Porch Lights (8 page)

“Thanks,” he said.

“Oh, honey, it’s nothing. Why don’t you stay and enjoy the rest of the afternoon and then have some supper with us?”

Steve looked at Jackie as if he was waiting for her to second the motion, but she shifted her attention to Charlie and Steve’s dogs.

“Oh, I probably shouldn’t. I don’t want to impose, I mean . . .”

“Cute dogs,” Jackie said. “What time are we going to sit down, Mom?”

“Thanks,” he said.

Steve cracked a smile. Apparently Jackie liked him well enough to let him come to the table with us. She’d had him worried there for a moment. How did she do that?

“Oh, I don’t know . . . around six thirty? Or as soon as the sun passes over the yardarm? How does that sound?”

“Great! That gives me time to make myself presentable. I’ll see you ladies later.”

“He’s a hottie,” I said, watching him as he crossed our yard. “Isn’t that what they say these days?”

“I wouldn’t have the first clue what they say these days,” Jackie said.

“Well, then what does ‘booty’ mean these days in the parlance of the young people?”

Jackie laughed then, and I loved the sound of it. “Um, it’s what you shake on the dance floor, Mom. Why are you asking me that?”

“Because I used it to describe pirate’s loot, and Charlie nearly choked. He told me I was using a bad word. Imagine a ten-year-old correcting his grandmother? I just corrected him right back.”

“I’m sure you did, Mom.”

“Well, excuse me!”

Jackie laughed again. “It’s okay, Mom. You can correct him all you want. But you talk like you’re a hundred-year-old woman!”

“Humph,” I said, “I think I still have a whole lot of living left to do, if it’s okay with you and the rest of the world!”

To my surprise, Jackie gave me a hug. “I think . . . if I lost you? I don’t know what I would do. You know that, don’t you?” she said and took a big sniff as though she was going to turn on the waterworks any second.

“Well, now, come on, let’s not get all sentimental . . . I’m not going anywhere for a long time! Besides, we have a lot to do! We have a gentleman coming for supper!”

Chapter 5

“Well!” I said, after contemplating it for some minutes, “this is a strange scarabœus, I must confess: new to me: never saw anything like it before—unless it was a skull, or a death’s-head—which it more nearly resembles than anything else that has come under my observation.”

—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Gold-Bug”

Jackie

A
gentleman coming for dinner. Great. Actually, on second thought, it might be nice to have a diversion at the dinner table, especially for Charlie’s sake, although Charlie seemed to be pretty fascinated by my mother’s tutorial about all things pertaining to the Lowcountry. I should tell you that in that short span of time since Steve had left to take a shower, she seemed to have had a total nervous breakdown. You would think Prince Harry was dropping by tonight for a barbecue with the way she began flitting around. She dashed out to the grocery store and came home with ten bags brimming with food. In between paring potatoes, trimming asparagus, and baking bread, she put new candles everywhere and a candy bowl on the buffet, and she even put a scented votive candle and fresh flowers with sprigs of lavender in the bathroom. It wasn’t a bad thing to be excited about having company, but her sweet spot for the boy next door made me a little uneasy. Someone probably needed to tell Daddy, but I did not want to be that someone. It was usually best to stay out of other people’s business, and she probably didn’t even realize how transparent she was.

I knew she was standing at the door to my room because she arrived in a cloud of perfume, and when I turned to look at her, there were those infamous red lips. Yikes, I thought, don’t be so obvious, girlfriend. But my mother’s heart had always been worn on her sleeve.

“Hi!” I said. “Do you need a hand with dinner?”

“What? Are you going to wear that T-shirt? I mean, it’s fine, but I was thinking you might want to wear something pretty?”

I narrowed my eyes into the smallest slits possible and scowled at her.

“Oh, dear! I’m sorry, Jackie. I’ve offended you. I just . . . oh, listen to me, will you? Going on and on. It’s just my nerves acting up. Wear whatever you like. Of course. Wear whatever you like.”

“Thanks.” I was still annoyed. “So, um, is there anything I can do to help?”

“Oh, would you be a dear and set up the bar on the porch? I was thinking it would be nice to sit outside until it gets dark. Just gin and vodka and tonic and the vermouth, of course, and a shaker, and oh, some lemon peels and olives? Oh, and lime wedges. And maybe a little bowl of nuts? Obviously, we’ll need an ice bucket . . .”

“Mom? He’s coming at six thirty and it doesn’t get dark until nine. We’ll get completely hammered if we sit around drinking for that long.”

“Oh! My goodness! You’re right! Ha! I didn’t think
that
one through very well, did I? Well, anyway, we need little napkins too. I’ve got some adorable ones in the buffet drawer that I bought . . .”

My mother was a connoisseur of paper cocktail napkins that proclaimed popular wisdom and witticisms.

“I got it, Mom. Why don’t I set it all up and then you can check it out. How’s that?”

“Perfect!” she said, then added in a whisper, “Wait until Deb hears that Steve’s coming for dinner! She’ll just die! She’s got a little crush on him, you know.”

“She does?” Like you don’t, I thought.

“Yes, she most certainly does. She’d deny it, of course, but I know that woman like the back of my hand. I’m going to set the table now. I think I’ll just use the everyday bistro dishes because we’re having steaks. I don’t want steak knives cutting on my mother’s good china.”

“God, no.” Bistro dishes? What qualifies a plate as
bistro
?

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “You’re thinking I’m an old fussbudget, but when you inherit my mother’s china and it’s in mint condition—”

“You’re right! I’ll appreciate the care you took of it.”

“That’s right!”

“I knew this Italian girl in my building, and she used to call her mother a pignoli.”

“You mean those little nuts you use in pesto?”

“Yep. It’s Italian slang for fussbudget.”

“Well, it’s not nice to call your mother a nut!” she called out, as she scurried away like a little mouse that had just caught a whiff of cheese.

I ran the brush through my hair one last time and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked all right. I didn’t need a flowered sundress and prissy little sandals to prove anything to anyone. Earlier, Mom had coyly dropped the bomb that Steve was a widower, which was too bad, but what was I supposed to do? Get all gussied up like Ruby taking her love to town? I don’t think so. Besides, Mom was the one who had it going on for him, not me.

I gathered up all the bottles of liquor and wine, glasses and setups, and arranged a bar on the weathered old trestle table on the porch. After I satisfied myself that it looked just fine, I spent a few minutes lost in the panorama of the nearly deserted beach. Its personality was constantly changing. In the morning’s rising sunshine, high-energy dogs and joggers were at play. Later, the sun worshippers arrived en masse, stretched out on blankets or chairs, reading novels and prone for hours, cooking their skin, soaking in the song of the ocean and all the vitamin D they could absorb. But the end of the day was the time I liked best, when the sand cooled, the light changed to a softer rose hue, and a kind of peace settled all over the island. It was nearly six o’clock, and farther down the shore, the last stragglers of the day were gathering up their towels and coolers, making their way toward home. Tomorrow they would go back to their jobs and resume their lives. It suddenly seemed as though everyone belonged somewhere except me. I was in an actual limbo. So many decisions needed to be made about my future. Was I really finished with my military career? I thought, Yes, I am. I never wanted to be that far away from Charlie again. I decided then not to dwell on it too much. It was too soon. Like Scarlett, I’d think about it another day.

Maybe the future would present itself like a limousine. A brand-new white stretch would mysteriously pull up to the curb; I could just climb in, slide across a beautiful leather seat, and go for a ride along the years. That was a cowardly thought if I’d ever had one. Since when had I ever invited someone or something to take over my life? But in that moment, the thought of not having to worry about every single detail of every single day held some mighty powerful appeal. And
that
, I reminded myself again, was why I had come home—to not worry so, if only for a while. If Jimmy were alive, I wouldn’t have a thing to worry about. We’d be in our home in Brooklyn watching the news and making supper. It was so hard to accept that even such a simple daily act like watching the news and making supper together could never happen again. I wasn’t so sure then that I even wanted to live in that house anymore. Without Jimmy it was ruined. And all wrong. Wasn’t it?

It was still very warm. Though the heat of the day was broken, the night would become sultry as the tide rolled in. I could already feel the rising humidity as my hair and skin grew damp. And my heart felt heavy, as though something in my chest was sinking. Jimmy had loved the island too. I missed him something awful.

“Hey, Mom?”

Charlie appeared. His hair was wet combed and slicked back. My mother’s fingerprints were all over that one. He looked adorable. And miserable. It was impossible not to smile.

“Well, hello there, Handsome!”

“I hate my hair. She trimmed my bangs too.”

“She?”

“Whoops. I mean, Glam,” he said and rolled his eyes.

“That’s better. Well, Son, they needed it. Your bangs were over your nose.”

“I just hate cutting my hair.”

“I know this about you.”

“So, Mom? What am I supposed to call the doctor? And can I have a Diet Coke?”

The screen door opened, and my mother came out to the porch and joined us.

“Call him Dr. Steve,” I said and handed him a cold can. It was decaffeinated. Mom must have bought them for Charlie.

“Deb calls him Mr. MD,” she said, and I winked at Charlie. She scrutinized every detail of the self-service bar and gave it a passing grade. “This looks very inviting.”

“Mr. MD? That’s silly,” Charlie said.

“Thanks,” I said.

We heard a door close somewhere in the distance and my mother said, “That’s him. He’s coming. Get ready!” She shook her hands in the air. Her nerves were acting up again.

Sure enough, I looked up to see Steve walking toward our house. She even knew the sound of his door closing?

“Get ready for what?” Charlie asked.

I looked at my mother and caught her eye. She was embarrassed.

“What?” she said. “Why, get ready for a wonderful night at the Salty Dog, that’s what!”

“Such a silly name for a house,” I said.

“You’re telling me,” she said.

As he climbed the steps and came onto the porch my mother’s excitement was nearly palpable. Then, for some reason, I gave myself a mental kick in the pants. Maybe she was just lonely. She probably was. What was the matter with me? I was so suspicious of her. From the time I’d been a teenager, I’d always thought she had an ulterior motive in everything she did because many times she did have one. But, shame on me, I could see from her face that she just wanted to have a nice evening, and I was ready to run and tell Daddy that Mom was being unfaithful to him. I was being just as ridiculous as she was overenthusiastic.

Steve, who smelled very nice, handed her a bottle of wine.

“Oh! Thank you, Steve! Not necessary but always appreciated! Would you like a cocktail?”

“Well, I think that’s a wonderful idea. Can I make one for you?”

“Why not? I think I’d like a gin and tonic. Jackie? Would you like a drink?”

“Sure,” I said. “A glass of white wine would be great.”

“Got a corkscrew?” Steve asked, holding up an unopened bottle of sauvignon blanc. Then he dug into his pocket and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. “I have this if you need one.”

“No, we’ve got one. Right there on top of the napkins,” I said. “It makes a good paperweight too.”

“Smart girl!” my mother said.

“Can I see how that works?” Charlie asked.

“Sure. Step over here, young man,” Steve said. “You see, you take this curlicue end and wind it down into the cork—”

He was fixing my drink before he fixed my mother’s. She was visibly irked. Mom needed poker lessons. But this Steve fellow spoke to Charlie in such a nice way. He didn’t just dismiss him like so many adults dismiss children. I liked that.

“Here, why don’t you let me do that so you can get Mom’s drink,” I said.

“What? Oh, I’m sorry! Sure.” He handed me the bottle of wine and picked up a highball glass. “Did you say vodka, Annie?”

“Gin. But I’ll have whatever you’re having. It doesn’t matter, really.”

“Let’s both have a gin and tonic,” he said and turned back to the bar.