Porch Lights (38 page)

Halloween was Monday, and Charlie was excited. He wasn’t sure that he wasn’t too old to go trick-or-treating, but he was going to give it a try because his new school (that he professed to adore) was having a Halloween parade. Jackie and I had put together a dark suit, complete with an elaborate bow tie, a fake mustache, and a stuffed black bird sewn to his shoulder. He was, you guessed it, Edgar Allan Poe.

And speaking of Uncle Edgar, the moment of my talk had arrived. We were all gathered at the Island Club. Deb had decorated the ceiling with at least seventy-five hanging black birds made from construction paper. Charlie had helped her cut them out, and Buster had helped her suspend them from the ceiling with transparent fishing wire and some gummy fixative that didn’t damage the paint. Then she’d used rolls and rolls of orange crepe paper strips to create some kind of curtain that would never make it to the pages of
Southern Living
, but I said not one word about that. Bless her heart, she had turned her bloomers inside out to make the day a success.

Believe it or not, the event was sold out. I think that spoke more to our resident population’s devotion to our library than today’s Nervous Nellie speaker. In any case, the ladies on the committee made beautiful brownies, yummy-looking cookies, and all kinds of little tea sandwiches. There was a punch bowl of pink lemonade. Charlie was enjoying his fourth cup. The plan was that Deb was going to welcome and thank everyone, introduce me, and then I was to rattle on about Edgar for approximately thirty minutes. We would wind it up with questions that I prayed I knew how to answer. The event had already raised close to a thousand dollars. And the best news of all was that Aunt Maureen was here. Well, “best news of all to some degree” is probably the better way to phrase it. She wasn’t much of a conversationalist and she was a teetotaler, which what can I say that you don’t already think about that?

Ever since Jackie had decided to stay for a while, she’d felt like she owed something to Aunt Maureen, and I agreed. She owed her a lot. So Buster whipped out his credit card, and the next thing we knew Maureen was living large in the Lowcountry on Sullivans Island, supposedly for a mere ten days. Last Sunday I took her to Mass at Stella Maris, where she promptly fell in love with Monsignor Ben Michaels. He just gushed all over her to the point where she could barely breathe. But she did.

“He’s such a lovely man! And so refined!” she said with stars in her eyes. “I wouldn’t mind joining the Ladies’ Altar Society. As long as I’m here, of course.”

“Why not?” I said and thought, Oh, please, no.

She was thinking of staying longer, forever maybe, she said. I thought, Now what? Should I do a needlepoint pillow about fish and visitors? But I knew it was this island. I’d seen the sultry nights and salted breezes of Sullivans Island turn the most dedicated type A city slickers into laid-back islanders. But Maureen? Was she the cross I would have to bear to let the good Lord justify giving me so much other happiness? Well, if she was then I would.

People began taking their seats, balancing paper plates on their knees and holding their cups. I could feel my nerves acting up. I got the shakes. I hated public speaking. It terrified me. But I had practiced my talk so many times that I thought it
might
be possible to deliver it even if my adrenaline-pumped brain was screaming for me to run like hell for the door.

“You all right, Annie?” Buster asked. He was standing with me, waiting for the ordeal I was to endure to begin.

“Oh, I’m just a little nervous, that’s all.”

He took my hand and patted the back of it. “Well, you shouldn’t be.”

“And just why not?”

“Because you’re the most beautiful girl in the room. That’s why.” He leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“Oh, you—” I said and thought, Wow, what a few visits to the Magic Gate can do for a certain old salt’s attitude. Yes, he was reinstated in my/our bedroom. Besides, I needed the guest room for Maureen and all her sensible shoes.

I turned around, and Jackie and Steve were at my side.

“I just wanted to wish you good luck, Mom,” Jackie said and kissed my cheek.

“Thanks, honey, but I’m a little nervous, you know?”

“Nah, listen, if old Father Ben Michaels can let his fiery brimstone fly from the pulpit and no one throws tomatoes, you’ve got this thing nailed. You were
made
to do this! Who’s more entertaining than you?”

“Jackie’s right, Annie,” Steve said. “Everyone’s here to have a good time. Just pretend that we’re all on your porch and it’s happy hour!”

“My God! That’s brilliant!”

And that’s just what I did.

After she thanked the immediate world, Deb introduced me like I was new in town and I stepped up to the mike with my notes and my cup of lemonade. People clapped politely. I was shaking in my shoes.

“Thanks, Deb. Would everyone please raise their cups and repeat after me?”

To my utter astonishment, they raised their cups.

“To the glory that was Greece . . .”

They repeated every word.

“And the grandeur that was Rome!”

Again they repeated the line verbatim.

“Cheers!” I said and put my cup down. They said and did the same. “Those two lines are from one of Edgar Allan Poe’s most beautiful poems he ever wrote, ‘To Helen.’ However, her name was actually Jane. Jane Stanard, to be exact. Mrs. Stanard, who had an eerie resemblance to Poe’s mother, was unhappily married, which drove her to depression, then to being put away in some ghastly, dark, dank, dirty institution, where she eventually went completely insane and died. This is only one example of Poe’s poor judgment and bad luck when it came to the women in his life and the bad luck he brought to them. Nonetheless, it’s a great poem and those two lines are a toast we still hear thrown around Poe’s Tavern all the time. One hopes.”

The audience laughed, and I thought, Okay, maybe this is going to be all right. I can do this! So I went on with it, gaining a little confidence every time they laughed in the right places and when I heard them say “Hmmm” or whisper “How about that?” to a friend when I told them something about Poe’s life that wasn’t common knowledge.

I ended my talk with a quote from Poe’s obituary published in the
New York Tribune
by one of his many enemies, Rufus Griswold.

“It said, ‘Edgar Allan Poe is dead. He died in Baltimore the day before yesterday. This announcement will startle many but few will be grieved by it.’ Griswold continued to say terrible things about Poe for the rest of his days, including starting a rumor that Poe slept with his mother-in-law.” Standing in the back of the room, Deb pointed to her watch. “Oh! Goodness! Well, I could go on forever, but I think my time is up, but I just want to say thank you to everyone who came out to support the Edgar Allan Poe Library and I hope y’all had a good time.”

People clapped like it would bring money down from the skies, and I was so surprised I started to laugh. That’s when I noticed that Steve and Jackie were holding hands and smiling at each other the way people in love do.

“Now I’d be delighted to try and answer any questions.”

I answered questions for a while, and when they began to slow down, I wound things up by thanking them again. There was, incredibly, more applause. I could hardly believe it. I was so relieved that it was over I thought I’d just go home, chug a box of wine (just kidding), and fall into bed for the night. But it was only four thirty in the afternoon. Too early. Jackie, Steve, Maureen, and Buster came to where I stood cleaning up my papers. Charlie was already outside running around.

“Mom, you were wonderful! I didn’t know you
knew
so much about Poe. I learned a lot!”

“Thanks, sweetie. Could you tell I was a wreck?”

“Gosh, no,” Buster said. “You were terrific. What do you think, Steve? Time for a beer?”

“Sounds great!” Steve said. “Maybe we have time to throw a hook in the water before dark?”

“I’ll meet you back at the house,” Buster said.

“You were very entertaining and enlightening,” Maureen said as though there was a whole lemon stuck in her mouth.

“Why, thanks, Maureen. What do y’all say we go home and start thinking about supper?”

“Dinner’s ready,” Maureen said, unaware of the Lowcountry distinction between dinner and supper. She’d learn. “I made lasagna. It’s Jimmy’s recipe. Charlie loves it.”

“Is there enough for Deb too?” I asked, a little surprised that she had felt it was all right to just move into my kitchen.

“There’s enough for twenty people,” she said and bounced her head up and down as if to indicate that the rest of her body agreed with her mouth. Saints preserve us, she didn’t have one ounce of grace or poise. “While you were down here hanging crows and getting this place ready, Steve took me to the Piggly Wiggly. I’ve been cooking all afternoon.”

“Well, thank you
so
much! Isn’t that
grand
, y’all? That was
so
kind of you!” Inside, I was
dying
. Who goes into another woman’s kitchen and makes herself at home like that? It was not like she was my
blood
. Be quiet, nerves, I told myself. With Jimmy gone, who else did she have in New York? No one. The rest of her relatives were a thousand years old. “Jackie? Why don’t y’all go back home with Maureen, and I’ll stay here to help Deb close up.”

“Sure,” Jackie said. “Anybody seen Charlie?”

“He’s running around in the parking lot,” Buster said. “He’s fine.”

“You’re having supper with us, right?” I said to Steve.

“Of course! If you’ll have me.”

“
Please
. Don’t even think otherwise.”

They left, and Deb and I finally had a moment alone.

“Whew!” I said. “So was it okay?”

“Annie,” she said and dropped her hands to her sides. “You were a pip, girl. You had a hundred people in a trance.”

“Oh, please. Well, I had fun too. Let’s clean this up and get out of here.”

We worked like devils with the rest of her committee, disposing of cups, plates, napkins, food, and all the decorations. When I got home at six, I was filled with trepidation. As I came in through the kitchen door, I could not believe my eyes. The kitchen was immaculate. The smells of garlic and tomatoes were mouthwatering. The dining room table was set so beautifully, I couldn’t have done it better myself. And best of all, the trestle table was all set for cocktails. Maybe old reliable Maureen wouldn’t be so bad to have around after all.

When we got to the table the conversation was all about the sights Maureen should see all around Charleston. Until Maureen put a plate in front of each of us. The food was so gorgeous and fragrant we stopped talking.

“Put a blessing on it, Buster, and make it snappy,” I said, and Charlie giggled.

Buster blessed it, and we began to eat a meal that transported us to another realm. I had never had lasagna like this. Never.

“Glam?” Charlie said.

“Yes,
dah-lin’
?” I was feeling very southern for Maureen’s benefit.

“Why did Edgar Allan Poe sleep with his mother-in-law?”

Gulp, I thought. I saw Jackie, Buster, Maureen, and Steve snicker in unison.

I replied with a straight face, “Well, it was just a nasty rumor that he did. But
if
he did, it would only have been because they were so terribly poor they had to sell Edgar’s bed and it was very, very cold. But I don’t believe it ever happened.”

“Okay. Can I have some more lasagna, Aunt Maureen?”

Whew, I thought.

“Of course you can, Charlie. Do you want to help yourself? Or do you need me to help you?”

“I can do it,” he said.

“Tell me what’s in this lasagna, Maureen. It is simply out of this world.” If she stayed too long, I’d be as big as a cow.

Maureen actually smiled at me, and I thought, Actually, she isn’t all that homely when she smiled.

“The secret is béchamel sauce made with skim milk and nutmeg, and I use turkey and pork instead of beef. I use béchamel instead of ricotta. It cuts the calories in half.”

“Well, praise God for that!” I said and laughed. “Okay, let’s get serious here.
What else
can you make?” How a woman who looked like Ruth Buzzi’s little-old-lady character from
Laugh-In
could cook like a certified angel was the conundrum of the day.

“Just about anything French or Italian. I know I’m Irish, but who wants to eat corned beef and cabbage? Or blood sausage? I’d rather eat pasta dishes like scampi Fra Diavolo. Isn’t that right, Charlie?”

“Yup. Aunt Maureen makes wicked scampi, which is really shrimp.”

“I don’t know what the heck scampi Fra Diavolo is, but I’m gonna bring you five pounds of shrimp tomorrow!” Buster said, and we all laughed.

What I didn’t know that night was that we’d eat and laugh our way through the holidays and well into 2012. When Easter rolled around and Jackie appeared with a diamond on her left hand, Buster and I wept with happiness. Charlie was so glad he could barely contain his excitement.

When I asked him what he thought about having Steve as his stepfather, he said, “He’s a really good guy and he saved my life and he has dogs. So the dogs will be mine too! Plus I think my mom really likes him.”

“I think so too.”

Maureen, true to her reputation as The Stalwart One, went back to Brooklyn, put Jackie’s home on the market, and said a special novena to St. Joseph that it would sell. She even buried a statue in the backyard, explaining to us that there was no front yard to use as recommended, only cement sidewalks, and she didn’t want to go to jail for defacing public property. “Monsignor Michaels says the Lord will understand and grant me a special dispensation.”

The poor, poor well-meaning, generous-hearted woman was dead in love with a celibate priest. But by Memorial Day, when a rumor began to float around that he had asked to be released from his vows, Maureen blushed and stammered every time we brought it up. Like my mother used to say, God rest her soul, there’s a lid for every pot. Still, I think my mother would have been flabbergasted like the rest of us.