Lightning Bug

by Donald Harington

  You slept for another hour. Perhaps you were having a nice dream, Bug. A healing dream. When you woke, and the journey was resumed, he kept studying you, trying to detect the slightest change in you, but there was nothing.

  He had not meant to stop in Nashville. He had toyed with several notions, including New York. But Nashville struck him as a pretty town, a good-sized city where a man could find work, and it was sufficiently far away from Little Rock. He registered at the cheap Dixie Hotel under the names “Mr. and Mrs. Robert Smith.”

  He was reluctant to leave you alone in the room, but he had to go out and find a job. The hotel demanded advance payment because you didn’t have any luggage, so he had to go out and earn enough money to buy at least a cheap suitcase or two. It was Friday, and he was nearly flat broke and didn’t want to do any more robberies that would have to be fled from. He had enough money left to buy some bread and meat and a few magazines which he brought to you and told you to read. “Honey, I got to look for work,” he tried to explain to you. “Now you just stay here and try to be as comfy as you can, and I’ll be back this evening. Don’t you go out.”

  He was terribly relieved and happy when he came back that night and found you were still there. “All I could find,” he told you, “was a job washing dishes in a cafe, but I got two free meals and a dollar for it. And look what I brought you.” He had stolen from the cafe a complete dinner, which he had packed carefully in a cardboard box: big slices of roast beef, baked potato, fresh sweet peas, salad, and a big wedge of fresh strawberry pie. It was very good.

  That night when you undressed for bed, he turned off the light and took off all of his clothes too. He lay beside you for a while and then in a worried voice he asked the long-delayed question: “Latha, can you say anything at all?”

  “Free,” you said, and he was so happy he gave you a big hug and you squeezed him tight in return, and pretty soon his male figurehead had risen up to pay a call on you. He did not care this time that you were awake and conscious. He figured that since you had stripped naked and got into the same bed with him it meant you had a pretty good idea of what might come of it. Thus he was rather surprised when you put up resistance. You squirmed and whimpered in such a way that he did not enter you. He got off of you and lay there worrying for a long time. He thought about maybe waiting until you fell asleep before doing it, but then he decided to just wait and give his erection a chance to subside. He waited and he waited, and could not feel sleepy at all. When it became obvious to him that his danged dinger was going to keep a-standing there the whole night if he didn’t do something about it, he asked, “Latha, are you awake?” You did not answer or stir. He decided that this didn’t mean anything. He got up and went into the bathroom and jerked off into the toilet. When he came back to bed, you rolled over and snuggled asleep in his arms.

  Saturday he worked in the café again, washing dishes, and that night he brought home another dinner for you. After you had eaten it, he said, “Let’s go see a moving-picture show.” He walked you several blocks up the street to a theater. The film was The Navigator, with Buster Keaton. It was very romantic; also rather funny. It was the first motion picture you had ever seen. You were enthralled.

  Back at the hotel afterwards both of you took Saturday-night baths. He spied on you when you were taking yours. He liked to watch the languid grace with which you lathered yourself. But although he was extremely aroused by this sensuous bathing of yours, he did not molest you at bedtime. All day while washing dishes he had been thinking about this matter, and he had decided that he had better leave you alone until you got better. You snuggled tightly into his arms again, still moist from your bath and smelling fragrantly of soap, and went to sleep. Again against his will, his penis distended and kept him sleepless. He wished he’d had enough money to have bought a pint of whiskey. In your sleep one of your knees came between his and your thigh rested on his, and for a moment he was mad to have you. But he was resolved not to tamper with your fragile senses. He counted 2,389 sheep leaping a fence and fell asleep.

  Imagine his astonishment, therefore, when he woke soon after dawn and saw what you were doing. The covers were off the bed. Your ear was on his thigh and your lips were feasting upon his penis: alternately you were sucking rapaciously on the tip or lapping the shank with your tongue or wolfing the whole thing nearly down your throat. “Hey!” he said and reached down to pull you away. But his passion stayed his hand. He was then thoroughly discomposed by a mixture of feelings. One of his first feelings was jealousy: he wondered where you’d learned to do that and who taught you how. The only time this had been done to him before was once in Châlonssur-Marne by a girl he’d paid for; and he had felt at the time that the act was debasing her; oddly enough he was not now feeling that it was debasing you—you were doing it with such greedy abandon that he figured you must be enjoying yourself. You were also making him nearly delirious with ecstasy at the same time he was nearly frantic with worry. You never opened your eyes and he thought you might be still asleep but he couldn’t understand how you could be doing all that fancy work if you were asleep. He was forced now to close his own eyes and throw his head back on the pillow. He began to buck at the hips but you held on. You were no longer dallying with it; you were swallowing and unswallowing it as rapidly as you could bob your head and your head was bobbing so rapidly it shook your whole body. Abruptly both of his hands came down and grabbed you by the hair and tried to pull you away, but you hung on for dear life and buried your lips in his pubic hair and waited until the last spurtle had dribbled down your gullet.

  Then slowly you slipped your mouth up off of it and raised your head and opened your eyes and smiled at him.

  He smiled back at you but couldn’t think of a blessed thing to say.

  You sat up and continued smiling at him.

  He felt he ought to say something, and he considered some possibilities, such as telling you how terrific that had been. At length he finally said, “Have you ever done that before?”

  You shook your head, still smiling as if you were pleased with yourself. Your smile was so simple and so pleasant that he began to wonder if maybe being in that hospital had made you simple-minded. But your shaking your head made him glad to know that you could respond to questions.

  “Why did you squirm and whimper when I tried to make love to you the other night?”

  No answer.

  “Was it because you didn’t like me?”

  You shook your head.

  “Was it because you didn’t want to?”

  You shook your head.

  “Latha, why can’t you talk?”

  No answer.

  “Is something wrong with your voice?”

  You shook your head.

  “Have you forgot all the words?”

  You shook your head.

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  You shook your head.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  You nodded your head.

  “Say my name.”

  No answer.

  “Do you feel good? Do you feel well?”

  You nodded your head.

  “Then why won’t you talk to me?”

  No answer.

  “Do you want anything?”

  You nodded your head.

  “What?”

  No answer, then you reached out and touched him on his penis.

  He laughed and said, “Well, he shore don’t look very useful right at this moment.”

  You smiled.

  “However…” he said, and he reached for you and pulled you down to him and held you and gave you a kiss. He kissed you and you kissed him for a long little spell; by and by he swelled up again; he wanted into you, and you let him in.

  Because he was below you it freed your movements, and you moved, free and wild.

  It took a while but he kept with you all the way.

  When you fainted and your head fell on his shoulder, he thought you were just resting.
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  After a while he said “Latha” and his hands upon your buttocks gave them a shake. He raised his hands and shook your shoulders and said “LATHA!”

  He rolled out from under you and you flopped down on the bed like a rag doll.

  He thought you were dead.

  He was more scared than that time those two Germans had sprung into his trench.

  He had the presence of mind to feel for your pulse. It was easy to feel, for it was racing wildly, 120 beats to the minute.

  He soaked a towel in cold water and draped it across your forehead. He slapped your cheeks. He wanted to run out and fetch a doctor but that might be dangerous if they had to hospitalize you and find out who you were.

  He was in such an agony of distress that he began looking wildly around the room, as if he could find some magic talisman to restore you. He felt so helpless that he was unconsciously searching for something outside himself, just as the drowning man looks for a board to clutch at. By some accident of destiny, his glance fell upon the Gideon Bible on the bedstand.

  He picked it up, this drowning man’s board, and on the very first page he saw written, “For Help in a Time of Need, Read: James 1:6,7; Psalm 91; Ephesians VI:10–18,” etc. He found every one, and read it, but it wasn’t much help. He was left, however, with a strong suspicion that God had something to do with this, and the only thing that would help would be to take the case directly to Him.

  He was not a religious person, to put it mildly, and James 1:6 had cautioned him, “But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering. For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed.” I am certainly driven and tossed, he realized. His parents had been slightly religious and they had urged him to pray, yet never once had he felt that Anybody was listening to his prayers.

  But we know, Bug, that the same emotional states which drive some people into psychosis can drive other people into religion; old William James got this down pat long ago. So it shouldn’t be hard to understand how this crisis “deranged” him in a fashion that wasn’t too awfully far removed from what had happened to you. The ironic thing, Bug, the thing that nearly kills me with irony, is that he was becoming “deranged” at the same instant you were in the process of becoming “ranged.”

  He knelt on the floor.

  “God, can you hear me?” he asked. “No, I won’t ask you that, because if I did it would mean I doubted whether you could or not. I know you can hear me, God, so just listen careful. I’ve sinned a time or two, but the only really bad thing I’ve done lately is help this pore girl get out of that crazyhouse. Anyway, if you really wanted to punish me, why didn’t you put me into a trance instead of her? Anyway, the problem is: what do I have to do for you to get her out of that trance?”

  He paused, and when no answer came he continued, “Lord, if you will just let her wake up, if you will just make her well, Lord, and I mean completely well, why, I will just dedicate my life to you. Is that too much to ask of you? Wouldn’t you rather have a big strong man dedicated to you for the rest of his life, and doing good works for you, than keep a pore innocent girl in a trance?”

  When he received no reply to that question, he continued with fierce intensity, “I swear it to you, God! Now you may be thinking that on the basis of my past behavior I shouldn’t be trusted, but I’m not kidding you. I put my hand on this here Bible and swear to you that if you will make this girl well, if you will even show me some token that you intend to make her well, I will get up right this minute and devote every minute of the rest of my life to your service. Is that a deal? Answer me, God! Prove to me you can do it! ANSWER ME!”

  And behold, the Lord God answered him.

  My son, believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved. Find thee a minister of the Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ, repent unto him, confess, and be received into baptism. Latha Bourne shall be healed. Sin no more. Follow me all the rest of thy days.

  He continued kneeling a moment more, amazed that God had spoken to him, then he sprang up and threw on his clothes and dashed out through the door. He ran down to the desk and asked the clerk, “Where can I find the nearest preacher?”

  “At this time of morning?” the clerk said.

  “I don’t care,” he said. “I got to see a preacher.”

  “Well, what kind did you have in mind? Baptist, Methodist, Church of Christ, Presbyterian?…”

  “Any kind, so long as he preaches the Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ.”

  “Well, I guess the nearest that I know of would be Brother Shirley Norvil, lives a couple of streets over, but he aint gonna be none too happy being woke up at this time of mornin.”

  “Just give me his address,” he said.

  The clerk wrote it down for him, saying, “Big white house right next to the church. You can’t miss it.”

  He ran out, and, forgetting he had a car, ran all the way over—four blocks—to the preacher’s house. He banged on the door. He waited, and banged louder. Five minutes went by before the door was opened and an old man in his nightshirt said, “Oh well, I always get up at six o’clock of a Sunday mornin anyway.”

  “Are you Brother Norvil?” he asked him.

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you baptize me?”

  “Be glad to, son,” he said. “Come to the services at 10:30 this mornin, and we’ll take care of you.”

  “I caint wait till then. I’ve got to be baptized right now.”

  “Well, the plumbin is busted in the baptistry, and my plumber said he’d try to get around to it before 10:30.”

  “Couldn’t you just sprinkle some tap water on me?”

  The preacher looked at him in shock and said, “Son, if you aim to be saved, you’ve got to be totally immersed.”

  Impatiently he said, “Well, couldn’t we just use your bathtub or something?”

  The preacher chuckled and said, “Well, I don’t see why not. There’s nothing in Scripture against bathtubs.” He held the door open and said, “I never seen anybody so eager to be baptized, but come right on in and we’ll shore do it.”

  The preacher led him into the house and upstairs to the bathroom. A woman appeared and looked at them. “Go back to bed, Ma,” the preacher said. “I’m just a-fixin to baptize this young feller.” The woman stared at them for another moment, then went away.

  The tub took a long time to fill.

  He asked the preacher, “Do you want me to take off my clothes?”

  “No, generally we just baptize ’em clothes and all. That’s part of the ceremony.”

  “All right,” he said, and climbed into the tub.

  “Now,” said the preacher, “have you repented your sins?”

  “I have.”

  “Do you believe with all of your heart that Jesus Christ is the Son of the Living God?”

  “I do.”

  “Now bear in mind that you’ve got to be completely under, every inch of you, so when I dunk you you’ll have to kind of scrooch down so your knees won’t stick out. Okay? Here we go. I baptize thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!”

  Under he went.

  Perhaps [and wouldn’t this be sweet, Bug?] at the very same instant that he received holy baptism, you were waking up from your faint—and also waking up from your fugue and regaining memory. Your first thought was that D Ward looked awfully strange this morning. Then you sat up in bed and rubbed your eyes. Why, it didn’t look like D Ward at all! You went to the window and looked out. You were in a hotel, by golly. You looked at the rumpled bed and you saw a man’s jacket hanging in the closet. You felt a mild ache in your vagina, and you clapped yourself on the brow and thought, Oh my gosh, I’ve prostituted myself! Quickly you began dressing, thinking, I’ve got to get out of here, fast.

  “Well, son, stay and have a cup of coffee with me, and dry your clothes and we’ll talk about problems of the spirit.”

  “Thank you, but I’ve got to go. Do I owe you anything for the baptizin?”


  “’Course not. But you owe it to yourself to come to church this mornin.”

  “Might see you later then. Thanks. Bye.” He dashed out of the house. His soaked trousers impeded his running.

  You turned a corner going one way as he rounded the corner by the hotel. He missed you.

  When he found the room empty he ran back to the street and got into his car and roared up and down the streets of Nashville for two hours. All he got for it was a ticket for speeding.

  “It’s God’s punishment on me,” he said. “He kept His promise and made her well, at least she couldn’t have got up and gone off unless He’s brought her out of that trance.”

  At ten thirty he went to Brother Norvil’s church and devoutly prayed and worshiped.

  He stayed at the hotel for another week, hoping you’d come back.

  Then he enrolled himself at a good Bible College that Brother Norvil had recommended.

  FIVE: Night

  WRIRRRAANG! sounded the screen door, and she came out, bringing the slab of beef to put on his eye. He leaned his chair back against the storefront, and tilted his head back, and she draped the beef slab across his eye. “There,” she said, and sat down in her rocker and said, “Now while your eye is healing you can tell me all about it. Start at the start, and tell me everything.”

  So he began at the beginning and told her as much of the story as he could remember. He seemed to be glossing over or making little of his own efforts, which she realized must have been little short of stupendous. Great Day in the Morning! she thought: My hero. I’ve got a hero. It’s like a fairy tale,

  “…So you see,” he concluded, “that was my solemn covenant with the Lord. He pledged to make you well, and He did it. I pledged my life and my service to Him, and I’ve done it. If you and I were to break that covenant by sinning before marriage, why, don’t you see, He might just put us back where we started from, He might just put you back into that trance and me back again into being a mean hellraiser.”