Near the western extremity, where Fort Moultrie stands . . . is covered with a dense undergrowth of the sweet myrtle . . . attains the height of fifteen or twenty feet . . . burthening the air with its fragrance.
—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Gold-Bug”
Meet Annie Britt
Frankly, we had precious little to say to each other, but because he actually took his Old Man and the Sea hand off his fishing rod long enough to call me, I spoke to him. I had not heard from my estranged husband since the funeral. Of course, I was very polite to him. If I hadn’t known better I’d have said the spirit of James McMullen was conspiring to have us kiss and make up, but I don’t believe in that kind of nonsense. Well, not as a general rule. And that’s not why he called anyway. Buster, as he was known to all, had been to visit our daughter, Jackie, and our adorable grandson, Charlie, way up the road in Brooklyn, New York, and he didn’t like what he found. Like I had? Who in the world would be happy to see their daughter and her little boy struggling under the weight of that kind of traumatic and horrendous loss?
I mean, I don’t want to sound judgmental, but Buster’s not exactly the expert of the world on the hearts of women and children. Apparently there had been a recent conversation between Jackie and Buster, and apparently Jackie had cried him a river. Weeping is not my daughter’s style. At all. She’s a soldier, for heaven’s sake! But everyone has a limit of what they can endure. His call truly alarmed me. Truly.
She told Buster that she’s very, very worried about Charlie. He wasn’t coping well. He was having terrible nightmares, he was lethargic and not eating well. Oh, my poor dear little grandson! And just the idea of my daughter sobbing made my chest tighten. Buster, unsure of how to handle her, did the right thing. He brought the problem to me. As! He! Should! Have! After all, I was still the mother of the family, even if our child was a military nurse, toting a loaded gun around the world and even though her father preferred the waters seventy-seven miles to the north.
I called Jackie immediately and pleaded with her to spend the balance of the summer with me on the island. Maybe beseech is the better word because it was more begging than pleading. Oh, she hemmed and hawed around for a while, and suddenly to my astonishment, she gave in, making me swear on a stack of Bibles not to spoil Charlie rotten. I promised enormous personal restraint and thought, Gosh, that wasn’t nearly as difficult as I thought it would be, which was an indication of how worried she must be. And if she was that worried, maybe she needed to stay here for longer than a few weeks. There was no reason I could fathom for her to go back to Brooklyn. Why would anyone want to live in a place like that anyway? Glory be to God! All that noise? And it’s so cold in the winter! And you take your life in your hands every time you cross the streets with cars and taxis and ambulances zipping all around you like madmen! And the subway? Let’s just say I’d rather walk ten miles in the pouring rain than go all the way underground just to get across town—I’d be underground for good soon enough.
She could practice nursing at the VA hospital right here in Charleston, and Aunt Maureen could visit anytime. I liked Maureen. Not spoil Charlie? Let me tell you this: if you were ever caught in those enormous blue eyes, flashing from behind his stick-straight black bangs that longed for a trim (in my estimation), you’d open your heart and your wallet and give the boy everything in the world.
I knew I drove my daughter out of her mind some of the time. To be honest, she drove me a little batty too. She internalizes every blessed thing and broods, while I like to think of myself as liberated from the shackles of social convention, you know, undaunted by anything life throws my way and unafraid to speak from my heart. She thinks I’m too dramatic, which is patently ridiculous, and I think she’s not dramatic enough. Cleopatra was dramatic. Holly Golightly was dramatic. Lady Gaga is dramatic. I was perfectly in control of my personal theater, but the truth? I was very excited they were coming.
Even my house was buzzing with anticipation as though the floors and walls and windows knew that Jackie and Charlie were coming home. The sun was shining, and gorgeous breezes drifted from room to room, laced with the smells of the sea. It was Saturday and a perfect summer day, barely a drop of humidity and somewhere around seventy-five degrees. Who needed air-conditioning? I hardly ever used it unless the temperature was over one hundred degrees.
Jackie had called just an hour before to say that they were north of Columbia and if the traffic continued moving along she would be home in time for lunch. She used the word home. I didn’t know if she meant it to mean her home or my home, but that simple word home coming from her was so wonderful to my ears. And I hoped with all my heart that she still believed this was her home.
I had done everything within my means that I could think of to set the right tone. My largest pot was filled with okra soup, simmering on the back of the stove, and my rice steamer with warm fluffy white rice. Not an hour before, I had pulled a pan of brownies and a pan of corn bread from the oven, and they’d filled the kitchen with the delicious smells of butter and chocolate. The table was set with a cheerful tablecloth. I’d even cut some flowers from my garden—oh, all right, they were sprigs of white oleander that I rinsed to baptize the bugs away—but I put them in the middle of the table in my mother’s small Fiesta ware red vase and the mood was set. All there was left to do was pour the iced tea, drop in a lemon wedge, and put a blessing on it all. Soon I’d be sharing a meal with the two very dearest people in my world. Buster didn’t know what he was missing.
Oh! What an old fool I was to worry so. A ten-year-old boy didn’t give two figs about how his bed was made, but I made and remade his trundle bed three times. Three times! But you know, in view of his nightmares, I wanted that bed to look so comfy that he’d curl up under those covers, forget about his worries, and sleep the best sleep of his life. The quilt was new and had puppies all over it. Maybe we would name them together. Plus, I put fire escape ladders in every bedroom closet to ease any anxiety he and Jackie might have.
For fun, I bought him a stack of new comic books and a new yo-yo, a book on the history of baseball and another one packed with true stories about the pirates that once sailed the waters around Charleston. Then in a moment of whimsy I picked up a crazy Hawaiian-print bathing suit for him—the young people call them board shorts—and a T-shirt from the Charleston RiverDogs plus a schedule of their ball games. Would Buster come down and take him to a game? I hoped so, and if I had the occasion to speak to him again in this lifetime I would drop the hint. Diplomatically. If he wouldn’t go, I would, even if it was a hundred and five in the shade, which it usually was this time of year. We could eat hot dogs together and whatever else they had. Lord! I haven’t had a hot dog in years!
Lastly, I found a miniature picture of Jackie taken on the morning of her First Communion, reframed it, and placed it on his night table. It was such a precious photograph. There was Jackie in a beautiful white organza dress, her veil billowing in the breeze and her two front teeth gone missing. I remembered that morning like it was yesterday. It was good for a child to be reminded that his parent was once a child too.
I gave a gentle yank to the smiling ceramic shrimp that was attached to the cord hanging from the ceiling fan to circulate the air slowly like the breeze of a waltz. From the doorway I appraised it all for the tenth time. Charlie’s room, which was right next door to Jackie’s, had never looked more inviting.
Jackie’s room had been her bedroom when she was a little girl, but it had long been turned into a guest room. After Buster went off fishing I had our Charleston rice poster bed moved in here, because frankly, I was getting too old to be climbing up bed steps to go to sleep. What if I woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom? If I wasn’t fully conscious I could fall and break a hip. I would be found three days later by my neighbors, dehydrated and in agony. So I pushed Jackie’s twin beds together in my bedroom and had GDC Design Center make an upholstered headboard so it looked like I had a king-sized bed, which I needed like another hole in my head. Still, it was better than being found in an undignified heap on the floor. It wasn’t that I worried about osteoporosis. Thankfully I had the bone density of a much younger woman; I was a true Steel Magnolia. It was more like I just worried about everything, but I worked very hard not to let my anxieties show.
Jackie’s room looked rather amazing too, if I said so myself. I dressed her bed with all white linens and lots of pillows, including two antique European squares trimmed in hand-crocheted lace. I carefully folded my mother’s delicate handmade quilt over the foot. I had mended and repaired that quilt more times than I could count, but it was still so beautiful to me. The pattern was a mosaic of flowers in a large basket. Naturally all of the flowers were faded with age, but I could imagine how vivid they must have been when the quilt was presented to my mother as a wedding gift from her great-aunt. That was back in the day when a young girl learned to sew at her mother’s knee and grown women put great stock in the quality of their needlework. A wave of nostalgia washed over me. There were very few quilting bees around town these days, and it would be an extremely rare occasion to see generations of women gathered around a hearth doing needlepoint. These days young women play Bunko, drink white wine, and furnish their homes with a bed in a bag from some discount retailer. I know this because that’s how I acquired Charlie’s bedding and I did love to play Bunko and have a glass of wine myself. But still! What has this world come to?
Before I left the room, I smelled the inside of her closet. It was musty, like any closed area of a beach house can be. I opened the doors and hurried to my linen closet for a sachet of potpourri. Yes, I keep extra potpourri on hand because I make it myself from lavender that grows in a hedge of buzzing weeds in my yard. Besides, a sachet makes a wonderful hostess gift. And bumblebees love lavender.
Yes, I make lavender sachets. And yes, I am fast turning into, Heaven save me, my mother.
I pulled the cord of Jackie’s ceiling fan to get the air moving. I rolled the sachet between my palms to release the oils in the seeds and slipped the ribbon over the neck of a hanger, deciding to leave the door open. She would probably think the room was too fussy. I doubted they issued her lace-trimmed sheets in Afghanistan, but I wanted her to know that I cared about her so much that I’d use my very best everything for her. I put an assortment of new (well, okay, gently read) novels on her nightstand along with a bottle of some fancy Italian water and a pretty glass. On her dresser I left a waterproof canvas beach bag filled with an assortment of magazines, a tube of suntan lotion, new flip-flops, and a visor that said SULLIVANS ISLAND across the brim. I had done my best.
“Anybody home?”
“Yes, yes! I’ll be right there!”
It was the voice of Deb, my crazy wonderful neighbor. Deb ran the Edgar Allan Poe Library down the island and had for years. Until I took early retirement, I taught English and history for eons at the Sullivans Island Elementary School right next door, secretly specializing in South Carolina’s illustrious past, especially stories about the pirates and naturally, Edgar Allan Poe. Poe lived on Sullivans Island while he was stationed at Fort Moultrie right before the so-called Civil War. Anyway, Deb and I had known each other all our lives and she was the very best friend I’d ever had. And her husband, Vernon, well, he was another story. Let’s just say that Deb believed that once you got married, you stayed married. In fact, I bought her a needlepoint pillow that says A RETIRED HUSBAND IS A WIFE’S FULL-TIME JOB. True story.
She was standing on the top step of the stairs I descended every morning to walk the beach with her, wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat I hadn’t seen before. The crown was covered in a psychedelic bouquet of artificial flowers, and it was about the wildest thing I’d ever seen. But then Deb was my most flamboyant friend, the complete opposite of the stereotypical librarian. She made me seem conservative.
“Hey!” she called out our traditional island greeting.
“Hey!” I flipped the latch on the screen door and held it open for her. “Come on in and tell me this instant where you got that hat! It’s gorgeous!”
“I got it at Belk. Big sale. Want to try it on?” She handed it to me.
“Indeed I do,” I said, plopping it on my head and checking myself out in the hall mirror. “I look like an ass in hats.”
“No, you don’t!” She gave me a friendly hug. “Is Jackie here yet?”
“No, but almost. She called from Columbia a while ago.”
“Gosh, I can’t wait to see her, Annie. The poor thing. How’s she doing?”
“I guess she can’t be doing too well, or she wouldn’t be coming here.”
“Stop! She loves you! You’re her mother!”
“It’s complicated, and you know it. Glass of tea?”
“Lord, yes. I’m parched like the Sahara.”
Deb followed me into the kitchen, where I took two glasses from the cabinet and filled them with ice from the freezer of my Big Chill jadeite green refrigerator that looked exactly like my mother’s from the 1950s.
“Here we go,” I said and handed her a glass.
“I still can’t believe you spent that much money on a refrigerator.”
“Some women lust after hats and others lust after appliances.”
“You’re so crazy. Is this sweet?” She pointed to her glass.
“Aren’t you sweet enough?” I arched an eyebrow in her direction.
“You know it, girl.” She giggled and peeked inside my pots, her hundred enameled bangle bracelets tinkling like a wind chime as she lifted the top. “Smells divine.”
“Stay. Stay and have lunch with us.” It was a halfhearted invitation.
“No, darlin’, thanks, but I have to be at my Zumba class in less than an hour. But we can sit on the porch for a few, if you want. The breeze is heavenly.”
“Let’s do.”
Inside of a minute we were settled in the old weatherbeaten Kennedy rockers that ran the length of my front porch. There was a Pawleys Island hammock in the far corner, positioned there to catch the crosscurrents of air when the weather was stifling. But it was a lucky afternoon. The rising tide carried enough air to rustle the palmetto fronds and to blow our hair around.
“I still can’t believe what-all kind of horrors your daughter has been through,” Deb said. “You know she’s seen some sights.”
“No doubt about it. But she’s a daredevil. And James was a daredevil too. This is what can happen when you sign up in a seriously risky profession. I always secretly wished she had married a doctor. I mean, I loved James like a son, but, you know . . .”
Deb sat up straight in her chair. I knew I had annoyed her.
“Annie Britt?”
Here it comes, I thought. And here it came. I tightened my jaw and tilted my head to the side.
“Now, you listen to me, and hear me good! If I hear that you said ‘I told you so’ to Jackie, I will hunt you down and cut off your tongue!”
“Oh, I won’t say it, but you know she’s dying for me to, so she can rant and rave. The whole blessed time I was in New York she kept taunting me.”
“Rubbish. You’re paranoid. She’s not a teenager anymore, Annie, pushing your buttons and all that. She’s a fresh widow with a little boy.”
“Humph!” I said and added, “I’m still her mother, you know. I am well familiar with her situation. Just to reassure you, I want you to know I have given this a great deal of thought. I will be the last person on this planet to give her one iota of anything to complain about. You won’t believe how well behaved I can be. Just watch.”
“Humph!” she said. “You’d better be! I still can’t believe you didn’t get your picture taken with Mayor Bloomberg. He’s a good-looking devil, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t exactly the right time and place. I mean, a funeral at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral? And what a funeral it was! You would’ve thought Elvis died.”
“He did. Remember? Years ago.”
“Oh, shush. I know that. I’m just saying it was a funeral for a movie star. Bagpipes with all that mournful music. Limousines. Television cameras. Streets closed. Unbelievable. All his friends were there in their formal dress uniforms, walking beside the truck. They even put the darn casket on the top of his fire truck. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, that’s all. Those firefighters have a real brotherhood.”
“That’s probably part of the appeal that makes them sign on in the first place.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“Well, I’m sure I would’ve cried my eyes out even if I didn’t know the man who died.”
“Absolutely. And the honor guard at the wake? They had a fireman in full dress positioned on either side of the casket, standing as still as those Beefeater guards at the Tower of London. The whole thing was some spectacle.”
“Golly, I imagine it was. And how is Charlie doing?”
“Not so hot. He idolized his father.”
“Poor thing. I’m sure we’ve got a book at the library on children and how they grieve. Would you like me to bring it home for you?”
“No, but thanks, though. I think I just want to be with them a little while, and then I’ll figure out what to do.”
“Keeping them both busy is probably the best thing.”
“Probably. You’re probably right.”
We were quiet for perhaps maybe twenty-three seconds and then Deb leapt right into our other most favorite topic. The gorgeous single doctor next door. Steven Plofker. “I saw Mr. MD’s porch light on until after midnight last night. Then he went out in his car. He was alone.”
“So did I. I saw the whole thing, sitting on my porch in the dark, enjoying the ocean rolling in and out. I could almost smell his cologne wafting through the oleanders. Mother McCree. I went to bed and couldn’t sleep for hours, tossing and turning.”
“Ooo, honey! You’ve got a thing for him, Annie. You got it bad, girl!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m old enough to have been his babysitter. Besides, I’m a married woman.” It was a game; didn’t Deb know that?
“Only on a technicality. How many years have I known you?”
I could feel blood rising in my face. I had two hormones left. Benedict and Arnold. “Hush. I’m just curious, that’s all. Just like you. What do you think he was up to? A midnight house call? Hmmm? A little late-night delight?”
“Who knows? He’s a man, isn’t he?”
I sucked my teeth. I loved Deb, but I didn’t love that she was implying that Steve Plofker was just like any other man, on the late-night prowl for a skirt. Wait! I had implied the same thing. But somehow it sounded very different coming from me. I mounted my high horse.
“Deborah Ann Jenkins. He’s a doctor, for heaven’s sake! Maybe there was an emergency.”
“He’s a dermatologist, Annie Britt. You think there was a midnight outbreak of contagious acne? Do you think we’ve got a poison ivy pandemic on our hands?” Deb giggled and I shook my head. She was a hopeless giggler, but she made me laugh.
“Would you listen to us? We’re turning into the Snoop Sisters.”
“Well, when the day arrives that you find something better to do than monitor the comings and goings of the George Clooney of Sullivans Island . . . you’ll let me know?”
“We’re pathetic.”
“No, we’re not. We’re curious. You said so yourself. Anyway, I think he’s gay. I’ve always thought that.”
“You just say that because he flirts with me and not you. Besides, he was married.”
“Yeah, to some woman who didn’t have the sense not to go out on a boat during a thunderstorm.”
“Bless her heart. She was on her way back to the dock when she got struck by lightning and the boat capsized. Not her fault.”
“Here’s to barometers, right?” Deb took a long drink of her tea, draining her glass. “She should’ve checked the weather.”
“Amen. Anyway, he’s got to be lonely, don’t you think?”
“If you say so. So far I haven’t seen any women around his house, have you?”
“Nary a one. But he’s probably still grieving.”
“Maybe Jackie will like him. We should introduce them.”
“He’s too old for her.”
“But not too young for you! Ha! Mercy! It’s almost one! I have to go, or I’m gonna be late. I wish you’d come with me, Annie. It would do you so much good.”
“Do me good. Humph. I walk the length of this island every day of my life. That’s plenty of exercise for one woman. Besides, I’m too old to be jumping around.”
“Oh, come on! It’s fun!”
“Maybe another time,” I said, wishing she’d get on with the business of leaving. I could feel my nerves starting to act up. Jackie and Charlie could arrive at any moment, and I wanted that moment for myself. If that sounds selfish, you haven’t longed for your child like I have.
“Okay, then, Mrs. Robinson. I’ll see y’all lay-tah! Tell that precious Charlie I’m baking him a blueberry pie.”
“That’s his favorite! He’ll love it! How did you know?”
“Because I actually listen when you ramble on and on!”
“Oh, you! Stop!”
I blew her a kiss, and the screen door closed behind her.
I sighed hard and leaned back in my rocker. Then I rocked forward and stood, moving to the edge of the porch to have a good look at Steve’s house. His very charming cottage was nestled in the dunes about ten yards from mine. Deb was jealous because she lived two houses on the other side of him and her house was positioned in a way that denied her a direct view of his deck and porch. And, although she wouldn’t admit it, his bedroom. I had the ideal view. Yep. I did. I saw plenty, and yes, I looked on purpose. Seriously? I would’ve used my binoculars except I was afraid he’d see me. And if you’re thinking I’m a peeping Thomasina, this was a very different affair from sneaking through the bushes in the dark and peering into random windows. It was specific and enjoyed from the safety of my own property.
Most of the island houses like ours were built of clapboards, perched high on stilts because of the occasional flooding tide from a hurricane. His, like mine, had louvered shutters that actually worked when we needed them closed to protect our windows from things like branches that took flight in high winds. His tin roof was red, and mine was silver. His house, which bore the misleading name of “The Dew Drop Inn,” was painted bright white with red and black trim. It looked like a greeting card for a real estate company in all its optimism, but the fact was, he wasn’t the kind of fellow you just dropped in on for a visit without calling. Or maybe I wasn’t the kind of woman who just went willy-nilly knocking on a single man’s door, especially one like him, whom I had no business visualizing in any other capacity than a nice neighbor. Good luck with that.
I often wondered what kind of casseroles he liked. Chicken divan? Probably not. No, he seemed like a man who liked heartier things to eat. Lasagna? I made a passable lasagna. I wondered then if I could ask him to show me how to use the rotisserie on my grill, the fancy one I bought Buster for his birthday that he never used. Buster preferred his Big Green Egg. But figuring out the machinations of my grill was a reasonable excuse to call on Steve.
I had been watching the Food Network too much, which led me to thinking about chickens, marinated in tons of herbs, lemon zest, garlic cloves, and olive oil, turned slowly on the spit, and basted until they were so tender that the meat nearly fell off the bones. I wanted to watch him eat with his hands. Lick his fingers. Moan from the sheer pleasure of a perfectly roasted bird. Okay, there you have it. I’ll admit that I was a little caught up in my silly fantasies. Why shouldn’t I fantasize about a good-looking man within pitching distance of my porch? I wasn’t dead quite yet.
Of course, there were many moments when I wished Buster had not left, but there were just as many moments when I wished there was a nice man around to say something sweet to me. I could not recall the last time Buster had paid me a compliment. Steve would say that my hair was really pretty if we bumped into each other at the mailbox or that he really liked my dress. Was it new? He’d help me carry my bags of groceries or my dry cleaning into the house. He was a gentleman.
Buster, who was the living embodiment of an overgrown boy, never did any of that. It was always Buster and Jackie just standing back and letting me do all the work. But who was going to manage our lives if I didn’t? So keeping things neat and orderly had made me single? I knew what people said, that I had nagged my husband out of my life. Listen, I was tired the day after that wedding ceremony, I mean, bone tired. I didn’t have a single joint in my body that didn’t ache like holy hell from standing in high heels for hours on end the day before, smiling and thanking people for coming, moving mountains of gift packages to help keep things tidy, to . . . you name it, I did it. Anyway, the morning after the wedding I was slicing ham and baking biscuits and setting the table while Buster sat there in his boxer shorts like a postbinge Hemingway watching golf on the television while his fishing mess was strewn all over the back porch as the minutes ticked by, closer and closer to the hour of the arrival of our guests. It seemed like the grass had grown five inches overnight from the rain, which meant there would be mosquitoes eating our out-of-town guests behind their knees, and I just sort of lost my mind. In between wiping away the spots on my champagne flutes and lining them up in a perfect triangle on the dining room table, I asked him three times to please, for the love of God, to clean up his gear. He pretended not to hear me and kept on watching Tiger Woods or whoever was playing golf, the most boring sport in the universe. There isn’t a grown woman alive on this planet who doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I was so frustrated I was about to scream, and if I’d had the strength I would have. To my surprise, when a string of advertisements came on, he got up, called me a fussbudget, and walked out. That’s what happened to my marriage, and there’s not much more to tell. Fussbudget? Nice. Thank you very much. Go to Hell, please. And stay there.
Maybe walking Jackie down the aisle of Stella Maris Church freaked Buster out, you know, his job was finished and his game was over? I’ve heard that happens to men. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be married anymore? Or—and the thought of this stung like a jellyfish—maybe he really didn’t love me anymore and had not loved me for years? Or maybe he was worried about his own mortality. The obituaries were filled with men of his age who dropped dead from natural causes. Anyway, it was terrible to think that the father of my only child was all done loving me or loving our little family enough to try and sort out whatever the differences there were between us.
So kill me. Ever since he moved in next door, I’ve thought about Steve to cheer myself up. The welcoming look on his face made me feel alive and attractive and like I still had some worth in the goings-on between men and women. What’s the matter with that?
Ah, mercy me. Steve’s cottage may have been next to mine, but in the sober light of day the differences between us were as blatant as the differences between our homes.
My hundred-year-old cottage, “The Salty Dog”—an undignified name bestowed by Buster and one that I despised—was a creaking box with a porch, sort of a metaphor for me and my abdominal muscles that, when left unharnessed by the miracle of elastic, had settled into something of a relaxed, slightly protruding, cushiony state. Over the years my house had been painted probably every pastel you can name except mint, which is in sync with the pantheon of my changing hair colors. Presently the Salty Dog was pale yellow with accents in white and Charleston green, which for my money was black. But it creaked like my knees and it had seen better days, as I had. And no matter how much and how often I renovated it or myself, we were both still getting on in years. Fat old bald men can have pretty women as young as they pleased, but it seldom works that way in reverse. Maybe I was too old for romance or a new love. But I refused to completely believe such a depressing thought because of Deb. She says that on the day you stop believing in love you may as well lie down and die. I think she may be right.
To be frank, it wasn’t like Steve was knocking down my door. And I wasn’t knocking down his. We merely enjoyed coincidental meetings by the mailbox, the occasional glass of wine on my porch, and discussions of what was being done right or wrong by the town fathers. From his deck to my porch, we would call out to each other, remarking on sunsets, agreeing that they were the singularly most spectacular ones on the earth. He waved to me as I watched him jog the beach with his goofy spaniels. When we ran into each other at High Thyme and Poe’s Tavern, we exchanged hellos like old friends. It was enough for me. If it was meant to evolve into anything more, it would. I still believed I could handle Dr. Love. That’s why the good Lord invented dimmer switches. There comes a time when we’re all better off in the dark.