The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors Read online

  “Please just drop me here.”

  Reverend Whitehouse pulled the truck over in front of a white cinder-block house—Mrs. Smith’s house, not Buckley’s. His house was a pea green cinder block. Mrs. Smith was on the front porch, smoking a cigarette. “Is that you, Buckley?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sweating, he turned to the reverend. “Thanks.”

  “No, son. Thank you. Hope you and yours can make it next Saturday.” The reverend reached under the seat for his wallet. He pulled out one crisp dollar bill, then another, popping each one like the money was precious to him, like it had to be displayed. “It’d be good to see you there,” he said, laying each bill out on the passenger’s seat side by side, like a game of solitaire. “You take that, all right?”

  Did this man expect him not to take the money, to offer it back to God? Was this some kind of test? “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” Buckley crammed the bills into his pants pocket and ran from the truck. He saw the light from the truck illuminating the black road, his baggy shadow, the diamonds in the road, the trees far up ahead, his own house. He ran as fast as he could. Breathless, with his two dollars tucked away, he pulled open the screen door. He might buy a new GI Joe. He might buy a whole slew of balsa-wood planes and crash them. He liked the sound of the cracking wood, and when they didn’t break, which was rare, he smashed them with his palm or his cowboy boot. Man down. There’s a man down.

  “What’s with you?” his grandmother asked.

  His mother sat in front of the TV. “You missed Hogan’s Heroes. There’s ice cream.”

  Buckley loved ice cream, but if he had to choose between his mother and ice cream, he’d never eat another spoonful. No contest. He’d decided that long ago, back when he first started weighing how much he loved his mother against everything else in the world. She came first. He went to the cupboard for a bowl.

  She said, “It’s after ten,” and then Buckley heard a knock at the screen door, his mother struggling to rise from the tattered recliner, the twang of springs, his grandmother saying, “Oh, we didn’t know Buckley got a ride home this evening.” Buckley, frozen in the kitchen with an empty brown bowl in his hand, knew the reverend was at his door, and he knew this gave the man an advantage.

  Excerpt from

  THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS

  Geography plays a big role in lightning strike frequency. Although some contend that those struck are more likely to be struck again, scientists argue that it’s not because the individual person attracts the lightning; it’s because the geo graphical area is more prone to strikes.

  After reading multiple accounts of repeat victims, I disagree with the scientists. It doesn’t make sense that one person should get struck twelve times just because he lives at a high altitude prone to thunderstorms. Not everyone who lives in that geo graphical area has been struck twelve times. I don’t like to disagree with experts, but on this point, I must, and I’m sure that if you’ve been struck more than once, you agree with me.

  [3]

  When making new friends … 1977

  Becca’s mother was drinking more than ever, smoking skinny brown cigarettes, forgetting whole conversations. Her dad stayed late in the garage. He had a passion for cars—which was one of the best things about him. Becca liked the heat from the engines on her knees and the wind tangling her hair. Everybody said her dad looked like Cary Grant. Even her mom. Her dad said Becca’s mother was from Podunk so she was lucky to have landed him. He had heritage and good taste.

  They fought a lot. According to her dad, he was being “screwed.” Her mom was “a sot,” and he nightly complained about a man, Mark Cusemeo, whom Becca didn’t know. This man was “getting tenure” and he was a “moron from Plano, Texas.” Becca knew what the word moron meant, but she didn’t know about tenure or why her dad wanted it.

  Becca’s father was a Burke: Rowan Augustus Burke. Having ties and roots, Rowan didn’t like anything nouveau. He counted Dr. Cusemeo “nouveau academic.” Becca knew a little French, including nouveau is “new” because her babysitter Millie taught her. She knew too that her grandmother had “family” money. It was spent now, but her dad said that wealth was about attitude: a man’s social standing, his home, his history. Mark Cusemeo, according to Rowan, had no history. Becca guessed her dad liked old British cars because they weren’t nouveau.

  Becca’s mother disagreed with Rowan about Mark Cusemeo. She said that Rowan spent too much time “chasing skirts” when he should be schmoozing the department chair. Becca knew what chasing a skirt meant, like Fonzie on Happy Days, but pretended not to know. It was better that way.

  Today her dad drove Becca to Bobbie’s department store to buy a new watch. She picked a Winnie-the-Pooh watch with flowers for hands. She also selected a brown and beige dog from the shelves of stuffed animals. Then she saw Colin Atwell and turned away. She knew him from first grade, where, on a double dare, he’d eaten glue on his hot dog. Then she heard that he was put in a special class. For glue eaters, social misfits, she supposed. Colin still had crazy blond hair, like he’d stuck his finger in a light socket.

  “Hi, Rebecca,” he said.

  She looked at her shoes. He ate glue! Who knew what else he ate?

  He grabbed the stuffed dog from her arms—“You still have a lot of freckles”—and tossed it in the air like a football.

  “Who’s your little boyfriend?” her dad asked.

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  Colin said, “I’m nobody’s boyfriend.” He held the stuffed dog out for Becca to see. “The nose is ripped. Get a different one.”

  “I don’t want a different one.” She reached for the dog.

  “He’s right,” her dad said. “Pick a different one.”

  “I want him!” She grabbed the dog from Colin. “Mom can fix him.”

  “Get a different one,” her dad said. “The paw is ripped too. There’s stuffing coming out.”

  Becca said, “But if I don’t buy him, who will? I want him.” She held the stuffed dog to her chest.

  Colin said, “You’re spoiled.”

  “No, I’m not.” She looked around, wondering why Colin seemed to be alone. “Where’s your mom?”

  Colin yanked the dog from Becca, throwing it to the retail carpeting. “You’re stupid!” With his knockoff Nikes, he stomped the stuffed dog. Becca picked the animal up. What is wrong with that boy? She and her dad watched Colin Atwell run away, tumbling into a rack of clothes and sending blouse hangers clacking to the floor.

  Brushing off the dog, Becca said, “We have to get this stuffed animal.”

  Rowan said, “Your little friend is odd.”

  “He’s not my friend.”

  “You said that before. That’s good.” Inspecting the stuffed dog, he said, “Sure, we can get him.”

  Becca was happy. Later, she’d recall this day as one of her fondest childhood memories.

  Carrie Drinkwater rang the Burkes’ doorbell at seven-thirty in the morning. She had straggly blond hair and a grape Kool-Aid smile. She wore cutoff Levi’s and a San Francisco 49ers T-shirt with a faded tomato stain. She’d been going from house to house since sunrise, looking for kids her own age. Like Becca, she was lonely, dependent on her imagination for company.

  Standing on the front stoop in her pajamas, Becca said, “Do you want some Frosted Flakes?”

  Carrie didn’t particularly like cold breakfast cereal, but said sure. At the table, she explained, “We moved here a month ago.” Milk dripped down her chin.

  “Have you met anybody?”

  “Colin Atwell.”

  Becca said, “I hate Colin Atwell.” Then, trying to impress Carrie, she said, “My neighbor Bob has a cheating whore wife. That’s what my mom calls her.”

  “Your mom said that to her face?”

  “Not to her face.”

  “Do whores get money?”

  “I think so. But sluts don’t.”

  “I can’t believe you said you ha
te Colin Atwell. His mom ran away with a Harley-Davidson biker.” Changing the subject, she said, “I moved here from Florida.”

  Becca said, “She couldn’t have run away.” Grown-ups don’t run away.

  “It’s true. Colin’s dad told my dad. They work together, and when we went to their house for this barbecue, there were pictures of her everywhere. Colin’s dad thinks she’s going to come back, but she’s been gone for two years, so my dad said she isn’t coming back. Anyway, my dad said I have to be nice to Colin, and when I asked Colin if his mom really ran away from home, he said yes. He was sad.”

  “I’ll get dressed.” Becca left her cornflakes on the table. She felt guilty. If she’d known about Colin’s mom, she never would’ve asked him “Where’s your mom?” How could she have known? She didn’t think adults did such things. “Come on,” she said to Carrie, who followed her upstairs. As an afterthought, Becca said, “Hey, I got struck by lightning.”

  “Lots of people do. It happens all the time in Florida. There was this man who got struck thirty times.” In Becca’s room, Carrie knelt on the flower rug, flipping through Becca’s Mead sketchbooks—bright flowers and rainbows—while Becca put on a T-shirt and shorts. Carrie said, “You’re like the best artist I’ve ever met.”

  “Not really.”

  “You are! What’s this?”

  “It’s supposed to be a picture of lightning.”

  “It’s neat. How’d you make it?”

  Becca remembered: She’d painted the sheet white and waited, watching paint dry, but it wasn’t right. It wasn’t lightning. It wasn’t white enough and it wasn’t loud enough. She slid open the set of oil pastels her art teacher gave her for Christmas. There were twenty-four colors, and Becca chose titanium white. She started gingerly dotting and streaking the paint with the crayon. The oil pastel was whiter than the paint. She could see a slight difference, but it wasn’t lightning. She circled and zigzagged the crayon, and it still wasn’t right. She peeled the paper off the oil pastel and broke a sweat scribbling. You can’t paint lightning. At least, Becca couldn’t paint lightning. Not then.

  Becca took the painting from Carrie. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Outside, Bob’s cheating whore wife rushed down the paved drive to her car and waved to Becca. Becca whispered to Carrie, “That’s her: the lady I was telling you about.” Bob’s cheating whore wife drove away, her coffee cup forgotten on the car’s roof.

  Carrie said, “She’s kind of pretty.”

  “Her boobs are too big.”

  Kevin Richfield, a blond, blue-eyed fifth-grader, rode past on his BMX racing bike.

  Becca said, “Have you met him?”

  “No.”

  “He’s my destiny. If I decide to get married, I’m going to marry him. Otherwise, we might just live together. Do they do that in Florida? Do people live together without getting married?”

  “Some people.”

  “I would,” Becca said, “but I’d need my own bedroom and my own art room.”

  “Of course,” Carrie said.

  “I’m very creative.”

  “You are.”

  “What do you like to do?”

  Carrie said, “Everything.”

  Becca stared curiously. “Like what?”

  “Ride bikes. Draw and paint like you, and my favorite thing is Barbie. I have a Barbie Dream House. I love Barbies. I have the Cadillac.”

  “Hmm …” Becca had to think. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Barbies. She confessed, “My mom hates Barbies, but I don’t. Not really, even though I’m supposed to. I’ve never played with them. I’d like to play with them, but I’m not supposed to.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s an unreal imagination or image or something of women.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “My parents are strange about some things.”

  “I have a lot of Barbie clothes, and my mom makes them clothes too. You’ll have to come over.”

  “Hmm?” Becca liked Carrie. There was possibility here.

  The following weekend, Carrie spent the night at Becca’s. The Burkes were going to dinner with the chemistry chair, and Mary was in a tizzy (Rowan’s word) looking for her purple butterfly brooch. The babysitter Millie, standing by the sofa, was on the phone.

  To Becca, Mary said, “Did you take it? Don’t lie!”

  “I’m not lying.” Becca felt embarrassed. She’s already drinking.

  “That’s my mother’s brooch.”

  “I didn’t take it! Why would I take it?” You hate your mother.

  Carrie said, “I’ll help you look for it, Mrs. Burke.”

  Mary didn’t respond. “I can’t find shit in this house.” She picked up Rowan’s denim jacket from the sofa and threw it to the floor. A bottle cap spilled from the breast pocket, and there, poking out of the pocket, was something pink. Something with strawberries, faded reds and greens visible through folded stationery.

  Rowan shouted from upstairs, “Your brooch is in your jewelry box.”

  Millie the babysitter laughed—Mary presumed from something funny that someone had said on the telephone, but Millie was laughing at Mary.

  Becca watched her mother pick up the strawberry note and slip it into her skirt pocket. Rowan descended the stairs dressed in a tweed blazer, white oxford shirt, and blue jeans. He held the purple brooch. Seeing Mary, he said, “With a closet full of clothes, you’re wearing that?”

  She looked down at her green pleated skirt and black boots. “I look nice.”

  “Let’s go.”

  From the sofa Millie said, “Have fun.”

  Later, while Millie talked on the phone, Becca and Carrie ate popcorn and watched the Late Night Friday Scarefest. Becca showed Carrie her drawer of discarded watches. She said, “Sometimes I lose time—like, it should be five o’clock, but my watch says four forty-five, so I’m late, and it’s not my fault. Every day I lose a little more time, and then the watch just stops. It’s because of the lightning. No one cares. I get another watch.”

  “Your parents know?”

  “My dad says it’s something to do with the Communists. Did you see that note in my dad’s pocket?”

  “What note?”

  “It looked like there were strawberries on it.”

  “I didn’t see it.”

  “My mom took it.”

  “Whose note is it?”

  “It was in my dad’s pocket.”

  “She shouldn’t have taken it if it wasn’t hers.” Carrie had that morality, that sensibility that Becca’s parents lacked. Becca stuffed a handful of popcorn in her mouth. She didn’t want to talk anymore.

  Carrie was Becca’s first love. She counted Carrie’s eyelashes while she slept. She borrowed her striped tube socks. She asked a lot of questions, like “What did you do for your birthday last year?” to hear the sound of Carrie’s voice. Never stop talking to me.

  She told her mother, “Carrie is Sally, and I’m the girl with the naturally curly red hair. It’s hard to believe Peppermint Patty’s a girl, sir. Carrie thinks so too. Carrie thinks the Dallas Cowboys are the best football team in the world because of Tom Landry. She also likes the San Francisco 49ers, who have something to do with gold.”

  Becca’s mother said, “Carrie sounds very smart.”

  “She is.”

  Despite their family differences (Carrie’s parents were “blue collar”), the girls were, to quote Carrie’s dad, “two peas in a pod,” like “Martin and Lewis.” The girls said, “More like Sonny and Cher.”

  Carrie’s parents rented a bungalow close to campus, and before they’d even finished unpacking, Carrie was begging her parents to let her play soccer and take ballet. Becca, hopeful that Carrie’s parents would say yes, stood at her side. They held hands.

  Carrie’s dad, Pete, said, “I can’t be running you all over hell and creation.”

  Her mom said, “Your dad’s right, Carrie. Pick one thing. We both work, an
d there’s just not time. Pick one.”

  Carrie looked at Becca. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “Ballet. The clothes are better.”

  Carrie said, “Ballet,” and squeezed Becca’s hand. She squeezed back.

  Her dad said, “I’m glad that’s settled. Now go play in traffic.”

  All was fine and good with the Burkes and the Drinkwaters until the following March when talk of Chapel Hill’s annual dance recital intensified. It was a big deal. There were sequined costumes and shoes and pictures to be bought. The Drinkwaters couldn’t afford the costumes or the shoes. Carrie said, “My mom says a yellow sequined leotard is a waste. It’s ridiculously expensive.” Becca and Carrie sat at Mario’s Pizzeria eating pizza bread—bigger than a regular slice and cheaper too. Carrie was explaining that she couldn’t dance, not with how much everything cost; she was sorry, but she wasn’t going to be able to participate in the recital. Becca was listening, feeling sorry for Carrie—who always worried about her parents’ money situation—happy to get her school clothes from Goodwill or her nicer things from Kmart. Becca’s clothes came from Bobbie’s, which was more of a boutique, and locally owned. She shuddered at the thought of wearing someone else’s discarded pants or sweaters. Becca was listening, waiting for her chance to say Maybe my dad could help out or Maybe Mrs. Hogg has extra costumes? when she spotted her dad through the restaurant’s parted curtains. He was walking with the babysitter Millie, his fingers grazing the teen’s forearm. Surely it meant nothing. But something, something warm and spreading in Becca’s gut, told her otherwise.

  “Are you going to finish that?” Carrie asked, pointing to Becca’s pizza bread.

  Becca stared at the black institution-style clock above the door. She saw the minute hand move two clicks counterclockwise. No one else saw.

  Carrie said, “Are you upset because I can’t dance in the recital?”

  “No.” The recital didn’t mean anything in the larger scheme of things. Even at her age, Becca knew that. Feeling nauseated, she looked at Carrie. “Can we go?”