, my dear . . . because a book lets your imagination soar and a movie makes all the decisions for you. A book is almost always, but not always, a far richer experience than a book turned into a movie. But I think it’s probably a real challenge to condense a whole book into an hour and a half or two hours on film.”

  “Wow. Mom says books are better too, but now I know why.”

  I smiled. If I had done anything right with Jackie, I had given her a love of reading. We walked and walked, talking about pirates and treasure maps and all kinds of things until we were finally walked and talked out.

  “Let’s go home,” I said. “It’s long past lunchtime.”

  “It is?”

  “Charlie? Look at the position of the sun.”

  I gave him a quick lesson on the sun and shadows, and he was simply amazed. What did they teach these kids in school nowadays? How to write poetry in Mandarin? Phooey on that.

  “And,” I added, “you’re going to notice that when the thermometer gets to around one hundred degrees, around four in the afternoon, the skies will get very dark and then we’ll have a great thunder boomer for about half an hour. When it’s over, the skies turn blue and the sun comes back out.”

  “Wow, this is like being in a rain forest or something, isn’t it?”

  “Some people consider us to be semitropical.”

  “Semitropical.”

  “Yep. Semitropical.”

  Later, at home over a fast lunch of tomato sandwiches and cups of leftover soup, Charlie regaled Jackie with all the things we talked about on our walk.

  “She knows all this stuff! I mean, amazing stuff! Can I have some ketchup, please?”

  “She is the cat’s mother,” I said with perfect timing, but neither one of them reacted. I was so sleepy then, I would have given a front tooth to just close my eyes for an hour. Charlie had flat worn me out, and it was barely three o’clock.