Porch Lights (24 page)

“Sure, no problem.”

“Then you and I have a lot of phone calls to make. Is Charlie okay?”

“Yes. I spoke to him a few minutes ago. He’s just going to spend the day with his friends. He’s fine. The last thing he needs is more exposure to death.”

“I agree. Okay, good.”

I sat down at the kitchen table, attempting to read the insurance policy, and Buster sat down next to me. “Should I make a pot of coffee?” he asked.

“I don’t see why not,” I said, as evenly as I could.

“Listen, about what I said last night?”

I took off my reading glasses and looked at him with the most imperious face I had. “Yes? What about it?”

“Well, I just want you to know that I think you look really pretty and you’ll probably be even prettier when you’re eighty.”

“Is this your way of apologizing?”

“Yeah. Yes. Yes, it is.”

“Apology accepted. Now, why don’t I make coffee and you read this darned thing. I hate all this legalese. I am always so afraid of missing something.”

“Sure. Hand it over.”

“And there’s his will too.”

“No problem.”

The coffee was brewing in minutes, and I realized my stomach was growling. We all needed breakfast. But there was no time to stop and go to the grocery store. I found a loaf of bread and started making toast. There was peanut butter in her pantry, and there were some bananas on the counter. It would suit us just fine. I lined up three plates and thought about who to call first. The funeral home, I decided. They would help us write the obituary for the newspaper. And they sold everything else we needed.

“Hey, Buster? Look at Vernon’s will. Did he specify what kind of a casket he wanted or any other details he wanted covered at his funeral?”

“I don’t know. Let me see here . . .”

I put a cup of coffee in front of him and a plate of food. He took a sip of the coffee. “You still make the best coffee on earth. Thanks.”

“Well, thanks, Buster. I can’t believe Vernon’s gone.”

“Yeah, it is unbelievable. Well, would you looky here—”

I took the will from Buster and read the passage he pointed to. Vernon wanted a simple wood casket, but he wanted Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” to be played at his wake.

“Oh, my God! Is he crazy?” I said. “We can’t do that!”

“He was as crazy as a bedbug. It’s what the man wanted, but I say let’s let Deb decide this one. What do you think? Was he worried about going to Hell?”

“Only if sloth could send you there, bless his heart.”

“You are too much, Annie,” Buster said, smiling and shaking his head.

Jackie came into the kitchen with a legal pad. “Do I smell coffee? Here’s the list.” I took it from her.

“How are they set for booze?” Buster asked.

“Thanks,” Jackie said when I handed her a mug. “It depends on what you count as booze. If you count sambuca, Campari, crème de menthe, Baileys, amaretto, pomegranate liqueur, and Marsala wine as liquor, then they’re in good shape. If you’re looking for vodka, scotch, gin, and, I don’t know, maybe rum? We have to go to the store.”

“Vernon was a beer man,” Buster said. “I’ll bet there are five cases of Budweiser in the refrigerator under the house.”

It didn’t meet code to have a refrigerator at flood level, but most people I knew had a refrigerator or a freezer or both under the house along with their bicycles, golf cart, boat, lawn mower, kayak, and of course, their cars. If a hurricane hit that flooded the island, a rusty old refrigerator loaded with beer would be the least of our problems.

“I’ll go look,” Jackie said.

By noon Deb was up and in the shower and we had notified everyone who needed to know. All that was left to do was to take Deb over to McAlister-Smith to choose the casket and find the clothes to lay him out in. In his will he had specified a black shirt and black pants, like his hero Johnny Cash.

“What’s up with this Johnny Cash fixation?” Jackie asked when we told her about the music and the clothes.

“Vernon was a man who had very specific tastes,” Buster said. “You know? I think the only live concert he ever went to was back in the seventies when Johnny Cash played at County Hall. It just stayed with him, I guess. I mean, he used to tell me about that concert all the time. He loved Johnny Cash.”

“Everybody loves Johnny Cash,” Jackie said. “Even me.”

“Yeah, but heavenly days, would you want ‘Ring of Fire’ played at your wake?” I said. “Probably not.”

“You’re right. I’m going down to Café Medley to get sandwiches,” Jackie said. “I’ll be back in a flash.”

“I’ll take a turkey on whole wheat,” Buster said. “Do you need cash?”

“No, I got lunch covered. Mom?”

“Anything’s fine for me. I’m not fussy.”

Jackie left, and then it was just Buster and me alone in the room. We were doing just fine together. Did that mean anything to him? Not wanting to bring up the subject of our weird relationship status, I turned to the sink to wash up the cups and plates from the morning. He broke the silence.

“Annie? Does Deb know about this?”

“Does Deb know about what?” Deb said.

“Hey! She’s up!” I said. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Believe it or not, I did,” she said.

“You might want to look at this,” Buster said and handed her Vernon’s will.

“You want coffee?” I asked. “I just made a fresh pot.”

“Sure. Thanks. I need my glasses,” she said.

“Take mine,” I said. I took them from the top of my head and slid them across the table.

“Thanks. Now let’s see . . .
what
? Did y’all
see
this? Was he out of his
mind
?”

Then she started to laugh and laugh and laugh. Her laughter was so welcome that we laughed with her. Had Vernon done this so that Deb would laugh her head off, or had he been serious? I asked her and got the wrong answer.

“Oh, no! He was as serious as he could be! He always said he was going to do this, and I didn’t believe him!”

“So we have to do it,” Buster said.

“Wait!” I had an idea. “It doesn’t say that it has to be a Johnny Cash CD playing with Johnny singing, does it?”

“No,” Buster said. “It just says he wants that song played at his wake. Why?”

“What if it was played by a chamber quartet?”

Their mouths dropped open, and they stared at me.

“Brilliant!” Deb said. “How much would it cost?”

“Annie? You are a genius!” Buster said. “Don’t worry about the cost. He left you two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in life insurance.”

“He did
what
? Let me see that!” She looked at the amount of the policy and gasped. “Holy God. I can’t believe it. When did he do this?”

“I don’t know,” Buster said.

“Wonderful!” I said. “The bank is open and decorum has been restored! I’ll call my friend who plays viola with the South Coast Symphony. And what if they played other music too, like ‘I Walk the Line’ and ‘Green, Green Grass of Home’?”

“Absolutely!” Deb said. “And who said they couldn’t play ‘Amazing Grace’?”

“No one! And maybe just some pretty music like Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
or Handel’s
Water Music
?”

“You ladies sure know how to make lemonade out of lemons,” Buster said.

“It’s what women always do, Buster,” I replied. “I’m calling Dawn Durst right this minute.”

“That seems to be the case,” he said. “Just be sure they don’t play that song ‘A Boy Named Sue.’ ”

By five that afternoon all the arrangements were made. Still at Deb’s house, we had a stocked bar ready and a huge platter of fruit and cheese on the dining room table in case someone wanted to nibble. As predicted, the old islanders began to arrive at dusk, bringing casseroles, hams, and pies, and of course, Marshall Stith brought one of his infamous coconut cakes, which rendered all others to the shadows of ineptitude. Everyone had a lovable story about Vernon and heartfelt words of sympathy for Deb. The wake would be the next day and there would be even more people, Deb’s friends from the school, friends from church, and, of course, Vernon’s friends from SCE&G, where he had worked his whole life until he retired at fifty-two.

Just as we thought, Deb’s sister, Anita, did not come. She sent flowers instead. The next day Deb and I were at McAlister’s and it was the dreaded appointed hour to view the body.

“Who put a tie on him?” Buster asked. “He wouldn’t be caught dead in a tie.”

“Apparently he would,” I said, deadpan.

There lay Vernon’s body, dressed in black, with a black tie neatly knotted under his collar. Considering he was as dead as a doornail, he looked rather chic. For a dead person.

I helped Deb up from the prie-dieu and took her around to see all the beautiful flower arrangements that had been arriving all day. The framed happy pictures of them together that surrounded the room would remind everyone that Vernon and Deb had had a long happy marriage.

I didn’t want Deb focusing on Vernon’s body. She might begin to weep. Corpses in open caskets were beyond grotesque anyway. I hated when people said, “Oh, look what a good job they did on Mabel! She looks just like she could sit up and talk to you!” Please don’t sit up, Mabel, I’d think, please don’t. But Vernon had wanted an open casket, so that’s what he got.

Deb had been holding herself together remarkably well. And she’d asked me to try and help her from being too maudlin. Wiseacre humor was my secret weapon of the hour.

“I’m sure the salesperson at Belva’s misunderstood your sister, Anita, Deb,” I said. “No one sends flowers this dinky and cheap for the funeral of an immediate family member.”

“You’re so wicked! But you don’t know Anita,” Deb said. “I’m surprised she sent anything at all.”

The chamber musicians arrived, set up, and began to play. The music was beautiful, the wake lasted until nine o’clock, and no one, except Monsignor Ben Michaels, said a word about “Ring of Fire,” which I heard played at least twice.

“ ‘Ring of Fire’? Are we concerned about Vernon’s immortal soul?” he whispered to Deb and me.

“Oh, no, Father. I’m sure Vernon died in a state of grace,” Deb replied. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Well, I anointed him with the last rites, but I’ll say an extra novena just in case,” he said.

“Thank you, Father,” I said. “You never know. It can’t hurt, and it might do some good.”

“Have you been ill, Mrs. Britt? We haven’t seen you at Mass in a long time.”

“Me? Oh, no. I’m fine. I’ve been traveling. You know my daughter lost her husband?”

“Yes, I was very sorry to hear it. And it’s a relief to see you looking so well. I hope we’ll be seeing you at Mass more often, Mrs. Britt.”

I nodded and gave him a tight-lipped smile, thinking, You sanctimonious old fart. He had almost no idea what went on in my life, but he didn’t mind reprimanding me in front of my friend and whoever else might have heard him. How did he know I hadn’t taken up the One True Cross over at Christ Our King Church in Mount Pleasant?

The day of the funeral was a blur. While we were consumed by our mutual desire to get Deb through this ordeal with the least amount of pain and suffering, it would be a lie to say that I was not distracted by Buster and three new tropical storms that were brewing near the British Virgin Islands. Buster kept saying not to worry, he had a close eye on them. Saying he had an “eye” on a potential hurricane should give you some idea of Buster’s deep sense of humor.

He had been staying over in the guest room, only scooting back and forth to Murrells Inlet once for a dark suit and a few other things. He had been especially charming, and, God knows, he had been more helpful than I ever remembered him being. I kept fantasizing that he would try and sneak back into his/my bedroom, but if ever there was a wrong time to patch up our relationship, this was it. And just because he was being so congenial after one minor screwup, it didn’t mean he wanted to move home. I tried not to think about what had become of us, but every time I saw him with Charlie or heard him laugh or caught his eye, well, the truth was my heart ached a little, not just for him but for us.

Jackie said she would allow Charlie to come to the church if he wanted to, but I encouraged him to stay with his friends.

“Bring him to the reception at Miss Deb’s afterward. There’ll be lots of other children there.”

“Yes, that’s a better idea. I’m not so sure I can handle this myself,” Jackie said. “But I’ve known Miss Deb since the day I was born. I have to go.”

“You just lean on me, sugar,” I said.

“You can lean on me too,” Buster said.

It seemed impossible, but we were acting as a family, all of us at once. And it hadn’t happened in so long, I was almost terrified to make much of it because if Buster and Jackie realized it too, what ground we had gained might be lost. Somebody might get nervous and head for the hills. Maybe it was the death of Jimmy that had been the catalyst, and now, with the shocking loss of Vernon, we were thrown together again. I thought about what Jackie had said when she reminded me that I wouldn’t let her father attend her husband’s funeral. She was right. I had been a very foolish woman to be so prideful. I owed them more than I had been giving. But wait. Weren’t women always made to feel like they never gave enough? And didn’t your family always want more? Well, right now Deb was my priority and I was determined to see her through. We could calculate the balance of my taking versus my giving at a later date.

I don’t have to tell you that the graveside service was surreal. Anyone who has ever stood over open ground and watched a loved one lowered into it knows the wretchedness that comes over you. I watched as Steve, Buster, and the other pallbearers performed their duty with unbelievable dignity and respect. I was so proud of them.

I’ve been to scores of funerals and graveside services, and I know this much: the family or the person who has suffered the loss needs you there. I cannot fathom how unbearable it must be to go through a burial alone. When my mother died, the scores of people who came to the services or brought food or sent cards—well, it just made all the difference in the world to me. It made the worst day of my life bearable. Hopefully, all the people who turned out to honor Vernon’s life made it easier for Deb.