Lightning Strikes

by Virginia Andrews

“Is someone here?” I whispered loudly. I heard nothing but the wind scratching at my little window. Finally, I closed my eyes again and fell back to sleep, but later, I could have sworn I heard footsteps on the creaky wooden floor and my door open and close. I carried that impression with me to work in the morning.

  “You promised me a lock on my door,” I said to my Great-uncle Richard as soon as I began to bring out his and my Great-aunt’s breakfast.

  Great-uncle Richard glanced at his wife and then pulled himself up stiffly in his chair.

  “One should greet someone properly before making demands,” he declared.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s hard for me to be relaxed and sleep well without it,” I said.

  My Great-aunt Leonora’s hand froze on the teacup handle as she waited for Great-uncle Richard’s response. He cleared his throat and put down his cup.

  “I’ll see that it’s taken care of today,” he assured me.

  “Thank you,” I said and returned to the kitchen. Mrs. Chester and Mary Margaret worked in silence. Boggs came in and poured himself a cup of tea. He stood there sipping it and watching us, studying me mostly. I ignored him, but I gazed back at him once just to let him know he wasn’t going to intimidate me. He was, of course, but I wouldn’t let him know it.

  Finally, he left. We finished serving breakfast and started to enjoy our own.

  “Who keeps the cottage clean?” I blurted at the table in the kitchen.

  Mrs. Chester looked at Mary Margaret and then at me.

  “Ya mean the cottage in the back?”

  “Yes. Mr. Boggs made it clear that it’s off limits to me, but someone must look after it,” I said. “Do you, Mary Margaret?”

  She shook her head but kept her eyes down as usual. I watched her nibble on her toast and jam like a mouse and sip her tea. Her hand seemed to tremble.

  “Someone lives in it, I think,” I said.

  “Ya’r balmy,” Mrs. Chester said. “No one lives there.”

  “Have you ever been in it?” I asked her.

  “No.”

  “So how do you know no one lives in it?” I pursued.

  Suddenly, Mary Margaret rose, put her dishes in the sink and left the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Chester?”

  “What is it?” she snapped.

  “So how do you know no one lives in it?”

  “I don’t know, but I never seen nobody and what difference does it make ta me? I ain’t been asked to prepare fer another mouth, ’ave I?”

  She rose and then paused to look down at me.

  “Those who mind their own business do the best ’ere,” she said. “So mind yer own business.”

  Afterward, as I was walking back to my room, I glanced out the windows of the office and saw Mr. Boggs talking to Mary Margaret. He looked like he was bawling her out for something. She kept shaking her head and then she walked away quickly. He stood there looking after her, and then, as if he could sense my eyes, turned and glared up at my window. It nailed my feet to the floor for a moment. I took a deep breath and continued on quickly.

  I remained in my room for the remainder of the morning, completing some of my reading and studying my part for the school’s arts presentation. Just before noon, a man arrived with the name Lock Doctor written across the front and the back of his shirt. He knocked on my door and advised me he had been asked to put in a lock.

  “I don’t usually come out on a Sunday,” he remarked, “but someone wants this bad enough to pay time and a half. Never looked down on an extra bob or two,” he said smiling.

  Rather than look over his shoulder as he worked, I went out to the drawing room with my books. A little less than a half hour later, I heard him leave the house. I returned to my room and saw the lock had been installed, but where were the keys? As if he could hear my thoughts, Boggs appeared and held a pair of them out in his palm.

  “He left these,” he remarked.

  I took them quickly.

  “Are they the only ones?” I asked.

  He glared at me and then gave me a smile so cold I felt ice slide down my back.

  “No one wants ta go into that room.” His smile widened. “Don’t you know the story? Someone wants ta get out,” he quipped with glee and walked away.

  If he hopes to frighten me, I thought, he’s doing a good job of it. Why would my great-aunt and great-uncle possibly want such a man to run their house? I tried the lock and was satisfied it worked. At least I’d have some sense of privacy, I thought, but I couldn’t help wondering about Boggs’s comment.

  Did some woman really die in this room? Was she really poisoned? And did her spirit linger, perhaps condemned to remain secreted in these walls, waiting for rescue? Sometimes, I felt as if there was a spirit present. Maybe she thought I had come to set her free.

  Later, after I had just sat down to lunch in the kitchen, Leo appeared in the doorway.

  “There’s a young gentleman waitin’ on you outside, miss,” he said.

  “Thank you, Leo,” I said and hurried out to find Randall pacing excitedly in front of the house. As soon as I appeared he rushed to me.

  “I think I’ve found him,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I have.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “First, let me tell you he was very nice. I asked if he was the Larry Ward who was an expert in Shakespeare. He laughed and said he didn’t know if anyone was really an expert in Shakespeare, but he taught English at a community college and his specialty was Shakespeare. I heard what sounded like a boy and a girl laughing behind him, too. I couldn’t tell their ages, but they must have been his kids,” he added.

  “What did you do then?”

  “I didn’t know what to do, so I pretended I had written a paper on Henry V, Part I and asked if I could send it to him to read. Of course, he wanted to know who I was and who told me about him. It started to get hairy, so I pretended I had to hang up but I would call him again soon. Before he could protest, I did.”

  “Oh, that sounds great,” I said. “He probably thinks it was some kind of joke.”

  “Anyway, I have the address. I know where he lives. It’s not far. It’s in Hammersmith. We can be there in less than an hour,” he added.

  “Be there in less than an hour? You expect me to go there now?”

  “Why not? We can just. . .wait outside to see him, if you like. I’m sure you want to look at him. Imagine,” he said as if this was all happening to him and not me, “imagine looking at your father for the first time in your life.”

  “If he is my father,” I said. “If he’s not, I’ll feel like a fool.”

  “Maybe he looks like you or you look like him and we’ll know right away.”

  “Well, what are we going to do, stand outside his home and hope he steps out so I can study his face?” I asked.

  “Exactly, unless you want to ring the bell and start a conversation.”

  “And say what? Oh, Randall, this is crazy. I told you I didn’t want to do this. I’m sorry I let you make the calls,” I moaned.

  “It’s him, Rain. I’m positive,” Randall said. He was so excited about it, he couldn’t stand still.

  I stared at him and thought about it. Was he right?

  “Let’s just go look. What harm can it do? It was what you planned on doing, wasn’t it?” he insisted.

  “I don’t know what I planned,” I said. I was feeling so nervous, my body actually trembled. I embraced myself and looked down, thinking. “This is all happening too fast. I don’t know what to do.”

  “It’s just a short trip,” he insisted. “What harm can it do if we just wait for him to appear? You can go. You’re off work now, right?”

  I looked back at the house.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “So? Come on.” He looked up at the sky. “It’s supposed to rain today. We should get going.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll go get my jacket and be right ou
t.”

  “This is great,” Randall said.

  I had to laugh.

  “I think you believe we’re in the middle of some dramatic opera or something.”

  “That’s what life is—‘a stage, and all the men and women merely players.’ Remember your Shakespeare so you can impress him when you do meet,” he half-joked.

  I shook my head and hurried into the house. On my way out, my great-aunt was descending the stairs.

  “Oh, Rain, where are you heading today?”

  I paused, not knowing what to say.

  “Just a walk with a friend,” I said. “More sightseeing,” I added.

  “How nice, you make friends so quickly,” she said. “My sister will be pleased to hear it. May Boggs drop you off anywhere?” she added. She looked past me so I turned and saw him standing there. How he could appear and disappear without a sound amazed me. Maybe he was the ghost.

  “No thank you,” I said and muttered under my breath, “we’d rather walk.”

  Boggs smiled coldly.

  I said good-bye and left the house like someone fleeing from one nightmare but terrified of entering another.

  9

  A Difficult Decision

  From the moment we left Endfield Place until we arrived at the street in Hammersmith on which Randall believed my real father lived, my heart throbbed with a pulsation that echoed through my bones and kept my chest tight, my breath short. Randall, sensing that my nerves had been turned into sparking wicks of dynamite, talked incessantly, rambling on about sights we passed, people we saw, things he had eaten. He understood that silence fed my anxiety, which sat like some hungry monster at the base of my stomach and growled.

  “How do we know he’s even home now?” I asked, finally finding the strength to give voice to the storm of thoughts and questions that flashed and thundered across my brain.

  “We don’t. We could stop at a Dolly Malone and call.’ he suggested.

  “A what?”

  “Dolly Malone, a phone,” he said smiling.

  “Randall, I’m not in the mood to fool around with cockney slang at the moment.”

  “Okay, okay, I was just trying to get you to relax,” he said.

  “I can’t relax,” I said, slapping my closed fists against my thighs so hard even he flinched. “I don’t even know why I’m doing this.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll call to see if he answers or if he’s there and then I’ll hang up. How’s that?”

  “Stupid,” I said. “We might be tormenting some innocent man who just happens to have the same name.”

  “And just happens to teach Shakespeare? Don’t you think that’s too much of a coincidence?”

  “Do you even know if he’s black?” I asked.

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Randall,” I said, stopping on the sidewalk, “did he have an English accent? He might not even be an American!”

  “Well, he had sort of an English accent. I mean it was very correct, resonant, but anyone who has lived here as long as he has would have picked up some British influences in his speech, don’t you think?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. How would I know? Let’s just turn around,” I said.

  “Turn around? We’ve come this far, Rain. That’s silly. Come on. It’s just another block,” he said and my reluctant legs moved me forward. “That’s it,” he said, pointing, a few minutes later.

  We stood across the street from a gray stone house that had a short picket fence. The window casing and the door were all painted a dull white. It looked old, but quaint. The street itself was very quiet, and I was sure that if we stood for a while where we were, we would attract some attention.

  “Now that I’m here looking at the house, I really feel silly,” I said. “I have no idea what to do.”

  “Why don’t I just go to the door, ring the bell and pretend I’m looking for someone else,” Randall suggested.

  “No,” I said taking a step back. I felt like just turning and running away.

  “Why not? If he comes to the door, you’ll get a good look at him. No harm done. I’ll just apologize and that will be that,” he said.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, but not firmly enough.

  “I’m doing it,” he said and before I could stop him, he crossed the street.

  “Randall. . .” I called. He didn’t turn back until he went through the small gate and approached the door. He beckoned for me to come closer, but I couldn’t move. I shook my head and then he sauntered up to the door and rang the bell. He looked back at me, smiled and waited. My heart seemed to shrink inside my chest when the door opened. Despite my fears, I couldn’t help but be interested.

  A dark-haired woman wearing jeans and a gray pullover stood in the doorway. She didn’t look much older than her mid-to-late thirties at most. Her hair was straight and down to her shoulders. Her face was angular and very interesting even from where I stood. As Randall spoke, a young girl came up beside the woman. She wore a dark blue skirt and white blouse and had short, curly hair. The girl wasn’t much more than twelve or thirteen, I thought, but she listened attentively, her pretty face full of interest in what Randall was saying. I couldn’t imagine how he could go on and on like that.

  Finally, he thanked them, turned and started toward me. The woman and the girl looked our way and then closed the door slowly. Randall waited until he crossed the street before speaking, a fat, cat-who-ate-the-canary smile on his face. He glanced back and then moved quickly to my side.

  “He’s coming out any moment,” he whispered as if the woman could still hear him.

  “How do you know?”

  “I heard him tell someone named William to put on his jacket. It was time to go.”

  “What did that woman say to you? What did you say to her? Who was the little girl?” I fired at him.

  He laughed.

  “I acted like a very confused tourist looking for some relatives. She told me I was on the wrong block,” he added. “She was very nice. The little girl has to be their daughter. I’m confident we have found the right Larry Ward,” he concluded.

  I saw the door open and turned quickly, seizing Randall’s arm to move him along.

  “Someone’s coming out,” I said between my clenched teeth.

  He looked back as I walked, terrified of following his gaze. I was like Lot’s wife in the Bible, feeling like if I looked back I would be turned into a pillar of salt. I kept walking, my head down.

  “He’s black,” Randall announced. “I knew it. He’s walking this way with a little boy.”

  I was relieved when we reached the corner and I hurried to cross the street.

  “Wait a minute,” Randall cried, seizing my arm. “Don’t you even want to look at him?”

  “I feel dumb,” I said. “I don’t want him to see me just in case it is him.”

  “We’ll wait here,” he said, tugging me toward a newspaper and magazine store.

  I followed him in and Randall picked up a newspaper. He went to pay for it while I stood there gazing out the window. Moments later the man who could be my real father came into sight. He wore a tweed sports jacket and jeans. He was at least six feet tall and very good looking with a strong mouth. He was trim, too, his shoulders wide. He glanced at the store and I looked directly into his face, but he didn’t look at me. Even so, I held my breath as he gazed at a newspaper headline, read it quickly and then continued on.

  The little boy at his side clung tightly to his hand. I thought the child was cute, especially because of the proud way he held his shoulders back and his head straight. Every once in a while, he looked up at his father as if he wanted to be sure he was imitating him well. They crossed the street and continued toward the river. That little boy could very well be my half brother, I thought, and that young girl back at the house could be my half sister. I had come all these miles, all this distance, to look upon them and the man who could be my father. How strange I felt. It was as if I was caught up in a dream, f
loating through a sea of wishes and promises.

  “Well?” Randall asked coming up beside me, “what do you think? I think there’s some definite resemblance,” he told me, nodding before I could reply.

  “Oh, you can’t tell that from a short glimpse, Randall,” I said.

  “Let’s see where they go,” he suggested. “Maybe we can get a better look at him.”

  “I don’t want to, Randall.”

  “We’ll just stay far enough behind to. . .”

  “No,” I said more emphatically. “I don’t want to. I don’t feel good about this. He’s out for a walk with his little boy. It’s just not right to spy on him.”

  “Not right? Why isn’t it right considering who you are and who he might very well be?”

  “I don’t know,” I said and left the store. I walked quickly in the opposite direction.

  “Wait a minute. Where are you going?” Randall asked, running to catch up.

  “I don’t know. Back, I guess.”

  “Rain. . .”

  “Leave me alone,” I cried and walked faster. He lingered behind, following slowly, knowing enough to keep away. My heart was filled with so many raging emotions; so many contradictory feelings were battling inside me. Yes, I wanted to know him, to find out if he really was my father and then to talk to him, to learn about him and to make sure that he knew about me, but I was also still terrified that the moment I approached him and he discovered who I was, he would turn away from me and forbid me from coming near him or his family. What right did I have to walk in on him like this? How could I expect him to care about me, someone he has never known, he has never seen!

  It almost made me feel dirty, like a voyeur, to have come here to spy on him and catch glimpses of him and his family. And yet, the image of his face, those bright black pearl eyes, that look of intelligence and that soft smile when he gazed at his little boy all flashed across my eyes again. What was his voice like? What if he looked at me with as much love and pride as he looked at his little boy?

  I was still searching for that love and I was not at all sure that I would find it in this strange man’s face, especially if I forced him to look at me, if I threw myself in his way and cried, “I’m here! I’m your daughter!. You have to love me, too!”