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  Chapter 6

  “In supposing it to be a bug of real gold” . . .

  “This bug is to make my fortune,” he continued, with a triumphant smile, “to reinstate me in my family possessions. Is it any wonder, then, that I prize it?”

  —Edgar Allan Poe, “The Gold-Bug”

  Annie

  She was wrong. Charlie slept like a stone. But I felt so perfectly horrible about what Jackie had said that I was up half the night myself checking on him and checking on him. I knew that Charlie had been having trouble sleeping, but I hadn’t realized he was so impressionable or I never would have told him anything at bedtime that might have frightened him. Never in a million years. Why, I wouldn’t hurt a hair on that child’s head. Didn’t Jackie know that? Lord, this was giving me some terrible anxiety. The worst part was that she was probably right. Oh, hells bells. No more death stories from me!

  It was getting on to seven when I called Deb. “You ready to walk off some pie?” I asked.

  “Sweet Mother of Mary! Am I ever? I ate for two people yesterday. I’ll meet you at the bottom of your beach steps.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I tied my walking sneakers on, and minutes later we were off at our usual pace, that being walking as fast as we could while still being able to carry on a conversation. There were clusters of dog people at Station 26, Station 22, and farther down the beach. (Station numbers were a carryover from when we had a trolley car on the island, which was way before my time, thank you.) It seemed that the same dogs showed up every day but I never recognized their owners, probably because they changed clothes and, after all, two lively chicks like Deb and me traveled at a pretty spritely clip.

  “I did something really stupid,” I said.

  “What?”

  I told her about Poe and his obsession with people who were accidentally buried alive, and she shook her head.

  “It’s simply a literary fact,” I said.

  “Yeah, one better imparted in the light of day. You have to watch yourself with kids.”

  “Well, he slept just fine, but now I’ve got an issue with Jackie.”

  “You worry too much, and anyway, Poe was a crazy nut,” she said.

  “People think that, but it’s really not true.”

  “What? You gonna tell me that he wasn’t a drunk?”

  “No, of course not. He was a bit of a binge drinker. The poor thing had that kind of genetic structure that when he took one or two drinks he was trashed.”

  “That is unfortunate!”

  “Right? Awful. Anyway, he certainly had good reasons to become a drunk if he wanted to, but he didn’t drink himself to death like the world thinks he did.”

  “Like what? God, this is a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  It was a picture-perfect day, as though it had been ordered up by the Department of Tourism—blue skies, sparkling water, nice breeze, what else could you want?

  “Gorgeous. First of all, his parents both died when he was just a toddler. They were actors and actually performed at the Dock Street Theatre downtown! Isn’t that funny? Anyway, right away he was separated from his siblings and made to live with this man John Allan and his wife, Fanny. All the Poe children were left destitute. Now, the Allans? They were Yankee Protestants, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, actually, I don’t have a clue what that means.”

  “Well, they lived a very stern and strict Calvinist life of emotional deprivation—”

  “Emotional deprivation? What in the world is that? You mean they didn’t love him?”

  “Well, Fanny loved Edgar, but the old man was brutal. He was this great big hulk of a guy who believed that hard work and sacrifice should rule the day. Frankly, little Edgar was as soft as a grape and wanted to be a poet from the time he knew what poetry was.”

  “Soft as a grape? Annie? You’re speaking in code. Do you mean he was gay?”

  “No. Well, maybe. There’s no hard evidence of it, but he was extremely effeminate and had almost courtly manners, I guess a bit like an Oscar Wilde kind of character? Anyway, he was terribly affected, which was the kind of thing that would have driven his macho stepfather right up a tree.”

  “Jeesh. Hard to imagine Edgar Allan Poe as effeminate. Peculiar, yes. But not girly.”

  “Want to talk about peculiar? He married his thirteen-year-old first cousin, but there’s no reason to believe it was ever consummated, which is probably a good thing.”

  “Ew. Just the thought . . . I mean, this guy wrote some dark, scary stuff. How is it that I run a library named for him and never knew all of this?”

  “Because you read novels and I live, eat, and breathe history and biographies. It’s no crime. Just a difference in preferences. Anyway, do you know that he—”

  “Probably not, Miss Poe Expert. And don’t tell me you don’t read novels. I’ve seen some of your books with those covers.”

  “So shoot me, but listen to this. With all the stories that he published he only ever made six thousand dollars from his writing in his whole life.”

  “What? That’s crazy! So how in the world did he support his child bride and himself?”

  “And her mother, who was both his aunt and his mother-in-law.”

  “That is so nasty.”

  “Yep. It sure is. Literary criticism. Basically, he skewered other writers his whole career and it earned him puh-lenty of enemies. I’ll get you a copy of his obituary. You won’t believe it! The guy who wrote it said no one would care if Poe was dead. It’s the meanest thing I ever read. But sorry, I could go on for hours yakking about his screwed-up life.”

  “Hey! You know what?”

  “What?”

  “You should! We could do a lecture series at the library to raise money. Would you do that? Talk about Poe, I mean? I could get some of the ladies to make sandwiches and cookies, and we could have a tea. What do you think?”

  “Really?”

  “Why not? They do it at the library downtown all the time. It would probably be better to start after Labor Day. You know, when everyone’s back from vacation and settled back into their routine?”

  “That sounds like fun to me. Yeah, I think I’d really like to do that.”

  I thought about it more and realized it would give me some purpose that I felt like I’d lost when I retired. It would be awfully nice to be recognized as a qualified-but-not-exactly-an-expert on something even if my reputation was limited to just our little island. I wouldn’t be merely a retired fussbudget, I’d be a guest lecturer. Would Steve come? What would he think?

  “What are you thinking about, Annie?”

  “Well, I was wondering what people would say if I stood up in front of the whole world and gave a talk on Poe. You know how this island is, Deb. All the old biddies will say, ‘Oh, she thinks she’s so smart.’ You know how they are.”

  “You listen to me, honey, not them. If Thomas Edison had worried about what small-minded people thought when he was trying to invent the lightbulb, we’d still be in the dark.”

  “You’re right. I need to just gather up some courage and take the plunge.”

  “That’s the spirit! Now, you haven’t told me. How did our Dr. Plofker wind up at your dinner table last night?”

  “Because earlier in the afternoon he took one look at Jackie and practically invited himself. I think he was attracted to her.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. He was just being nice. Shoot, Annie, they’ve both lost their spouses and they’re both young. Jackie’s only thirty-five, right?”

  “Yes. And he’s forty-three, I think.”

  “He probably feels a kindred spirit with her, don’t you think? I mean, I’ve decided that he’s definitely not gay. But I don’t think he’s interested in anyone.”

  “No. He’s got the total hots for Jackie. I caught him looking at her with that stupid expression men get when they’re thinking about dicky dunking.”

  “Honey, the frost ain’t on the pumpkin quite yet. An
d how do the total hots compare with the partial hots? On fire versus a little sizzle?”

  “Oh, you! Stop!”

  “I’m just saying, from what I saw? Nobody’s got the hots for anybody. Y’all just looked like three grown-ups having fun. And besides, he’s the kind of guy who knows how to make people feel good.”

  Part of me hoped she was right, and the other part, shame on me, hoped she was wrong.

  “Probably why he became a doctor in the first place. Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do? Anyway, I don’t know if you caught the part about him giving Charlie a little job watching his dogs?”

  “Yeah, Charlie told me about it while y’all were talking. Listen, boys need dogs for a whole lot of reasons. I think it will do him wonders.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping. And it won’t hurt to have a man in his picture either.”

  “I was thinking that too, but what’s going to happen if Charlie gets all attached to Dr. Wonderful and then Jackie takes him back to New York? Wouldn’t that be painful for him?”

  “We’re putting the cart a mile before the horse here.”

  “Right.”

  “Charlie has yet to even walk his dogs one time, and he only just met Steve yesterday. Anyway, I have to cut our marathon short this morning. I promised Charlie blueberry pancakes again. And I’ve got to get his adorable bahunkus out of the bed.”

  “No problem. I have to take Vern to see that cute physical therapist in Durst’s office. We’ve got a nine thirty, and I should’ve started getting him ready yesterday if I wanted us to be on time. The poor devil moves so slowly these days.”

  “Okay. Let’s hustle!”

  We did a U-turn and waddled back as fast as we could. Just to clarify what I mean by “waddle,” I mean that power-walking thing fast walkers do, slightly slower than a jog. When we got to my steps, Deb kept going without missing a beat, calling out “See you tomorrow!” I threw my arm up and waved at her over my head, feeling very lucky to have such a reliable friend.

  I went straight to Charlie’s room as it was twenty minutes before eight. He was already up and in the bathroom, and lo and behold, his bed was made. Jackie was in the kitchen pouring coffee. She was wearing what appeared to be men’s boxer shorts and an old ill-fitting T-shirt. The backs of her thighs were as smooth as a baby’s bottom, and I wondered for a fleeting moment how mine would stack up next to hers. Probably just fine. All that walking had to be good for something besides endorphins and catching up on the news.

  “Good morning, sweetheart,” I said, keeping my voice light and chipper, hoping she wouldn’t bring up last night’s discussion until I had something to eat. “How did you sleep?”

  Wrong question! Wrong question!

  She looked up at me with that look, the one that said, “How can you even ask that when you know I never slept a wink, thanks to you and your Poe story about coffin bells!”

  Well, it was a new day, and I was having none of it.

  “Listen, missy, for your information, Charlie slept soundly all through the night and I happen to know that you did too.” I took my favorite mug from the cabinet and filled it. “I know this because I was up almost every hour.”

  “How do you know I was sleeping?”

  “Because, baby girl, you snore like a man.”

  “I do not.”

  “Would you like me to record it tonight and play it for you tomorrow?”

  “I don’t snore.”

  “Surely you’re not calling your mother a liar, are you?”

  “There would be no value in that.”

  “Well, I’m just trying to tell you that I think you might be acting like an old worrywart about this one. Edgar Allan Poe is one of our most fascinating residents in the entire history of Charleston’s citizenry, and there’s no reason why Charlie shouldn’t learn everything there is to know about him.”

  “Okay. Truce. Just tell him the dead people stuff in the daylight, okay?”

  “Fine. Now, can I make a plate of pancakes and crispy bacon for you?”

  “Sure. No bacon, though. Too fattening.”

  “I buy that center-cut bacon that only has seventy calories in three strips. Then I nuke it for two and a half minutes. Honey chile? There ain’t a lick of fat in ’em when I’m done. Now, you want bacon or what?”

  “Really? Okay, I’ll have bacon. Want me to fix it?”

  “Yes, please. Use three paper towels. Two on the bottom and one on the top. And pour the juice too, please. There’s no time to waste this morning. We’ve got to get a workingman off to his new job!”

  You see that? I could still delegate and produce an impressive showing on the breakfast table and settle a difference of opinion without bloodshed, all at the same time. I had not lost my touch.

  Charlie bounded into the room with the kind of energy clearly wasted on youth, wolfed down six pancakes, God only knows how much bacon, and two glasses of milk and orange juice, and bounded back to the bathroom.

  “Brushing his teeth?” I asked.

  “Yeah, he knows I’m the toothbrush police,” Jackie said, absorbed in reading The Post and Courier.

  I picked up the dishes and put them into the sink to rinse. There were two mourning doves outside of my window, the exact same color as a pair of soft gray suede gloves I once owned. The little darlings were cooing, presumably to each other, and so sweet to watch. I paused for a moment, feeling sentimental, thinking about how they mated for life. I liked to imagine that they cared about each other. Maybe they did. Didn’t National Geographic or someone do a study that showed penguins had actual affection for their mates? Well, it was lovely to think of the animal kingdom falling in love and living happily ever after. It couldn’t be nearly as complicated as what went on between humans. If Mrs. Dove got fussy about her nest, would the mister call her names and go off fishing for eleven years? I doubted it.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Jackie asked.

  “What? Oh, no. Sorry, sweetheart! I was lost in Bird Land.”

  “Oh. I said I’m just going to take Charlie over to Steve’s since it’s his first time. You know, just to make sure he’s comfortable going in an empty house. Steve said he was leaving the key on top of the mailbox. I want to make sure he gets in.”

  “Oh, yes! That’s a good idea.”

  “Should I bring the dogs back over here? I mean, what about these dogs?”

  Well, now I was in a nice pickle, wasn’t I? I hated having dogs in my house, and Jackie knew it. No matter how nice they were, they shed and did all sorts of things that dogs do, like sniff and squirt their calling card, and what if they decided to have a nap on my bed? Please! But there I was last night like a damn fool making them omelets and treating them like long-lost family. If they hadn’t belonged to Steve Plofker, I wouldn’t have let them in my kitchen for beans. What to do with the dogs? Great. I was about to get caught being a hypocrite. I hated that. So I dodged being the bad guy with the age-old trick of answering a question with a question.

  “Gosh, what do you think we should do?” Throw the ball in her court, Annie. Good one.

  “What do I think?” She paused for a moment. “Well, let’s see how they smell,” she said, “and then we’ll make the call.”

  “They smelled fine last night,” I said with all the innocent benevolence of Doris Day, circa 1960 Hollywood.

  “Yeah, but who knows? They might have found a raccoon or a skunk and rolled around with it. Ick.”

  “Well, I’ll let you decide, then. If they pass the smell test, I’m thinking they might enjoy the front porch. What do you think? It’s nice and cool.”

  “Yeah, I’ll get Charlie to take them for a run on the beach, and then we’ll come back here. Maybe we have something they could use for water bowls?”

  Sure, what about my mother’s Limoges vegetable dishes? For the record, I did not say this aloud.

  “I’ll find something,” I said. “You and Charlie had better get moving.”

  “Right!
See you in a bit! Thanks for breakfast!”

  She blew me a kiss and was out the door with Charlie on her heels. Well, she seemed reasonably happy, and given the situation, that was more than I had hoped for. People always said that dogs had a way of lightening the mood. I put the last of the breakfast plates into the dishwasher and turned it on. It was time for me to grab a shower.

  I had one of those nylon poufs that comes with my antiaging, extra-moisturizing, slight-exfoliation body wash, and as soon as I got under the hot water I took it to task, scrubbing every inch of my body I could reach, and used a washcloth and contortion to reach the areas I could not access any other way. Well, if there was ever to be another person in my shower, maybe the epicenter of my back would get the polish it deserved, but we all know that was looking less likely with each passing year. So what? I continued. I washed my hair until it squeaked and then gave it a small amount of conditioner, rinsed it out, stepped out onto my ultraplush bath mat Deb brought me home from a trip to Istanbul, and wrapped myself in a towel sheet. Why Deb went to Istanbul is anybody’s guess. Nothing but a bunch of hooligans over there, I expect. Everything I need is on this side of the causeway.

  But back to the last vestiges of my youth? I will not go down without a fight, I thought as I rubbed moisturizer into my upper arms. I will try to remain as attractive and young-looking as modern cosmetics will allow—no knives, thanks. I had my cache of secret weapons. That cute Dr. Duke Hagerty downtown gave me a little shot of youth in my forehead from time to time to make the creases disappear. I’d used Latisse on my eyelashes and had regrown them to the point that I had to trim them. Can you imagine? And Julie Nestler down at Beauty and the Beach worked a little magic on my hair and eyebrows every two weeks and no one was the wiser.

  But still the nagging question was the same: was I too old to be attractive to someone like Steve Plofker? Or anyone? Even with my daily exercise and watching what I ate, I could see undeniable signs of aging in my skinny but sagging upper arms. That deeply saddened me because I knew there was nothing to be done about it; but the bazillions of little crepe lines in my neck horrified me. Was I headed for an old age of wearing long-sleeved high-necked getups like Katharine Hepburn in The African Queen?