Porch Lights Read online

“Okay, Charlie baby. We’re gonna pop this cork together. What do you say?”

  “Sure!”

  I turned the corkscrew deeply into the cork, sat in a chair, and held the bottle between my knees. “Now, I’ll hold the bottle and you hold the bar good and tight, and pull it out straight.”

  Charlie took the top of the corkscrew in hand and pushed against the bottle with his other hand, making all the appropriate noises that accompany manly exertion, and after many such grunts we had a pop!

  “Good job!” Steve said and handed Mom her drink. “Can I pour for you?”

  I passed the bottle to Steve, and he half filled a goblet.

  “None for me,” Charlie said, and everyone laughed.

  The evening was under way, and the conversation was easy and friendly. Every now and then I would catch Steve looking at me in the way that men look at women when they are interested in what’s under the skirt, and I would respond with an expression of disapproval. What the hell was he thinking? The last thing I wanted was to get tangled up with anyone, but especially him.

  At some point while we were refilling glasses and Mom was engaged in an animated conversation with Charlie about tide clocks and how they worked, Steve offered me his condolences.

  “Your mother told me all about your husband’s passing, and I just wanted to say how sorry I was to hear it. I mean, I know I said it earlier but . . .”

  “Thanks.” I didn’t make eye contact but kept my attention on the wine bottle and how much I was pouring. “Yeah, it’s devastating for me and for Charlie. I think this is going to be one of those awful losses that you just never get over.”

  “Yeah, I hear you. You know, I lost my wife in a boating accident a few years ago. Lightning. She was struck by lightning. So stupid.”

  “Mom told me. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. Yeah, I thought that by the time I reached this age I’d have a family. At least you have Charlie. He’s a great kid.”

  “Yep, he’s the real deal. All boy. Great heart. Smart as a whip.”

  “Yes, he seems so. I gotta say, though, I never expected to find myself back on the market, did you?”

  I don’t know what it was that he said that made my blood run cold, but it did.

  I stared at him. “I’ve been a widow for a total of eight weeks. I hardly consider myself to be on the market.” Just as quickly as I had let my mouth run away with itself, I realized how rude I had been. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I apologize.”

  “No, I apologize. I’m an insensitive Neanderthal.”

  “I know all about Neanderthals,” Charlie said. He was obviously eavesdropping while pretending to be mesmerized with my mother’s pedantic, repetitious, and very long-winded lecture on the formation of sand dunes.

  “Well, do you know anything about grills?” Mother asked with a wide smile. The gin was doing her some good, as her facial muscles were less taut and she seemed to be relaxed at last.

  Steve raised his hand. “I do. Back home in Cincinnati, they call me the Grill Meister. Can I light it for you?”

  “That would be such a blessing!” she said. “Grills make me so nervous. Leaking gas and all that scary stuff.”

  Steve gave her a pat on the arm, and I thought the old girl would swoon.

  Over the next half hour, the grill was heated to the temperature Steve thought was the exact level to prepare a perfect steak. And the steaks were gorgeous, just as Mom said they were. They were rib eyes, thick and marbled, and the smell of them on the fire was divine. I guess Steve’s dogs thought so too, because they started to howl at the top of their canine lungs.

  “Glory be! What a mournful sound,” Mom said. “They sound so pitiful!”

  “Don’t mind them,” Steve said. “I’ll just run home and put them in the den. I shouldn’t have left them on the porch where they can smell the meat.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” Mom said. I was very surprised to hear her speak to him in such an emphatic and stern tone, but I thought, That’s the gin talking. “You’ll bring Stella and Stanley right over here. They’re precious.”

  It was a landslide victory for the love me, love my dog club.

  A-rooooo! Ar Ar Ar-roooo! Rooo a rooo a rooo! Their frantic howling continued in earnest.

  “Wow! Listen to them!” Charlie said. “You want me to go get them?”

  “Are you sure?” Steve asked Mom.

  “Absolutely. I’ll make them scrambled eggs. Hurry, Charlie, before the neighbors call the authorities! And turn on the porch lights so you don’t break your neck. They can sit right next to me.”

  Porch lights? It wasn’t dark. Wait. Scrambled eggs? My mother had never allowed a dog into our house, much less made them eggs. I wanted to ask her if I should set two more places, but she wouldn’t think I was funny. I wasn’t going to say one word. Nope. Not one word. But I was mystified.

  Somehow we made it to the table and Steve’s dogs settled down by our feet, kept quiet by Charlie’s continuous scratching behind their ears and, after they devoured their Swiss cheese omelets, by slipping them bits of steak. I was positive that Mom knew that Charlie was slipping them treats in exchange for their silence, but she said nothing. Feeding dogs from the table is verboten in most cultures because it turns them into beggars. But on that night my mother was so lighthearted that almost nothing could darken her mood. And I wasn’t about to correct Charlie for his transgression. On certain occasions our family motto was it just didn’t pay to be right. This was one of those occasions.

  “Supper is delicious, Mom. Thanks.”

  “Yes! To the chef!” Steve said.

  “To Glam-ma!”

  “Oh, y’all. You’re welcome. I only made the potatoes gratin and the asparagus almondine and the baked goat cheese and Boston butter leaf salad with the pomegranate vinaigrette and baked the olive bread and whipped up a mousse au chocolat.” She stopped, took a deep breath, and smiled for effect. “It was Steve who grilled the steaks, and they are absolutely perfect! And this wine is delicious too. Here’s to you!”

  We all raised our glass in Steve’s direction, and he smiled. “Glam-ma?” he asked.

  “Short for glamorous grandmother,” I said.

  “She only cooked up . . . a storm! No! A hurricane!” Steve said.

  “She is the cat’s mother,” Charlie said, and I nearly choked.

  “What?” Steve said. “Well, no matter. I say, here’s to Charlie, our dog whisperer!”

  “I wish I had a dog,” Charlie said. “But we can’t have one because we’re not home all day. Mom says it’s not fair to have a pet without giving them company.”

  “Oh, Charlie, come on now,” I said, feeling like The Evil Parent.

  “Well, Charlie, your mother’s right. I mean, I feel terrible when I go to work in the morning and I have to leave Stella and Stanley alone all day. They turn into crazy maniacs when I come home. They start jumping and whining to run up and down the beach and chase a tennis ball or Frisbee or anything.”

  “I could play with them while you’re at work,” Charlie suggested, his blue eyes pleading.

  “Now, Charlie, let’s not impose,” I said.

  “No, wait, Jackie. That’s brilliant!” Steve leaned over and looked at Charlie, quickly making a plan. “Okay, I have an idea. Let’s make it a business deal. What if you walked my dogs twice a day, made sure they had water and kibble, and played with them for a bit? I can pay you, say, five dollars a day? How long are y’all going to be here?”

  “I don’t know, but yeah! I can do that! Wait. Mom? Is it okay for me to take care of Stella and Stanley?”

  “Well, sure, why not? It’s not like it’s a terrible commute.” I smiled at Steve then. What a nice offer for him to make to a little boy who had just lost his father. It could only be a good thing. “Now, Steve, Charlie’s never had a job before. Is there a problem here on the island with child labor?”

  “None that I’m aware of,” Steve said, feigning seriousness. “Ever since th
ey broke up that ring of murderous babysitters . . .”

  “Oh, stop, you two! You’ll scare my grandson!”

  “Sorry.” So our Dr. Plofker had a decent sense of humor. Well, that was nice. “Look, I think this is actually a wonderful idea. It will teach him responsibility.”

  “And then you can see if you really like taking care of a . . .” Mom said, her words trailing off at the sound of the doorbell. “Now who in the world is that?”

  Mom started to get up when Miss Deb just walked right in.

  “Hey, y’all! Isn’t some handsome young man going to take this blueberry pie from me? It’s still warm. Well, lookie who’s here!”

  Her face flushed and I thought, Well, maybe both of them really do have a crush on Steve. Only Miss Deb would bring a pie in a sweetgrass basket with a lid to keep it warm. Sweetgrass baskets were the Lowcountry equivalent of Fabergé eggs.

  “Blueberry! Sweet!” Charlie, who was for the moment the island’s most heralded child, hopped up, took the pie from her, and hurried it to the kitchen.

  “And then he’d better come back here and hug my neck!” Deb called after him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your supper. I didn’t know you’d still be at the table. I saw the porch lights and thought—”

  “Please! Don’t think a thing about it!” I got up and gave her a hug.

  “Look at you, darlin’ chile. It’s so good to see you.”

  Her eyes were brimming with sudden tears. I squeezed her shoulders. “It’s okay. Thanks,” I whispered.

  “You are my best friend in the world, Deb Jenkins. You can walk in my house twenty-four seven!”

  Mom was pleased with herself for throwing “twenty-four seven” out there like a younger person might have done.

  “Dr. Plofker,” Miss Deb said, nodding to him as he pulled another chair to the table for her to join us.

  “Ms. Jenkins, how are you this evening?”

  “Doing just fine, thanks.”

  “Are you hungry?” I said. “We’ve got mountains of food. Can I fix you a plate?”

  “Oh, no thanks. I got my supper early because I had to take Vernon to the emergency room. His blood pressure shot up, and he got all wiggy on me. The poor old sweet thing. Sometimes I’m not so sure that retirement is good for him.”

  Miss Deb’s husband of a million years was something of an agoraphobic hypochondriac who stayed home in his La-Z-Boy recliner watching reruns of Little House on the Prairie around the clock. Miss Deb took care of him but also went on with her life.

  “Poor dear,” Mom said. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “Oh, my word! We’re drinking wine from a bottle?” Miss Deb said. “It’s not even Saturday night! I’ll definitely have a glass!”

  “Hush!” Mom said under her breath.

  “How do you usually drink it?” Steve asked, pouring a glass for her. “From a shoe?”

  The Good Doctor was overhydrated. Miss Deb looked at my mom, and they dissolved into giggles like a couple of schoolgirls. Then my mother cleared her throat, trying to regain her composure.

  “Ahem! Ahem!” she said. “Well, truth? Deb and I take a drive out to Costco once a month and stock up on that white wine that comes in a box. It’s easy to store. And you see, if you get it really cold you can’t tell that it’s well, you know . . .” My mother was clearly embarrassed, her face turning every shade of red.

  “Cheap! Now you know our secret,” Miss Deb said without a shred of shame. “Cheers!”

  “Cheers!” we all said.

  Steve looked at me and arched his eyebrows as if to say aren’t these two old birds funny? I was not about to agree with him. Anything that segregated my mother and demeaned her in the slightest was not okay with me, especially knowing how much effort she had put into the night. And I could see the lights go out in his eyes. He knew he was off base.

  “Mom is prudent, not cheap. There’s a difference,” I said.

  “That’s right,” she said. “And it’s an important distinction.”

  “Wine is wine, isn’t it?” Charlie asked.

  “No, baby,” I said. “Not all grapes are created equal. For example, hamburger is beef, but it isn’t nearly as delicious as the steaks we just had.”

  “Got it,” Charlie said. “Gosh. You learn something new every day.”

  We all had a good chuckle then.

  “Charlie? You sound like an old man,” I said. “Can I cut y’all some pie? And I can put some mousse on the side. And Mom, don’t even think about lifting another finger tonight. The dishes belong to me.”

  After dessert, Steve tried to stay behind to help, but I finally managed to shoo him out to the porch with Mom and Miss Deb. It wasn’t that I would not have appreciated the extra pair of hands, because to tell you the truth, my mother had used every pot and pan she owned. It was that doing the dishes was something Jimmy, Charlie, and I had always done together. The sight of Steve with a dish towel in his hands made me so uncomfortable—the happy trio washing up the supper dishes? I just felt sick all over as though even an act as small as letting him dry glasses would be a betrayal to Jimmy. Yeah, Jimmy and I had become such creatures of habit. After dishes, he’d check the locks, I’d turn down the lights, and we’d pull down the bed together. Sometimes we’d watch the late-night news and agree on how terrible and corrupt the world had become. Sometimes we’d read in bed. But we had always been in sync, and I missed him. I missed him so badly I could have cried just thinking about him then, but no. No more tears.

  Later on, Steve stuck his head back in the kitchen to say good night. “See you in the morning, Charlie?”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “Eight o’clock?”

  “Sure! Hey, Mom? We got an alarm clock?”

  “Cell phone.”

  “Right!”

  Steve gave me a friendly nod and left. Things had gone okay between us once the ground rules were established, but I knew he was taking home some awkward feelings. Basically the rules were these: one, be really nice to my mother, and two, don’t try to hook up with me. For the first time in my whole life I felt protective of her. But I saw things in her that night I had never seen before.

  Later still, as Charlie and I were drying the last of the silverware and dropping it into the drawer, Miss Deb came sailing through to say good night.

  “That breeze out there on that porch is something else!”

  “It always was and ever shall be thus—especially on high tide,” I said. “If we could bottle it, we’d all be filthy rich.”

  “Thanks for the pie, Miss Deb,” Charlie said. “It was so good.”

  Charlie’s hair was back in his face by then, and he looked just like who he was—a very vulnerable little boy who ought to be up to some mischief but instead carried the weight of the world all over his face.

  “Anytime you want a pie you just let me know, okay? In fact, have you ever had a chocolate pecan pie?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, then, that’s next. When this pie plate is empty, you let me know, all right? Night, y’all.”

  “Thanks,” Charlie said. I could hear how tired he was in his voice. My poor baby.

  I walked Miss Deb to the door and gave her a hug. I watched her go down the steps, and she stopped halfway, turning back to me. I could see she wanted to say something, but like most people trying to offer encouragement in the wake of disaster, she was at a loss for words. So I said it for her. “We’re gonna be all right, Miss Deb. I don’t want you to worry.”

  “Of course you’re going to be all right. You have to be. Besides, this island cures what ails you.”

  “This island and a slice of your pie. I hope we’re right. Thanks again, huh?”

  She nodded her head and turned again, this time making it to the bottom of the steps. I watched her as she crossed our yard and made her way toward her house. She was thoughtful and kind. There was a lot to be said for those qualities.

  When I got back
to the kitchen, Charlie was arranging our dish towels over the oven handle to let them dry. Show me another ten-year-old boy who did that, and I’d show you one who was imitating his parents’ behavior. I rinsed the sponge out again, thinking about how hard Jimmy and I always tried to set a good example. It was amazing what stuck and what didn’t. I wiped down the counters for the final time of the night.

  “Mom? Can I go to bed now? I have to go to work in the morning, you know.”

  Priceless. How old was he?

  “Of course. Go kiss Glam good night, and I’ll come tuck you in.”

  “Okay.”

  I turned out most of the lights, and a few minutes later I wandered to his bedroom and found Charlie under the covers. Mom was perched on the side of his bed. She was telling him a story about Edgar Allan Poe and how back in his day there had been illnesses that caused deep comas that resembled death. Sometimes people were accidentally buried alive, so they put little bells in the coffin that could be rung by the breath of the not exactly deceased.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Charlie said with a mounting panic in his voice.

  “Why, no. But it was a long time ago and—”

  “Charlie! Did you brush your teeth?”

  He jumped in surprise, not having known I was there until that moment. “Yes.”

  “So if I go touch your toothbrush, it will be wet?”

  He shimmied out from under the covers and ran to the bathroom.

  “I’ll just go check,” he said and slammed the bathroom door. “Sorry!”

  “Mom? What are you doing?”

  “What do you mean? I’m putting my grandson to bed.”

  “And telling a little boy who hasn’t slept right since we buried his father a story about people being buried alive? I mean, do you really think this is a good idea?”

  “Oh, honey, Charlie’s old enough—”

  “You are unbelievable. Do me a favor? How about we don’t tell him any more stories like that for a while?”

  “Really, Jackie, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you what. When he gets up ten times in the middle of the night, I’ll send him to you.”

  I turned and went to my room. And this time I slammed the door.