The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors

by Michele Young-Stone

  As they drove farther away from Mont Blanc, Abigail wrestled with whether or not she was doing the right thing. Would Buckley be all right? Would she be all right? Was it possible to start life over? She’d never been anywhere.

  When they crossed the state line into Oklahoma, Buckley sighed. The radio newsman said, “The last American combat ground troops are leaving Vietnam.”

  Abigail said, “About time.”

  “Do you think we’ll live near the ocean?”

  “That’s the idea. You can’t help but live near the ocean there. It’s an island. Did you know that the man who invented condensed milk, something Borden, was one of the found ers?”

  “Who likes condensed milk?”

  “I think it’ll be a nice place. There’s the ocean and it’s an island, and—”

  “Who told you that? About the milk?”

  “I read it in the encyclopedia.”

  “Are you going to be able to get a job? Where are we going to live?”

  “Oh, honey, don’t worry so much. I already have a job. Sandy Burkhaulter’s sister Jeanette lives in Galveston. She owns a restaurant, and she told Sandy she could use an extra hand. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  It was hard to believe, but he wanted to believe. The farther south they drove, the dusty wind tangling his brown hair, the oppressive heat rising up through the Vega’s floorboard, the more animated he became. The more questions he had. Each time they stopped for gas, Abigail added a quart of oil, and the little Vega didn’t want to start. But Abigail pleaded, “You can do it. I know you can,” and as luck or fate or God would have it, the car started.

  Before falling asleep, Buckley thought about starting over. He thought about being one of the cool kids. He could reinvent himself. He could be any kind of boy he wanted. He’d learn about the sea. He’d learn to swim. He’d get a tan and the red bumps on his face would disappear, and he’d let his hair grow longer because girls liked long hair and boys thought it was cool. Maybe he’d wear a headband.

  He slept grinning. Abigail drove across the state line into Texas, and when she saw the billboard WELCOME TO TEXAS, HOME OF THE DALLAS COWBOYS, she too grinned. The next billboard was shaped like a ten-gallon cowboy hat, and the one after that was a red, orange, and green sombrero. It read MEXICO IS CLOSER THAN YOU THINK. The billboard for Roy’s Steak house had a smiling cow, its tail oscillating in the heat. Abigail was having fun. Then the billboards were gone and there was more road. More heat. Three hundred miles of I-45 South leading her closer to Galveston. Abigail couldn’t find a radio station. She tried to picture the ocean. Could it be as beautiful as she’d always imagined? Her father had seen the ocean. He’d said, “Sometimes it’s green and calm. Sometimes blue and gentle. Other times she’s spitting and gray. Stormy. The sand gets into everything. It’s gritty between your toes, letting you know you’re alive. I’ll never understand a person who walks the beach in shoes.”

  She’d told him, “I wouldn’t.”

  “At night,” he said, “the sand is cool, and the water serenades the moon.”

  Oh, he told stories. “The water doesn’t sing, Daddy.”

  She felt as if he were with them now. He’d be proud. She should’ve made this move sooner, but her dad always said, “You don’t step up to the plate until you’re ready to swing.” Boy, she was swinging now. She’d better keep her eye on the ball.

  When Buckley awoke, they were pulling into the driveway of a small house on Sealy Street. Abigail cut the ignition. “We’re here.” Buckley looked at his mother, at the sleeveless canary yellow blouse she wore, at the pinkish white skin hanging off her arms, and hoped she’d put on a jacket or a long-sleeved shirt. It was hard to look at all that empty skin. He personally didn’t mind. Of course not. But he worried what others would think. Abigail stood in the driveway and said, “You coming?” She hadn’t put on a jacket.

  “Where are we? Is this house ours?” It was a three-story row house fronted with two columns and a wide porch. The house was painted lavender with white shutters. There was a red swing on the front porch, and seven pots of ivy hung from the lintel. Their vines curtained part of the front door, which was painted eggplant.

  Buckley rubbed at his eyes. The wind had knotted his hair on the right side, and the hair on the left side was greasy and matted. As they stood waiting on the front porch, Buckley noticed the tiny hearts cut from the corners of the white shutters. He thought about the story of Hansel and Gretel. This place was like a gingerbread house. He moved an ivy leaf off his shoulder and yawned. Abigail said, “Smile.”

  Mrs. Joan Holt opened the door. She was an old woman with downy snowflake hair worn loosely in a bun. Around her eyes were deep crow’s-feet. She had smile wrinkles too. “You must be Abigail.” Buckley looked again at his mother’s uncovered arms, grateful that she hadn’t worn shorts.

  “This is Buckley,” Abigail said.

  “Hello, young man. Come in, come in.”

  “What about our stuff, Mom?”

  “I’m just making lemonade,” Joan Holt said.

  “We’ll get our things later.”

  “Where’s the ocean?” Buckley asked.

  “Five blocks that-a-way.” Joan Holt pointed.

  “I can’t wait to see the ocean.”

  Abigail smiled at Joan Holt, who poured lemonade from a clear pitcher into three blue-tinted glasses in the dim light of the kitchen. The window-unit air conditioner buzzed and surged.

  “Did you drive straight through?”

  “We did,” Abigail said.

  “Did you have a good trip?”

  “We did.”

  “Well, let’s get a few things straight now,” she said. “I know from Jeanette Burkhaulter that you know Sandy Burkhaulter, and that you probably don’t have a lot of money saved. Don’t worry. You ought to make good money at Jeanette’s—not so good in the winter, but when school’s out, you’ll rake in the bucks. I am not one to believe charity is a bad thing. I am for charity. I am not for pride. If you’ve come here with too much pride, know that I will wear you down. My house is your house. I have heard kind things about both of you, and I won’t have you running off or crying if you’re short on rent one month. Another thing: I am old and lonely and done with eating by myself. I enjoy cooking, and I hope that we can have our meals together like a family. If you prefer not, I understand.”

  “Oh, no,” Abigail said. “That’ll be lovely.”

  “Can we see the ocean now?” Buckley asked.

  “Another thing: call me Joan.”

  “If it’s just five blocks, can I walk to the ocean?”

  “After we bring our things inside and get settled.”

  “But Mom …” Buckley chugged his lemonade. He was ready to see the ocean now. The glass, perspiring and slick, slipped between his thumb and forefinger, shattering on the green tiled floor.

  Joan Holt wiped a splash of lemonade off her cheek. “Well, now you’ve done it. You’ve really gone and done it.”

  “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Holt,” Abigail said. “Do you have a towel? I’ll clean it up.”

  “For the love of Jesus, I’m just joshing you. I’ll get the mop.”

  Abigail searched the counter for a rag, and Buckley picked up large shards of tinted blue glass.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. It slipped,” he said.

  “It was an accident.”

  Joan came back with a broom and a mop. “Excuse me,” she said to Buckley. She nudged him in the thigh with the broom. He couldn’t help but notice her breasts through the sheer cotton blouse she wore, how they hung the way his mother’s skin hung. He watched her sweep, her breasts lolling back and forth, how he imagined the women’s boobs in National Geographic probably lolled. She said, “There’s a good picture show this weekend. Diamonds Are Forever. Have you seen it?”

  Abigail said, “No, ma’am.”

  Buckley realized that Joan Holt probably hadn’t even
noticed his mother’s sagging skin. He felt ashamed for noticing her saggy breasts. It wasn’t as if he was excited by them. It was just that his grandmother and all the grown women he knew had always worn brassieres.

  Joan swept and Buckley mopped. He said, “I’m sorry for breaking your glass.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. Accidents happen.” Her breasts swung back and forth.

  Abigail wasn’t sure what word she might use to describe Joan Holt: maybe screwball. But she sure was nice.

  “Can we go to the ocean?” Buckley asked.

  “Let’s go,” Joan said. “I haven’t had my exercise yet.” To Abigail, she said, “Come with us. There’s always work to be done. It doesn’t go anywhere.”

  There’s no point in describing what they felt. If you remember seeing the ocean for the first time, you know what they felt, and if you don’t remember, try to remember. It’ll come back to you. If you’ve never seen the ocean, board a plane, train, bus, or car and go now, today. If you’ve seen the ocean and walked a sandy beach or rocky cliff, you’ll be familiar with the ocean’s powers, how it washes things away, how it erodes minerals, shells, and glass, reducing them to sand. The ocean also erodes the past, and already, with Buckley’s bare feet and toes digging into wet sand, the water lapping up to his waist, he forgot, albeit briefly, the pea green cinder-block house, the book of Job, Reverend Whitehouse, Winter, and the bullies at Mont Blanc middle school.

  Abigail worked at Jeanette’s Pier Restaurant at Stewart Beach Park. In the mornings, she served eggs sunny-side up, scrambled, or fried, with toasted Wonder Bread and gold packets of margarine. She served pancakes and sausage links, and every few minutes, slipping her pen and order pad in her apron pocket, she looked up to see the green waves sweep white and foamy across the gold sand. Mesmerized and daydreaming, sometimes she forgot the customers sitting, eating the food she’d just set before them, and Jeanette would call to her, “I think they got it, honey,” meaning, Back away from the table and let them eat in peace.

  At lunch and in the afternoons, Abigail served Jeanette’s specials, her meat loaf, mostly, and the catch of the day, bottles of Budweiser, and greasy french fries. When it was slow, she watched surfboarders paddle through the breaking waves. She was in awe of them, these boys walking on water. These boys in their bright swim trunks swallowed by the waves, only to reappear and paddle out again.

  Jeanette’s Pier Restaurant had two sections, Sec One and Sec Two. “It’s not very original,” Jeanette had said on Abigail’s first day. “Sec One’s in here.” And then, pointing, “Sec Two’s out there.” Sec One was the area connected directly to the pier. Entering Sec One, there was a beige sign with brown lettering that read PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED, but no one did. There was a bar with six stools, the cash register, and eight tabletops. Sec Two, on the other hand, was basically outside, so there was a lot of room and a lot of salty air.

  Sec Two extended out over the dune. Exposed to the elements, the cedar walls only reached as high as the tabletops. The rest of the walls were rectangular frames stretched with metallic screens. The ocean was never out of sight. There were wooden shutters to protect the restaurant when storms blew through, but most of the time Abigail kept the shutters open. Like Abigail, her customers wanted to feel the salty air. Sec Two was her Sec. She had picked it even though Jeanette had warned her that the tips weren’t as good: “The locals don’t give a lick about listening to or staring at the ocean in this heat. Most of them is bored of it, and some of them are the best tippers.”

  Jeanette explained that there were a lot of tourist folks and teenagers in Sec Two who just wanted to sit, have a beer and a plate of conch fritters, and watch the waves curl and lick the sand. Abigail wasn’t concerned. The folks who were new to the ocean were just like her.

  After only two days at Jeanette’s, Abigail was happy with her decision. It was never oppressively hot. There was always some breeze blowing off the water, and her customers, their hands on the thin screen between them and the dune, stared out at the waves—just like her.

  Abigail met Padraig John McGowan, Galway born and American bred, in Sec Two. Abigail’s new friend Sissy had decided to play matchmaker. Sissy was a full-time political activist. She lobbied for the Equal Rights Amendment, and she was “damn proud,” as she liked to say, that her amendment had finally been sent to the states for ratification. She said, “Five years. No more, no less, and we’ll be guaranteed equality. And I’m part of it. Women make things happen, Abigail. You and me. All of us, and it’s overdue we got a fair shake.” She bragged that she’d met Alice Paul. She told Abigail, “I’m changing the world. It starts with one.”

  Abigail was unconcerned with changing the world, but Sissy was extremely entertaining to be around. Like Joan Holt, she didn’t wear a bra. She was brash, and she liked to brag about all the good work she did for the poor, the disenfranchised, and the downtrodden. She herself was disenfranchised, although she claimed her poverty was a personal choice in protest to the corruption that wealth breeds.

  Today she was going to help Abigail. “I found a man for you. Because I’m intuitive, I’m skilled at this type of thing. I’ve known him a long time, and after you and I met, I just knew you two should be together.”

  “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  “You have to meet him. That’s all I ask.”

  “No way. I am done with men.”

  “Fine, Abigail,” Sissy said, “but men have to eat too, and I’m not kidding when I say that I’m gifted at matchmaking.”

  “Please don’t bring any men in here to meet me. I’m serious.”

  “Men have to eat. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Two days later, Padraig John sat across from Sissy at one of Abigail’s tables. He had boot black shoulder-length hair and a full mustache. It was October, but ninety-two degrees. He fanned himself with the greasy menu. “I don’t know what I want,” he said when Abigail came to take their order.

  “Take your time.”

  “Why don’t you sit down?” Sissy said—immediately clueing Abigail in that this was the man she wanted her to meet. He was weathered; his nose angled slightly to the left, as if maybe it’d been broken once or twice.

  “I’m working.”

  “There’s no one else here.”

  “I need to fill the saltshakers.”

  Sissy said, “Do it later.”

  “Sit,” said Padraig John, still fanning himself. “You’re making me nervous.”

  Abigail sat in the rickety plastic chair beside Sissy. She smoothed her green apron over her thighs.

  “Sissy tells me you’re new to town.”

  Abigail thought, He’s put the menu down. He’s never going to order. I’m going to have to sit and make small talk. “I’m from Arkansas.” How can he order with the menu under his elbow?

  “Whereabouts?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Jesus god, Abby,” Sissy said.

  “What?”

  “It’s a reasonable enough question.”

  “Mont Blanc,” Abigail said.

  “Never heard of it.”

  “No one has.”

  “Abigail loves the ocean,” Sissy said. “She’d never seen it until she moved here two months ago. Paddy John loves the ocean too.”

  “I have a son named Buckley,” Abigail said. She hoped it would discourage Paddy John. He might order sooner than later. Besides, she liked putting her cards on the table.

  “My boy’s name is Tide,” Padraig John said.

  “How old is he?”

  “Five. He was born when I was over there.”

  “Over where?”

  Sissy said, “Paddy John was in ’Nam. I thought I told you that.”

  “How old is your boy?” Paddy John asked.

  “Buckley’s thirteen.”

  “Sadly,” Paddy John said, “I’ve only known my boy a year.”

  “Your wife must like the ocean to name your son Ti
de.”

  “My wife’s a loony hippie.”

  “She’s his ex-wife, and she’s not a loony hippie. She’s a drug addict. There’s nothing wrong with hippies, and there’s everything wrong with drug addicts.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.” Padraig John picked up the menu again and began fanning himself. A bluish-gray seagull flew past close to their window.

  Abigail said, “I love birds.”

  “I told you Abigail was far out.”

  “Are you ready to order?” She hadn’t intended to be “far out.”

  Paddy John set the menu back down and rested his head in his hand. “It was nice to meet you. I don’t want to bother you, and I have more baggage than any woman need carry.” He turned to Sissy. “Let’s go.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t go,” Abigail said, feeling sorry for the man. “What can I get you?”

  Paddy John scanned the menu. “What do you recommend?” While Abigail thought about it, Paddy John said, “Can you do something about that?”

  “About what?” Abigail asked, pencil and pad in hand. She was going to recommend the meat loaf. It was spectacular, and he looked like a meat loaf kind of guy. She smiled.

  “Can you do anything about the skin hanging at your neck and off your arms?”

  “What do you want to order? I have work to do.”

  “Jesus god, Paddy. What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Sissy asked.

  “It’s a question. I’m asking a question. Is it some kind of disease? I don’t mean any harm.”

  Abigail slipped her pad and pencil in her front apron pocket and said, “I don’t have any disease. I lost one hundred and sixty pounds and I didn’t lose the skin. Skin doesn’t miraculously disappear along with the fat when you’ve spent ten years eating macaroni and cheese and Oreos.” She grabbed Sissy and Paddy John’s menus. “I recommend the meat loaf.” A strand of Abigail’s dark hair, red in the light, fell across her eye, and she tucked it behind her ear. “I don’t have all day.”