“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.
“That sounds delightful!” Mom was so pleased that he wanted to have what she was having that she actually clapped her hands together in glee. I was glad he missed that. My poor mother was starved for affection. Why had I not realized this?
“Okay, Charlie baby. We’re gonna pop this cork together. What do you say?”
“Sure!”
I turned the corkscrew deeply into the cork, sat in a chair, and held the bottle between my knees. “Now, I’ll hold the bottle and you hold the bar good and tight, and pull it out straight.”
Charlie took the top of the corkscrew in hand and pushed against the bottle with his other hand, making all the appropriate noises that accompany manly exertion, and after many such grunts we had a pop!
“Good job!” Steve said and handed Mom her drink. “Can I pour for you?”
I passed the bottle to Steve, and he half filled a goblet.
“None for me,” Charlie said, and everyone laughed.
The evening was under way, and the conversation was easy and friendly. Every now and then I would catch Steve looking at me in the way that men look at women when they are interested in what’s under the skirt, and I would respond with an expression of disapproval. What the hell was he thinking? The last thing I wanted was to get tangled up with anyone, but especially him.
At some point while we were refilling glasses and Mom was engaged in an animated conversation with Charlie about tide clocks and how they worked, Steve offered me his condolences.
“Your mother told me all about your husband’s passing, and I just wanted to say how sorry I was to hear it. I mean, I know I said it earlier but . . .”
“Thanks.” I didn’t make eye contact but kept my attention on the wine bottle and how much I was pouring. “Yeah, it’s devastating for me and for Charlie. I think this is going to be one of those awful losses that you just never get over.”
“Yeah, I hear you. You know, I lost my wife in a boating accident a few years ago. Lightning. She was struck by lightning. So stupid.”
“Mom told me. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. Yeah, I thought that by the time I reached this age I’d have a family. At least you have Charlie. He’s a great kid.”
“Yep, he’s the real deal. All boy. Great heart. Smart as a whip.”
“Yes, he seems so. I gotta say, though, I never expected to find myself back on the market, did you?”
I don’t know what it was that he said that made my blood run cold, but it did.
I stared at him. “I’ve been a widow for a total of eight weeks. I hardly consider myself to be on the market.” Just as quickly as I had let my mouth run away with itself, I realized how rude I had been. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I apologize.”
“No, I apologize. I’m an insensitive Neanderthal.”
“I know all about Neanderthals,” Charlie said. He was obviously eavesdropping while pretending to be mesmerized with my mother’s pedantic, repetitious, and very long-winded lecture on the formation of sand dunes.
“Well, do you know anything about grills?” Mother asked with a wide smile. The gin was doing her some good, as her facial muscles were less taut and she seemed to be relaxed at last.
Steve raised his hand. “I do. Back home in Cincinnati, they call me the Grill Meister. Can I light it for you?”
“That would be such a blessing!” she said. “Grills make me so nervous. Leaking gas and all that scary stuff.”
Steve gave her a pat on the arm, and I thought the old girl would swoon.
Over the next half hour, the grill was heated to the temperature Steve thought was the exact level to prepare a perfect steak. And the steaks were gorgeous, just as Mom said they were. They were rib eyes, thick and marbled, and the smell of them on the fire was divine. I guess Steve’s dogs thought so too, because they started to howl at the top of their canine lungs.
“Glory be! What a mournful sound,” Mom said. “They sound so pitiful!”
“Don’t mind them,” Steve said. “I’ll just run home and put them in the den. I shouldn’t have left them on the porch where they can smell the meat.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Mom said. I was very surprised to hear her speak to him in such an emphatic and stern tone, but I thought, That’s the gin talking. “You’ll bring Stella and Stanley right over here. They’re precious.”
It was a landslide victory for the love me, love my dog club.
A-rooooo! Ar Ar Ar-roooo! Rooo a rooo a rooo! Their frantic howling continued in earnest.
“Wow! Listen to them!” Charlie said. “You want me to go get them?”
“Are you sure?” Steve asked Mom.
“Absolutely. I’ll make them scrambled eggs. Hurry, Charlie, before the neighbors call the authorities! And turn on the porch lights so you don’t break your neck. They can sit right next to me.”
Porch lights? It wasn’t dark. Wait. Scrambled eggs? My mother had never allowed a dog into our house, much less made them eggs. I wanted to ask her if I should set two more places, but she wouldn’t think I was funny. I wasn’t going to say one word. Nope. Not one word. But I was mystified.
Somehow we made it to the table and Steve’s dogs settled down by our feet, kept quiet by Charlie’s continuous scratching behind their ears and, after they devoured their Swiss cheese omelets, by slipping them bits of steak. I was positive that Mom knew that Charlie was slipping them treats in exchange for their silence, but she said nothing. Feeding dogs from the table is verboten in most cultures because it turns them into beggars. But on that night my mother was so lighthearted that almost nothing could darken her mood. And I wasn’t about to correct Charlie for his transgression. On certain occasions our family motto was it just didn’t pay to be right. This was one of those occasions.
“Supper is delicious, Mom. Thanks.”
“Yes! To the chef!” Steve said.
“To Glam-ma!”
“Oh, y’all. You’re welcome. I only made the potatoes gratin and the asparagus almondine and the baked goat cheese and Boston butter leaf salad with the pomegranate vinaigrette and baked the olive bread and whipped up a mousse au chocolat.” She stopped, took a deep breath, and smiled for effect. “It was Steve who grilled the steaks, and they are absolutely perfect! And this wine is delicious too. Here’s to you!”
We all raised our glass in Steve’s direction, and he smiled. “Glam-ma?” he asked.
“Short for glamorous grandmother,” I said.
“She only cooked up . . . a storm! No! A hurricane!” Steve said.
“She is the cat’s mother,” Charlie said, and I nearly choked.
“What?” Steve said. “Well, no matter. I say, here’s to Charlie, our dog whisperer!”
“I wish I had a dog,” Charlie said. “But we can’t have one because we’re not home all day. Mom says it’s not fair to have a pet without giving them company.”
“Oh, Charlie, come on now,” I said, feeling like The Evil Parent.
“Well, Charlie, your mother’s right. I mean, I feel terrible when I go to work in the morning and I have to leave Stella and Stanley alone all day. They turn into crazy maniacs when I come home. They start jumping and whining to run up and down the beach and chase a tennis ball or Frisbee or anything.”
“I could play with them while you’re at work,” Charlie suggested, his blue eyes pleading.
“Now, Charlie, let’s not impose,” I said.
“No, wait, Jackie. That’s brilliant!” Steve leaned over and looked at Charlie, quickly making a plan. “Okay, I have an idea. Let’s make it a business deal. What if you walked my dogs twice a day, made sure they had water and kibble, and played with them for a bit? I can pay you, say, five dollars a day? How long are y’all going to be here?”
“I don’t know, but yeah! I can do that! Wait. Mom? Is it okay for me to take care of Stella and Stanley?”
“Well, sure, why not? It’s not like it’s a terrible commute.” I smiled at Steve then. What a nice offer for him to make to a little boy who had just lost his father. It could only be a good thing. “Now, Steve, Charlie’s never had a job before. Is there a problem here on the island with child labor?”
“None that I’m aware of,” Steve said, feigning seriousness. “Ever since they broke up that ring of murderous babysitters . . .”
“Oh, stop, you two! You’ll scare my grandson!”
“Sorry.” So our Dr. Plofker had a decent sense of humor. Well, that was nice. “Look, I think this is actually a wonderful idea. It will teach him responsibility.”
“And then you can see if you really like taking care of a . . .” Mom said, her words trailing off at the sound of the doorbell. “Now who in the world is that?”
Mom started to get up when Miss Deb just walked right in.
“Hey, y’all! Isn’t some handsome young man going to take this blueberry pie from me? It’s still warm. Well, lookie who’s here!”
Her face flushed and I thought, Well, maybe both of them really do have a crush on Steve. Only Miss Deb would bring a pie in a sweetgrass basket with a lid to keep it warm. Sweetgrass baskets were the Lowcountry equivalent of Fabergé eggs.
“Blueberry! Sweet!” Charlie, who was for the moment the island’s most heralded child, hopped up, took the pie from her, and hurried it to the kitchen.
“And then he’d better come back here and hug my neck!” Deb called after him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your supper. I didn’t know you’d still be at the table. I saw the porch lights and thought—”
“Please! Don’t think a thing about it!” I got up and gave her a hug.
“Look at you, darlin’ chile. It’s so good to see you.”
Her eyes were brimming with sudden tears. I squeezed her shoulders. “It’s okay. Thanks,” I whispered.
“You are my best friend in the world, Deb Jenkins. You can walk in my house twenty-four seven!”
Mom was pleased with herself for throwing “twenty-four seven” out there like a younger person might have done.
“Dr. Plofker,” Miss Deb said, nodding to him as he pulled another chair to the table for her to join us.
“Ms. Jenkins, how are you this evening?”
“Doing just fine, thanks.”
“Are you hungry?” I said. “We’ve got mountains of food. Can I fix you a plate?”
“Oh, no thanks. I got my supper early because I had to take Vernon to the emergency room. His blood pressure shot up, and he got all wiggy on me. The poor old sweet thing. Sometimes I’m not so sure that retirement is good for him.”
Miss Deb’s husband of a million years was something of an agoraphobic hypochondriac who stayed home in his La-Z-Boy recliner watching reruns of Little House on the Prairie around the clock. Miss Deb took care of him but also went on with her life.
“Poor dear,” Mom said. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Oh, my word! We’re drinking wine from a bottle?” Miss Deb said. “It’s not even Saturday night! I’ll definitely have a glass!”
“Hush!” Mom said under her breath.
“How do you usually drink it?” Steve asked, pouring a glass for her. “From a shoe?”
The Good Doctor was overhydrated. Miss Deb looked at my mom, and they dissolved into giggles like a couple of schoolgirls. Then my mother cleared her throat, trying to regain her composure.
“Ahem! Ahem!” she said. “Well, truth? Deb and I take a drive out to Costco once a month and stock up on that white wine that comes in a box. It’s easy to store. And you see, if you get it really cold you can’t tell that it’s well, you know . . .” My mother was clearly embarrassed, her face turning every shade of red.
“Cheap! Now you know our secret,” Miss Deb said without a shred of shame. “Cheers!”
“Cheers!” we all said.
Steve looked at me and arched his eyebrows as if to say aren’t these two old birds funny? I was not about to agree with him. Anything that segregated my mother and demeaned her in the slightest was not okay with me, especially knowing how much effort she had put into the night. And I could see the lights go out in his eyes. He knew he was off base.
“Mom is prudent, not cheap. There’s a difference,” I said.
“That’s right,” she said. “And it’s an important distinction.”
“Wine is wine, isn’t it?” Charlie asked.
“No, baby,” I said. “Not all grapes are created equal. For example, hamburger is beef, but it isn’t nearly as delicious as the steaks we just had.”
“Got it,” Charlie said. “Gosh. You learn something new every day.”
We all had a good chuckle then.
“Charlie? You sound like an old man,” I said. “Can I cut y’all some pie? And I can put some mousse on the side. And Mom, don’t even think about lifting another finger tonight. The dishes belong to me.”
After dessert, Steve tried to stay behind to help, but I finally managed to shoo him out to the porch with Mom and Miss Deb. It wasn’t that I would not have appreciated the extra pair of hands, because to tell you the truth, my mother had used every pot and pan she owned. It was that doing the dishes was something Jimmy, Charlie, and I had always done together. The sight of Steve with a dish towel in his hands made me so uncomfortable—the happy trio washing up the supper dishes? I just felt sick all over as though even an act as small as letting him dry glasses would be a betrayal to Jimmy. Yeah, Jimmy and I had become such creatures of habit. After dishes, he’d check the locks, I’d turn down the lights, and we’d pull down the bed together. Sometimes we’d watch the late-night news and agree on how terrible and corrupt the world had become. Sometimes we’d read in bed. But we had always been in sync, and I missed him. I missed him so badly I could have cried just thinking about him then, but no. No more tears.
Later on, Steve stuck his head back in the kitchen to say good night. “See you in the morning, Charlie?”
“Sure. What time?”
“Eight o’clock?”
“Sure! Hey, Mom? We got an alarm clock?”
“Cell phone.”
“Right!”
Steve gave me a friendly nod and left. Things had gone okay between us once the ground rules were established, but I knew he was taking home some awkward feelings. Basically the rules were these: one, be really nice to my mother, and two, don’t try to hook up with me. For the first time in my whole life I felt protective of her. But I saw things in her that night I had never seen before.
Later still, as Charlie and I were drying the last of the silverware and dropping it into the drawer, Miss Deb came sailing through to say good night.
“That breeze out there on that porch is something else!”
“It always was and ever shall be thus—especially on high tide,” I said. “If we could bottle it, we’d all be filthy rich.”
“Thanks for the pie, Miss Deb,” Charlie said. “It was so good.”
Charlie’s hair was back in his face by then, and he looked just like who he was—a very vulnerable little boy who ought to be up to some mischief but instead carried the weight of the world all over his face.
“Anytime you want a pie you just let me know, okay? In fact, have you ever had a chocolate pecan pie?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, then, that’s next. When this pie plate is empty, you let me know, all right? Night, y’all.”
“Thanks,” Charlie said. I could hear how tired he was in his voice. My poor baby.
I walked Miss Deb to the door and gave her a hug. I watched her go down the steps, and she stopped halfway, turning back to me. I could see she wanted to say something, but like most people trying to offer encouragement in the wake of disaster, she was at a loss for words. So I said it for her. “We’re gonna be all right, Miss Deb. I don’t want you to worry.”
“Of course you’re going to be all right. You have to be. Besides, this island cures what ails you.”
“This island and a slice of your pie. I hope we’re right. Thanks again, huh?”
She nodded her head and turned again, this time making it to the bottom of the steps. I watched her as she crossed our yard and made her way toward her house. She was thoughtful and kind. There was a lot to be said for those qualities.
When I got back to the kitchen, Charlie was arranging our dish towels over the oven handle to let them dry. Show me another ten-year-old boy who did that, and I’d show you one who was imitating his parents’ behavior. I rinsed the sponge out again, thinking about how hard Jimmy and I always tried to set a good example. It was amazing what stuck and what didn’t. I wiped down the counters for the final time of the night.
“Mom? Can I go to bed now? I have to go to work in the morning, you know.”
Priceless. How old was he?
“Of course. Go kiss Glam good night, and I’ll come tuck you in.”
“Okay.”
I turned out most of the lights, and a few minutes later I wandered to his bedroom and found Charlie under the covers. Mom was perched on the side of his bed. She was telling him a story about Edgar Allan Poe and how back in his day there had been illnesses that caused deep comas that resembled death. Sometimes people were accidentally buried alive, so they put little bells in the coffin that could be rung by the breath of the not exactly deceased.
“You’re kidding, right?” Charlie said with a mounting panic in his voice.
“Why, no. But it was a long time ago and—”
“Charlie! Did you brush your teeth?”
He jumped in surprise, not having known I was there until that moment. “Yes.”
“So if I go touch your toothbrush, it will be wet?”
He shimmied out from under the covers and ran to the bathroom.
“I’ll just go check,” he said and slammed the bathroom door. “Sorry!”
“Mom? What are you doing?”
“What do you mean? I’m putting my grandson to bed.”
“And telling a little boy who hasn’t slept right since we buried his father a story about people being buried alive? I mean, do you really think this is a good idea?”
“Oh, honey, Charlie’s old enough—”
“You are unbelievable. Do me a favor? How about we don’t tell him any more stories like that for a while?”
“Really, Jackie, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you what. When he gets up ten times in the middle of the night, I’ll send him to you.”
I turned and went to my room. And this time I slammed the door.