“Annie? Since when do you know all this about Poe?”
“Well, darlin’? I’ve had a lot of time on my hands in the last few years, haven’t I?”
“Hmmm. Yeah, I reckon so.”
“Charlie, I hope you and your momma can be here when I give my talk at the library.”
“Me too!”
“What talk?”
“Well, Deb wants to raise some money for the library, so she asked me if I’d give a talk on Poe. Listen, he was a real interesting character.”
“Was he ever!” Charlie said.
“You don’t know the half of it, Charlie. Come back and see me when you’re eighteen! Anyway, so, she’s going to ask her volunteers to make some sandwiches and cookies and whatever, a punch bowl of something, I guess, and charge a little admission. Hopefully, it will work.”
“Well, put me down for a front-row seat,” Buster said.
“Really?” I said, a little surprised because I had thought Buster would never be interested in Poe.
“Yeah, really. I’m real proud of you, Annie.”
“So am I, Glam. Now if y’all could just figure out a way I can stay here, the world would be awesome.”
“What’s the real problem, Charlie? Just spill it,” Buster said.
Charlie told Buster basically the same things he had told me, and Buster shook his head.
“Do you want me to talk to our daughter?” he asked.
“I’ve wanted to ask you to do that. Yes, please, talk to her.”
Buster reached over and patted the back of Charlie’s hand. For some reason it gave me hope.
Chapter 17
“. . . Acting on this hint, I made the division thus: ‘A good glass in the bishop’s hostel in the devil’s—twenty-one degrees and thirteen minutes—northeast and by north—main branch seventh limb east side—shoot from the left eye of the death’s-head—a bee-line from the tree through the shot fifty feet out.’ ”
“Even this division,” said I, “leaves me still in the dark.”
“It left me also in the dark,” replied Legrand, “for a few days; during which I made diligent inquiry, in the neighborhood of Sullivan’s Island, for any building which went by the name of the ‘Bishop’s Hotel’ . . .”
—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Gold-Bug”
Jackie
“So you caught this fish yourself, did you?” I asked Charlie over dinner that night.
“Yep, and that sucker was a real fighter too. He really gave me the devil, didn’t he, Guster?”
Charlie had developed a beautiful golden tan, and because of all the sun, he was sprinkled with freckles that made him even more adorable. He was also beginning to adopt a lot of my dad’s sayings, such as “He gave me the devil” and “that sucker.” Ah, family.
“Yep. But Charlie reeled him in,” Dad said. “I’m real proud of our boy here.”
“Nothing like fresh fish,” Mom said.
“I like it better fried in flour and milk,” Dad noted.
Mom cleared her throat to express her annoyance. I couldn’t blame her if she was a trifle irked. Even to the casual observer it would have seemed that all she did was put one meal on the table after another and every morsel was always fresh and as delicious as she could manage. Even since Charlie and I had been here, who could even calculate the hours she’d spent thinking up, shopping for, preparing, serving, and cleaning up after meals alone? The kitchen, the table, the porch, the island. That was just about the entirety of her world.
Was I more satisfied because my world was larger? The answer, which had been an unequivocal yes when I had arrived with Charlie in tow, was disintegrating into something I recognized as the cobwebs of confusion. I had no idea how life would be when we returned to New York. Rather than my looking forward to it, it had become a terrible dreaded challenge to be faced.
My mother was so very proud of her meals and the tables she set. It seemed that since I’d been home she’d gone to even more effort than I could recall from other visits. No, this was a lovely world of her own imagining and carefully manifested by her hand alone. All day long and through the night she did everything in her power to make it inviting to us and pleasing to all our senses. It was all hers. I’d even go so far to say that she would be justified to claim some partnership with the ocean, the breezes, and the beach itself. How she took care of her family and friends was deeply important to her. And Dad, who never gave things like what made Mom tick a thought in the world, dropped these little cherry bombs. I’d talk to him. I like fish fried in flour and milk. If he could see, indeed if they both could see, what went on in Afghanistan, they’d be so grateful to God to have a family, food, friends, and most of all the freedom to enjoy them in safety.
“Yeah, we all love the crunch of fried fish batter, but we’ll live longer if we eat our fish cooked this way,” I said. “And it’s better than the fish in Tikrit.”
“I expect that’s true,” Mom said.
“I never had fish in Tikrit. But I sure ate a lot of goat. When I was lucky enough to get it. Mostly we ate really skinny chicken.”
I gave Dad the hairy eyeball.
“Good grief!” Buster said and paused, his faux pas sinking in. “Annie? This fish is actually delicious. And I’ve heard goat can be tasty too.”
“Tastes like chicken!” I said.
“Does it really?” Mom asked.
“No, but that’s what we told ourselves.” I laughed. “No one goes to Afghanistan for the food.”
The fish in question was just grilled, with lemon juice, olive oil, and fresh thyme. Naturally, we had the two staples that came with a fish dinner: grits and salad. But no hush puppies. Despite Dad’s protestations that fish could be vulcanized into worthiness only when cremated in a cast-iron skillet swimming with heart-clogging, bubbling-hot grease, he was enjoying it immensely, literally gobbling it up. We all were.
“I’m just feeling kind of hangdog about not really teaching Charlie how to fish until today. I mean, when he was little we went crabbing and sometimes he’d help me reel one in, but today I was fishing with a young man, not a kid.”
“Oh, come on, Dad, you used to take him out in the boat with you all the time,” I said.
“Guster is right, Mom. Today was different, the real deal. I’ve grown up a whole lot since the last time we went fishing. Can I have some more grits, please?”
“Of course you can, but may you?” Mom said and passed the serving bowl to him.
“She means you should say ‘May I have some more grits?’ instead of ‘can,’ ” I said and wiggled my eyebrows.
“She is the cat’s mother,” Charlie said.
“No inside jokes,” Dad said, pretending to be dour. “No, our Charlie here has learned how to tire out the fish by letting him run with the line to really sink that hook in his cheek. And then, just like those fellas on the fishing channel, he slowly reeled him in.”
“Yup! That’s what I did. Hey, Glam? Is there a book about the battles on Sullivans Island?” Charlie said.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sure there are many!” she answered. “I’ll bet there are some right here in this house.”
“Why don’t you run a search on Dr. Steve’s e-reader?” I said.
“Awesome idea! I’m gonna do that right after supper!” Charlie said.
“After we do the dishes!” I said, leaning back and taking a look at him. It did seem like he was growing up right in front of my eyes. “So, kiddo, what sparked your interest in the history of the island all of a sudden?”
“There’s a new small park at Breach Inlet dedicated to Thomson from the Revolution,” Mom said. “We stopped for a quick visit before we went fishing from the bridge.”
“Yeah, Mom, you can’t believe what went on right here on this island! There was this English guy—”
“I still can’t believe you went fishing, Mom. It’s way out of character for you.”
“As long as I have your father to bait the hook and remove the c
atch, fishing is something I actually enjoy. Sort of.”
“Exactly my point! Gotta be hard to really fall in love with the sport.”
“So, Mom? This guy, Peter Parker—”
“It wasn’t that unpleasant; it was just too hot today, I think.”
“Mom! I’m trying to tell you about this guy Parker—”
“Sorry, sweetheart. Sometimes you have to wait your turn. But tell me. I want to know all about Peter Parker.”
For the next ten minutes, Charlie regaled us with his interpretation of the Battle of Breach Inlet, Parker’s bare backside, and the value and strength of passion. He was becoming quite the animated storyteller, and it was pretty obvious he was fueled by my mother’s renowned lust for history.
“They won because of their passion, Mom. It’s important to have a passion in life.” He looked at all of us from face to face. “Isn’t it?”
For a moment, that brief moment between processing the question and offering some reply, I saw my parents ask themselves if there was anything about which they were still passionate. I also saw them give each other a bashful half smile.
“It certainly is, Charlie,” Dad said.
“Passion keeps you alive, Charlie, and it also lets you know that you’re alive! If you don’t have strong feelings for something, you simply aren’t living!” Mom said, trying to win the Emmy for Best Actress in a Drama. “Don’t you agree, Jackie?”
I thought about it for a minute and how loving Jimmy so passionately had broken me apart and how loving my country and freedom had led me to a place where I wasn’t so sure my passion for it served anyone well.
“Yes, but passion can be dangerous too,” I said.
I was thinking of the Taliban and how women were less valuable in that society than a skinny cow or a goat. And even with all the efforts the world has made to improve the status of women in cultures like Afghanistan, girls and women were given away in compensation for crimes of passion to the families against whom the crimes of passion had allegedly been committed without the benefit of any kind of tribunal of justice. The women were enslaved and beaten and sometimes died for lack of nourishment. In the best cases they were sometimes released. And if they weren’t released and didn’t die, they were made to bear children against their will and were made miserable for the rest of their lives by constant beatings, berating, and deprivation. And the rest of the world seemed to be turning a blind eye to it all, because even when we got involved, and even when we put our lives on the line, nothing seemed to change very much.
“What are you thinking about, Jackie?”
“Oh, I guess that passionate love is very exciting, but political passions . . . well, they can lead to a lot of senseless suffering. You know . . .”
My parents looked from my face to each other’s and back to Charlie’s, avoiding what I implied. In my mother’s house, nobody liked to talk about this war. The American Revolution and the Civil War were popular topics, but the one their only daughter was fighting was taboo.
“Well, I think what Charlie learned today is that without the passion of all the American soldiers on this very island we’d be singing ‘God Save the Queen,’ ” Mom said. “Isn’t that right, Charlie?”
“Yeah, Mom. You’re missing the point, maybe? This is a lesson in how to win when the odds are like totally way against you.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Okay, soldier, let’s get these dishes cleaned up. Mom, thanks for another great meal.”
“Wait! I’ve got peach pie! Doesn’t anybody want pie?”
Of course we did. Eventually the dishes were done and we dispersed like tiny beads of mercury, each to his own favorite perch.
After Charlie downloaded The Short History of Charleston, which he wanted to read, he decided to turn in. I guessed that the heat of the day had got the best of him. I said good night to my boy, reminded him he had to repay Steve, and he promised he would.
“I’ve got so much money I don’t know what I’m gonna do with it,” he said.
I had to smile at that. “We can open a savings account. How about that? Or you could buy your ever-loving momma a Porsche?”
“I don’t have that much money!”
“Oh, okay.” I leaned over him and kissed his forehead. “I’ll be right here if you need me, okay?”
I went to join my parents. I kept asking myself, If they can get along this well, why aren’t they together? It was so heartening to have our tiny family under one roof. And to think that all I’d had to do was mention that another man was flirting with Mom to get Dad to spring into action. I should’ve rattled his cage years ago.
Dad was in the living room, standing in front of the television, watching the Weather Channel.
“Where’s Mom?”
“On the porch. I just wanted to check the weather. This time of year you can’t be too vigilant.”
“So what’s happening?”
“Another storm, and I don’t like the looks of it.”
“Why’s that?”
“The eye’s already over a hundred miles wide. And it’s slow-moving.”
“I don’t know what that means, but the tone of your voice says it ain’t good.”
“No, it ain’t. Let’s just keep watching it. They’re saying that if the winds gain strength to a category three, they’re going to delay school openings in Charleston, Berkeley, and Dorchester Counties.”
“When does school open?”
“Next ten days or so. I don’t know why they’re saying that now. Seems premature. But maybe the authorities know something we don’t. Maybe there’s a string of storms coming behind it. Come on.” He clicked the remote, and the television screen went dark. “Your momma’s out there all by her lonesome.”
“Gosh. I don’t remember that kind of precaution before.”
“Me either. Probably because of Katrina and all . . .”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Mom was on the porch, rocking and sipping on a nightcap of some strain of “O Be Joyful.”
“Come sit!” she said.
“I think I am going to go and get myself a little splash of something. Freshen your drink, Annie? And can I get you something, Jackie?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“I’m fine too, Buster. Thanks.”
Daddy slipped back inside the house, and as soon as Mom figured he was beyond hearing us she said, “Hasn’t he been great?”
“Yeah, he sure has.”
“I almost don’t mind him being here, but I wish he’d wait until we were away from the table before he says something stinky about the meal.”
“I’m convinced he doesn’t mean half of what he says, Mom. But! To his credit, as soon as he’s made to see that he’s being rude, he backs off and apologizes. Look on the bright side. Maybe he’s retrainable.”
“Wouldn’t that be something? Old dog? New trick? Anyway, he’s being awfully sweet.”
“Yeah, he is. I think he got around us and realized he’s lonely up there in Murrells Inlet in his creepy old bachelor pad.”
“Really?”
“Yes, ma’am. And I think being around Charlie has been wonderful for both of them.”
“I agree with you on that one for sure.”
“Right? I need to talk to you about us leaving too.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, wonderful as all of this has been, Mom, and it has been so great, with these storms coming and all, I’m just thinking that we’d better get out of here. It’s a long drive, and I don’t want to get caught in some evacuation traffic snarl for hours. Remember that hurricane about ten years ago when people sat on I-26 for like twenty hours?”
“Who could forget that? But there’s no rush, is there?”
“Well, there’s a pretty terrible storm headed this way. Dad sure seemed concerned about it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I think that tomorrow I’ll start packing our SUV and keep up with the news and then we can decide. But one way or the
other, it’s probably time, like we say down here in the Lowcountry, to think about fixing to go on and get ready to do something about getting a move on.”
“That’s such a funny saying, but it’s true. We say that all the time. Or some variation.”
“I have to get Charlie ready for school, and there’s a lot to do. A million forms to fill out. And I don’t know if I told you this, but I have a job at the Brooklyn VA waiting for me. I hope so, anyway.”
Mom was silent for a few moments, and then she said, “Deb told me about your new job.” As if to say I heard it from her, not you, thanks a lot.
“Look, Mom, I know you want me to stay. In many ways I’d like to stay too. But now is not the time. For some reason, I just feel very strongly that Charlie and I need to go back and get back on that horse again. Otherwise it sends him a message that we weren’t strong enough to really make it on our own. To face our reality. You understand that, don’t you?”
“And this storm is giving you the impetus to get up and begin the trek early?”
“Yeah. Dad said the eye was over a hundred miles wide. That’s huge, I guess. And it’s slow-moving. That’s not good. It makes me nervous.”
“Nervous? You’re nervous about something? Since when?”
“Seriously? This year taught me how to worry and wring my hands like no other.”
“Humph. Here’s the problem. When you start running from trouble? It confers with the devil on how to find you twice as fast. Listen to your Nervous Nellie mother.”
“Well, I hope you’re wrong about that. I really do.”
Dad rejoined us and took his place in a rocker across from us that he had turned around to face us.
“Well, Buster, it looks like our girl is leaving us.”
“Is that so, Jackie?”
“Only for a short period. I’ll be back at Thanksgiving. If you’d like us to come, that is.”
Of course both of my parents said oh yes, please come and maybe you should think about flying next time and we can help you with tickets, and on and on they went. Dad even said that if I wanted to drive for whatever reason I had, he would fly up to New York and help me drive home. And that if we got lonely, they could come for a visit. I didn’t know if they meant that they would visit together or separately, but it didn’t matter. It was their sentiment that so touched me. I thought I was lucky then to have two parents who understood so well what I needed to do for Charlie and for me.