Late In, Late Out

Here's an inconvenient truth - life is too short and we learn too late not to waste time.


Watching the night skies from the back deck as the dogs prowl the yard, I remember seeing and wishing on shooting stars from the side porch of the family house on the island. The scent of the ocean was powerful, moonlight made the whitecaps clearly visible, and there was a peaceful silence that seemed to envelop everything as far as I could see. My grandmother sat in her rocking chair with yellow lamplight spilling from the window - I could almost hear her knitting needles clacking steadily - my daddy was stretched out on the loveseat with a book and my mother had fallen asleep over a game of solitaire. Now and again a car rounded The Point, headights sweeping out over the guard rail and briefly illuminating the dark water before passing. A young fisherman and a dog walked by, silhouettes in deep shadows, too far away to recognize but for the familiar voice that called to me.


Evenin', missy!  I heard and knew that it was one of the Sullivan boys, finally done and headed for home.


Runnin' late!  I called back.


The figure shrugged, Ayuh, he answered, Late in, late out.


With the dog close at his heels, he rounded The Old Road and disappeared from sight.  I listened to his footsteps echoing on the night air and thought of dancing in the moonlight.  Inside the house, the old telephone trilled out our ring - two longs, one short - and I heard my grandmother leave the rocking chair and shuffle slowly into the dining room to answer.  It was late for a call, I remember thinking, the village rose and retired early on week nights and I knew from experience that calls after nine usually signaled bad news or trouble.  A few minutes later, Nana came to the screen door and told me to come inside - I knew at a glance that whatever it was, it wasn't good.  My daddy was upright, his book carelessly laid aside and forgotten.  My mother was crying.  I looked from one to the other and tried to force down the sudden flash of fear and the sick feeling I felt in my belly.  As good as my family was at denying emotions and distancing themselves - of not getting involved or too close - something had caught them badly off guard and I didn't have to be told that someone was dead.  It was just a matter of who.

This night the call was about my Uncle Eddie - my grandmother's brother and to be precise, a great uncle - a short and stubby man with a carefully kept mustache who favored checkered vests and who had unaccountably married my Aunt Helen, the head  mistress of an exclusive girls school on Beacon Hill, and a first class snob. It was an odd and annoying relationship and not well tolerated by the rest of us - Aunt Helen put on airs and as she herself might've said, was "offputting" while Uncle Eddie was as down to earth as mud - affable and good natured with a quick wit and an easy going disposition.  He often referred to himself as a commoner in the presence of a queen but he said it with a sparkle in his eyes, gently making more fun of his wife than himself.
Aunt Helen disliked his teasing but her arrogant reproaches were mostly met with laughter - they slid off him like water on oilskin - All that rarified air has gone to your head, old girl, he would say with a hearty and affectionate laugh, But I love you anyway.

That day, as had become his habit, he was late in to work and planned on being late out.  Aunt Helen had
graciously held dinner til well after nine but by eleven, she was concerned and that was when the hospital had called.  Uncle Eddie had stopped on Route 128 to help a driver in distress and midway through a tire change had suffered a heart attack.  They had done all they could but he wasn't expected to recover and by the time she reached the hospital, he'd died.  I'm at a loss, Aunt Helen wept, Could you possibly come home?

When death and the good Lord come callin', Sparrow liked to tell us, Ain't no use pretendin' you ain't home.

At the funeral I thought of the Sullivan boy and his dog - would always think of him when I remembered Uncle Eddie, to this very day.  Late in, late out.