Porch Lights
Dorothea Benton Frank
Dedication
For all the brave men and women who serve our country in every branch of the armed forces, especially in Afghanistan
Epigraph
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand—
How few! Yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep—while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! Can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
—Edgar Allan Poe, “A Dream Within a Dream”
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
1 Meet Jackie McMullen
2 Meet Annie Britt
3 Jackie
4 Annie
5 Jackie
6 Annie
7 Jackie
8 Annie
9 Jackie
10 Annie
11 Jackie
12 Annie
13 Jackie
14 Annie
15 Jackie
16 Annie
17 Jackie
18 Annie
19 Jackie
Epilogue: Annie’s Parting Words
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Dorothea Benton Frank
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
This island is a very singular one. It consists of little else than the sea sand, and is about three miles long. Its breadth at no point exceeds a quarter of a mile. It is separated from the mainland . . .
—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Gold-Bug”
Meet Jackie McMullen
I will tell you the one thing that I have learned about life in my thirty-something years that is an absolute truth: nothing and no one in this entire world matters more to a sane woman than her children. I have one child, my son, Charlie. Charlie is barely ten years old, and he is the reason I get up in the morning. I thank God for him every night before I go to sleep. When I was stationed in Afghanistan, I slept with a T-shirt of his wrapped around my arm. I did. Not my husband’s. My son’s. It was the lingering sweet smell of my little boy’s skin that got me through the awful nights while rockets were exploding less than a mile away from my post. I would fall asleep praying for Charlie. And, if I had known what would happen, I would have petitioned harder for my husband, Jimmy’s, safety in those same prayers. I should’ve prayed harder for Jimmy.
Now I’m driving south on I-95 while Charlie sleeps, slumped in the seat next to me, and I wonder: what the hell was the matter with Jimmy and me? Why did we think we had the right to be so cavalier about what we did for a living, pretending to be bulletproof and fireproof and thinking nothing could happen to us? Sure. Me—an army nurse doing three seven-month tours in a war zone—and Jimmy answering the firehouse alarms, rushing out to save what? The world? No, my Jimmy died trying to save a bunch of low-life crackheads in a filthy, rat-infested tenement on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. He fell to his death when the floor beneath him collapsed. How do I tell my Charlie to make any sense of that when I can’t make sense of it myself?
Ah, Jimmy McMullen, there will never be another man like you. Nope. Not on Earth and not in Heaven. You were one of a kind. Here’s to ya, blue eyes, wherever you are. I took a swig from my water bottle.
I was pretty certain that wherever Jimmy was couldn’t be too far away because I could feel him, watching over me, over us. And when the world grew still, deep in the night, I could literally feel enormous regret gushing from his gorgeous big Irish heart, regret about leaving us. But I’d never believe it was his fault for one minute. He’d been stolen from us, ripped out of our lives like a bad tooth. Jimmy’s death was another victory for the Dark Side. Plain and simple. At least that’s how it seemed to me. I mean, I was not some crazy religious fanatic at all, but I believed in God. And the God I believed in would never sanction such a senseless, violent death for such a righteous man.
Jimmy McMullen was a righteous man who loved his church and never missed Sunday Mass unless he had a fever of a hundred and three. On his days off, he took Charlie and his toolbox over to the rectory and hammered loose boards back in place or unclogged a slow draining sink or put a coat of paint where it needed to go. Father O’Quinn would ask Jimmy if he could help him out on Saturday at nine in the morning, and Jimmy would be there at eight thirty with a bag of old-fashioned doughnuts and a disposable cardboard tray, two large cups of coffee wedged in the holder. That’s what he did in his free time when he wasn’t taking Charlie to a Yankees game. That was just the kind of guy he was. Faithful to his family, his church, and his word. And generous to a fault. You would’ve loved him. Everyone did. Charlie idolized him, absolutely idolized him. And Charlie’s despair was the cause of the deepest, most wrenching concern and worriation I have ever known. No matter what I said or did, I just couldn’t seem to bring him around.
It was completely understandable that a child of his age would be traumatized by the loss of a parent, even depressed for some period of time. But the changes in Charlie were alarming and unnerving. After two months or so I kept thinking he would somehow make peace with our new reality because life goes on. He did not. Jimmy’s Aunt Maureen was the one who made me see that something had to be done.
“This child is severely depressed,” she said. “He’s not eating right or sleeping well. We’ve got to do something, Jackie. We’ve got to do something.”
“I know,” I said. “You know, in Afghanistan when a child loses his father he’s considered an orphan. They’re sent to orphanages, where the boys outnumber the girls about ten to one.”
Aunt Maureen looked at me, unblinking, while she quickly calculated the whys and wherefores of such a radical policy—without a husband the woman sinks into poverty, without government intervention they would literally starve, little boys are valued more highly than the little girls . . . what happens to all the little girls? Human trafficking? She knew exactly what I wasn’t saying.
“Dear Heavenly Father, there’s so much wrong with the world.”
“You’re telling me?”
“You must have seen terrible things.”
“Yes. Yes, I have.”
“Well, God bless you. And look, Charlie has us, such as we are. At least he doesn’t have to worry about being sent to an orphanage.”
“I thank God for that.”
“Amen,” she said. “Amen.”
Aunt Maureen, unmarried and in her sixties, was Charlie’s secondary caretaker while I was overseas. There’s no question that she was cut from the McMullen cloth in terms of understanding and fulfilling obligations, but unfortunately she didn’t exude the warmth that seemed to flow endlessly from the rest of Jimmy’s clan. Not even a little bit. She wore sensible shoes, no makeup, and was . . . well, in a word, dowdy. And prim. Yes, Aunt Maureen was prim, a throwback from another time when domestic life was governed by a hard-and-fast set of rules. Rules that had consequences when they were not followed to the letter. She’d always been that way, seemingly uninterested in the opposite sex, the same sex, or sex. Or in having her own family. Maybe the idea of a house filled with a gaggle of noisy children frightened her, which even as a parent of only one child was not a concept beyond my grasp. Every woman I knew with a husband and little ones would have said that raising children is as scary as the day is long. But putting aside her appearance, demeanor, and domestic aspirations, she was a good woman. A fi
ne woman, in fact. Each time I was deployed she appeared like clockwork, standing in the hallway of our apartment with her heavy suitcase and a shopping bag of treats for Charlie, comic books and other things, ready to do her duty. And she always brought me a bag of things she knew I’d miss: dried fruit, power bars, Snickers, and two pounds of my favorite kind of coffee, ground for drip.
She gave Charlie her all; it’s just that some pretty shallow waters flowed in the river of her emotions. It didn’t matter because Charlie understood her nature and he was fine with it. They had an arrangement. When Aunt Maureen was in residence, she slept in Charlie’s room and Charlie slept on the pullout sofa in our living room. Jimmy cooked dinner, and Charlie washed and dried the dishes with her. Jimmy made lasagna, meat loaf, and chili like no other, but show me an FDNY fireman who couldn’t cook, right? That’s what they did down at the firehouse when they weren’t fighting fires—they cooked. They cooked and they ate, they watched television and ate snacks, they lifted weights, and then they ate some more. I used to tell him that his ladder company should have had its own show on the Food Network. Or at least a guest spot on Throwdown! with Bobby Flay. Can’t you see all these good-looking, ripped guys showing Flay where the bear goes in the buckwheat when it came to meat loaf?
We had a good life, Jimmy, Charlie, and I. We owned a co-op in a stone building in the Cobble Hill section of Brooklyn. It was built in the 1930s, nice but not grand and near where Jimmy’s parents used to live. I mean, the kitchen was reasonably new but there was no room for a dishwasher because we chose to use that space for a washer/dryer stack. I had a germ thing about using washers and dryers that were used by everyone else in the building. Who knew what nasty horrors they put into them? There’s no need to paint a picture. Funny, the laundry service on base in Kandahar was fine, except for my disappearing underwear, but a public washer and dryer stateside made me gag. My mother has this weird idea that living in Brooklyn is like that movie Fort Apache, the Bronx. But then she has a lot of weird ideas.
Anyway, our kitchen had a nice big window, and that seemed like fair compensation to us. I could watch the birds in the morning while I scrambled eggs or flipped pancakes, and that always made my heart a little bit lighter. The living room also served as our dining room, and our air-conditioning consisted of window units. We had two bedrooms and two bathrooms and the use of a small backyard, which was a luxury.
The day that the terrible news came, Aunt Maureen was there in a flash. She picked Charlie up from school and stayed with him until my mother arrived. Then they kept vigil until I could get home on bereavement leave. Aunt Maureen had called my mother and asked her to come at once. To her credit, Mom was literally in my living room six hours later—not an easy feat considering she lived nearly a thousand miles away.
Before I get too far ahead of myself I should tell you a little about my mother, Annie. Basically, she’s the antithesis of Aunt Maureen. She’s rock steady like Maureen, but she’s got this other side that, well, let’s just say that a little bit of Momma goes a long way for some people. She’s just too much. You know what I mean? She’s too effusive, too dramatic, too fussy about the superficial and not fussy enough about other issues—for example, she still wears red lipstick, she drives a Sebring convertible, and she thinks she can interpret dreams. Okay, maybe that’s a lame indictment, but what I’m trying to say is that she says and does these things all the time that make me cringe. And how did she let my father just walk out of the door after twenty-something years of marriage? There was no history of screaming fights, no tears were shed, and no marriage counselors were brought in to help. They just split. Yes, that happened the day after I got married. It was all over the fact that Dad’s fishing tackle was left on the back porch and she had company coming. At my mother’s house, the back porch is the main entryway. God forbid someone tripped over a smelly cast net. It is the single dumbest story in my family’s history. And I’m a little embarrassed to admit that for a long time I thought it was a dramatic move on her part to steal some thunder from my wedding weekend. Now I can see that Dad had simply had it with her, her rules, her house, her everything. I understand. I escaped too.
They’ve been living apart now for almost eleven years. I know they’re lonely without each other, but wow, are they ever stubborn. They’re like two mules. At least I think they’re lonely, and they must miss each other. Dad has never been out with another woman, to the best of my knowledge, and Momma has never dated either. If anybody’s stepping out on the other I don’t want to know.
When I have asked him why he doesn’t just go home, he says he’s waiting for Momma to cool down. For eleven years? Hell, volcanoes cool faster. When I ask her how Dad’s doing, she says Dad’s just gone fishing up in Murrells Inlet and she imagines he’ll come home when he’s had enough sun. I know, I know. It’s their business, but when Jimmy died, I needed my parents. Both of them. And so did Charlie.
So Momma came to Jimmy’s funeral and Dad stayed home because Momma said she couldn’t be in the same room with him. She said the thought of having to look at him made her nerves act up. She always said that as though her nerves were a separate entity with a will of their own. How could I forget that? I’d been walking on eggshells around her my whole life, living in fear of making her nerves act up. Isn’t that great? I was in such a state of disbelief and anguish over losing Jimmy that I didn’t object, but it was typical of her to think of herself and her nerves first and to never give a thought that maybe I needed my father too. Here we have a fine snapshot of the differences between us.
Momma stayed for a week and a half. The first thing she did was ask me with a smile when was the last time we had pushed all the furniture away from the walls to clean. Was she implying we lived in squalor? Didn’t she realize how long I’d been away? I just let her take over and do whatever she wanted. As if I could have stopped her anyway. Annie Britt was a whirling dervish with paper towels in one hand and a sponge in the other. She reorganized all our closets, packing up most of Jimmy’s clothes for Goodwill, something I was loath to do. I kept his sweaters and a few other things, like neckties and his FDNY uniform, that I thought Charlie might like to have one day. Next she cleaned the bathroom and kitchen until they glistened. Have at it! She filled the freezer with single-serving containers of soups, stews, and pasta sauces, and she helped me write thank-you notes for all the flowers and cakes that people brought and brought—to her surprise, as though people in the North didn’t offer condolences like people in the South.
“We mostly bring hams and pound cakes,” she said. “I mean, how much baked ziti can a person consume?”
“The same amount as ham,” I said and thought, Oh, brother.
Charlie’s toys were dusted and rearranged on his shelves, and all the while she dusted and rearranged them, Charlie sat on the side of his bed telling her in fragmented mumbles what each one meant to him. As he spoke, he was so subdued that my heart ached for my little chatterbox to reappear.
The week after she left, Charlie’s troubles mushroomed. He seemed to have lost interest in everything. Even his skateboard, the one physical activity he was crazy about, stood by the door, abandoned as though the idea of fun belonged to his past. I had to argue with him to go to school. Maureen was right. He wasn’t eating enough for a boy his age. He didn’t even want to take a bath. He began having nightmares about terrorists and burning buildings. Then he dreamed that I died and that he was all alone, lost somewhere in a place like Central Park surrounded by strangers and no one to help him. After one of those horrific episodes, he would appear at the foot of my bed sweaty and shaking. I’d get up, throw my arm around his shoulders, and lead him back to his room. After a few nights of putting him back to bed, not once but many times, I let him bring in his comforter and sleep on the floor next to me. Obviously, I knew Charlie sleeping in my room could become a bad habit, but I didn’t care. My poor boy was just as distraught as I was, and we were both exhausted from grief and lack of sleep.
Every night after we lost Jimmy, I’d lie in bed in the pitch-black dark just thinking. It wasn’t that I couldn’t accept his death. God knows, I’d seen plenty of death in the hills of Afghanistan—men, women, and children, torn apart and literally blown up by the insanity of their own countrymen. And what happened to the Americans was just as bad and sometimes worse. Hell, I’d seen the Taliban use children as suicide bombers for the promise of candy. No, it wasn’t about death per se. It was that I was just completely and utterly heartbroken; that’s all.
The day I married Jimmy was the happiest day of my life, next to the day when I held my newborn Charlie in my arms. Our love and the love I felt for our little family pulled me through a war. Overseas, I was so careful all the time because coming home to them was always on my mind’s front burner. Charlie was my sweetheart, and Jimmy McMullen was the only man I had ever loved. I would never get over the horror of losing him. Never. And now I worried that maybe Charlie wouldn’t either.
I tried so hard not to get upset in front of Charlie, knowing it wouldn’t do him any good and believing I had to be strong for him. But alone in my bed at night, tears would come, memories of the three of us by the score would come rushing through my brain in some kind of a landslide of scenes, skipping from last Christmas to the summer before, Charlie’s first day of school, holiday programs, another summer preceding it, telling Jimmy I was pregnant, on and on. By some godforsaken hour I’d sleep again in fits and starts, only to wake up once more and remember again that he was gone. In so many ways, Jimmy’s death was unbelievable. I’d stare at the ceiling, waiting for the alarm to ring and worrying about what would become of us. Intellectually, I knew that eventually I would somehow adjust. Eventually, I would adjust. But what about Charlie? How deep was his wound?
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