The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors

by Michele Young-Stone

  “I didn’t mean no offense to you. I didn’t know you used to be big. I wouldn’t have known.”

  Abigail repeated, “The meat loaf’s on special.”

  Padraig John said, “I’ll have a High Life.”

  “And you, Sissy? Do you want anything?”

  “The same, I guess.”

  The beers were not delivered to Sec Two by Abigail, but instead by Jeanette. She slammed both bottles down. “I don’t know you,” she said to Padraig John, “but you, Sissy, with your ‘sisterhood’ mumbo jumbo, ought to think twice before making one of my waitresses, one of my friends, upset.”

  Sissy chugged her beer and slunk from Jeanette’s. She hadn’t meant to upset Abigail. She really did have a gift for matchmaking. Her mother had been a matchmaker. It was a real calling. Padraig John told Sissy, “I’m staying.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He drank four more beers and ate the meat loaf—as suggested—until Abigail’s shift ended. When she departed, he departed, following her home, keeping his distance, to make sure she was safe.

  As Abigail met the locals and breathed in salt spray at Jeanette’s, Buckley and Joan Holt got acquainted. She took him shopping for school clothes at Morton’s department store on Rosenburg Street. (It was their secret. “Don’t tell your mom,” she said. “She’ll try and pay me back.”) As they walked past the palm trees lining the snug street with its shops in pastel pinks, blues, and greens, Joan said, “I didn’t have any children. We didn’t think we wanted any. My husband didn’t think he wanted any, but now he’s dead and it’s just me. You can’t have any grandkids if you don’t have any kids.” She reached for Buckley’s hand.

  “I guess not,” Buckley said, stuffing his hands in his jeans’ pockets.

  “Where are your grandparents?”

  “I only have one. Grandma Winter.”

  “Is she good to you?”

  “I don’t like her. She’s not like a real grandmother. You know … she’s not nice. She wouldn’t think of spoiling anyone. Spare the rod and spoil the child. That sort of thing.”

  Joan pulled a folded paper fan from her purse. Opening it, revealing yellow butterflies, she asked, “Do you like it here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What did I tell you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Joan.”

  “Just Joan.” Fanning herself, she added, “Maybe I could be your surrogate grandmother.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A step-in. A replacement, so to speak.”

  “If you want.” Buckley frog-jumped over the cracks in the sidewalk.

  “Careful.”

  He couldn’t remember anyone but his mother ever saying “Be careful” to him and meaning it—until now. When he forgot and let his hand fall loose from his pocket, Joan Holt snatched it up. He couldn’t hold hands with an old woman—he was thirteen! But he did anyway.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Joan Holt talked about her dead husband, how he had been her best friend in the whole world, practically her only friend. That’s how it was with them. They did everything together. They never got sick of each other. “Well, maybe on occasion,” she said, “and then he got sick, really sick, and I took care of him until the end, until he died. Since then, I’ve been alone. Some days,” she told Buckley, “I don’t want to get out of bed.” She coughed. “After he passed, I wanted to die.”

  Buckley said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I understand now that God has His plan. He brought you and your mother to me.”

  God? Buckley thought of the reverend and of Job, but he didn’t back-talk. Let people believe what they will. “What was your husband’s name?” Buckley asked.

  “Wally. His name was Wally Holt. He was a good man. Wally is short for Wallace. Sometimes I called him Walrus. He would’ve liked you, and you would’ve liked him. He was intelligent and kind, with a sharp wit.”

  Buckley squeezed Joan Holt’s hand.

  Padraig John was stuffed full on breaded shrimp and beer. He’d been to Jeanette’s every evening for the past three days. When Abigail got off work, he left too. Jeanette told Abigail, “You ought to call the police if he doesn’t leave you alone.” The last thing Abigail wanted to do was file a police report. She was frightened that John Whitehouse and Winter would find them. Tonight, Padraig John followed a few steps behind Abigail. The wind gusted. His boot black hair rose like wings from his part.

  “Stop following me!”

  “Maybe I live this way.”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, you don’t.”

  “Does your boy like the ocean?”

  She wasn’t saying another word. She was done with men. It was mid-October.

  Paddy John kept eating at Jeanette’s. Every so often, he apologized for asking about her skin. “I didn’t mean nothing.”

  She nodded and smiled that it was all right but she didn’t have time for his silliness. “Stop following me.”

  In mid-November, Paddy John was still following a few paces behind. He took his dinner regularly at Jeanette’s. Clearly, Abigail thought, the man’s got a screw loose. Some nights he ate steak, sometimes shrimp, but always beer. Just like a man, she thought. A worthless, no-good man. He left better-than-average tips—always twenty percent—but that was no reason to talk to him. She was civil in Jeanette’s. Outside the restaurant, she would not speak to him. Then he left a bunch of daisies—her favorite flower—with her tip. Still, she thought he was no good. Then he brought his son Tide to Jeanette’s. He explained to Abigail, “His mom’s not doing so good.” That wasn’t Abigail’s problem.

  The boy wrung his hands and stared at his lap. Padraig John said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Have some.” Tide prodded his tuna steak with a knife and shook his head no. They sat there, Padraig John eating his fish, telling the boy how good it was. “Do you want something else?”

  Tide didn’t speak. He moved his french fries around with a butter knife.

  Abigail came to the table with a bowl of ice cream. “When Buckley is sad, ice cream cheers him up.” She smiled at Padraig John.

  Padraig John said, “Thank you.”

  “Where’s his mom?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Abigail sat down beside Tide. She said, “Ice cream is cold so it makes you feel better inside. It’s like medicine. How old are you?”

  Padraig John said, “He’s five.”

  “I asked Tide, not you.”

  Tide picked up the spoon Abigail had brought. She smiled. Stupid! This little boy’s happiness isn’t your responsibility. Padraig John smiled. Tide took a bite. Then another. Then he ate his french fries cold.

  “I can get you some new fries,” Abigail offered.

  “Can I have more ice cream?”

  He ate a second bowl.

  Padraig John confided to Abigail, “He doesn’t talk much.”

  “His dad makes up for that, I guess.” She cleared away the dishes.

  “Tide looks like his mom,” he said.

  “He’s got your dark hair,” Abigail said, “and kids switch. He might look like you next year.”

  “Does Buckley look like his dad?”

  “I don’t remember.” The ocean had kindly eroded her memories of Richard, reducing them to sand.

  “I have to take Tide home.”

  “It was nice to meet you,” Abigail said.

  Tide didn’t speak, but shook her hand.

  “He seems smart,” she said.

  No one had ever said that to Padraig John about his son.

  The next night, Padraig John trailed Abigail again. “I’ll probably give up soon,” he said, “but Sissy said she was sure we’d hit it off. I don’t know how well you know Sissy, but she’s never wrong about a thing like this. She and I went to school together. I don’t know if you know, but she’s psychic.”

  Abigail heard his shoes on the sandy road and thought, Your psychic needs to wear a bra. All of Galveston needs to wear a bra
. Joan Holt was an old woman and her boobs were like something out of a geriatric Playboy. Abigail could see the woman’s nipples, the size of half-dollars, through her blouse.

  Paddy John said, “I don’t guess I’m going to convince you to go out with me.”

  You’re not. She turned to him. “Just leave me alone.”

  “I don’t know why, but I can’t do it.”

  She let her head fall back, her face to the moon. Paddy John stood behind her. Without turning around, she said, “I don’t need a man in my life. I don’t want a man in my life. I am content for the first time in my life.” The moon was full. It was beautiful, and she heard the hush of the ocean. She righted her shoulders, adjusting her purse strap, and said, “Just stop.” Turning to see him, his face pensive, she added, “Please.”

  He didn’t say it, but he thought, That’s not what you want. It isn’t. You want to be pursued. You need to be pursued. The next night at Jeanette’s, Paddy John was absent. The following night as well. Abigail even looked for him. On the third night, she received a dozen yellow roses. The note said: Do you know “The Yellow Rose of Texas”? I’d like to play it for you.

  Padraig John hadn’t given up, and to quote Sissy, “No living person can give up on love and keep living.” She shook Abigail by the elbows. “I see it. You’re in love!” Abigail stiffened in Sissy’s hippie embrace. “I told you! I told you!”

  Abigail freed herself. “I’m not in love.” Her face told a different story. All night, she glanced at those roses, admiring them, their orange and red tips. They were the first roses she’d ever received. That same night, walking home, carrying her flowers, Paddy John walked behind, following the small of her back, her shoulder blades, her dark hair trailing in the wind. She was about to ask him to walk beside her when he said, “I’ve been having bad times. I think you’ve had the same. I get that sense. Sissy says so too.” He paused, thinking what else to say without begging. If she wouldn’t let him take her on a date after tonight, he was throwing in the towel. He’d never bought his ex-wife a dozen roses. Not that it made any difference. He continued, “I always say what I mean. Sometimes to a fault, but that’s who I am. You’ll never have to worry that I’m lying to you or telling you something I don’t mean. Since I got back from over there, I’ve been bad off, and my ex-wife has been bad off for more years than my son’s been alive, and you, Miss Abigail Pitank, give me hope. You are a raven-haired beauty, and I know a little poetry, like Poe, and I know a little music, mostly folk, and I’d like to get to know you—if I haven’t made that clear enough.” He cleared his throat. “I think Sissy’s right about us. I think we were destined to meet. I think we need to know each other.”

  No one had ever said anything like that to Abigail. She answered quickly, instinctually: “You’re right.” Rushing to him, the flowers at her side, she kissed him. It felt like her first kiss. She got to experience the flutter of butterflies in her gut. She got to experience warmth brewing and spreading through her legs. She got to experience the things that some of us take for granted. If fireworks had exploded, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

  “I like being with you,” he said, “even if it’s just watching you watch the ocean.”

  “You don’t have to talk so much.” Abigail grabbed on to his windbreaker. “Kiss me again.”

  As he walked her the rest of the way home, she said, “You’re right. I’ve had bad times, and so has Buckley.” She looked at her freckled shins, her brown sneakers. “My skin’s getting better. The doctor says I need to keep exercising.” The wind blew from the south, lifting her hair.

  “I was hoping you might have a beer with me?”

  A beer? After following me for two months? A beer? “I like beer okay.”

  “Or we could get a milk shake?”

  “I love milk shakes.”

  “And I’ll play ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’ for you.”

  “I would like that.”

  “And I’ll make the milk shakes at my place, and you can invite Buckley, and Tide will be there, and I won’t kiss you until late, and then only if you ask me to.”

  “Uh.” She shook her head.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You,” she said. “Do you do this to all the girls?”

  “First time in my life that I bought any woman roses. I think you bring out the romantic in me.” He crossed his heart.

  “I better keep playing hard to get.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you: You don’t have to do that with me. You never had to. It’s exhausting.”

  Excerpt from

  THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS

  The best way to reduce your chance of being struck is to avoid the following activities when there is even the slightest chance of bad weather:

  Boating, fishing, or swimming

  Working on heavy farm or road equipment

  Playing golf

  Talking on the telephone

  Using or repairing electrical appliances

  [11]

  St. Patrick’s Day, 1979

  There was no wind on St. Patrick’s Day. It was a humid day with highs in the eighties. A month had passed since Edna’s funeral. It was a school day for Becca.

  Mary had planned a shopping trip to Raleigh with her friend Laura.

  Plans change. Nine-year-old girls get sick. School nurses track down mothers at their friends’ homes at nine o’clock in the morning, and mothers, who’d prefer to spend the day shopping in Raleigh with their friends, cancel their plans and drive to Chapel Hill Elementary to pick up their fourth-grader.

  Mary parks her car on the street because her husband’s and her babysitter’s cars are in the driveway. She tiptoes inside and then thinks better of tiptoeing because there’s a sick daughter to think about. The sick daughter turns on the TV. She wants some soda. Daughters are selfish.

  Mary opens her bedroom door and sees Millie sitting naked on her bed. Millie says, “Oh my God! Oh, shit! Oh, Mary, I’m sorry. Oh, fuck,” and fumbles to pull on her jeans, one foot in, one out, tripping across the floor into a tower of glossy Yachting Today magazines that slide and spread reds, whites, and blues across the hardwood floor. Mary sees Millie’s thighs, the young pink goose-bumpy flesh, her flat stomach, her pink fingernails covering her perky little breasts, then tugging the waist of her jeans, hopping, her breasts bouncing, to cover up. Then Mary sees Rowan, shirtless, exiting their bathroom in a pair of khaki shorts. He stands beside their rumpled bed, silent, while Millie continues to fumble across the bedroom floor. Rowan bends down and slides a copy of Yachting Today from the feathered pile. Why is he picking up a magazine? Why is he doing this to her?

  Rowan says to Millie, “The joint’s in the bathroom.” Sloppily dressed, Millie goes to the bathroom. Rowan says, “You were right. It’s good shit.”

  Mary says, “Becca’s downstairs. The nurse telephoned. She’s sick.” She doesn’t know what else to say. In shock, she stands there, watching Millie exit the bathroom. Millie smells of marijuana. Mary remembers when she and Rowan smoked pot together. It was before Becca.

  Rowan tosses the magazine on the bed and pulls his polo shirt over his head.

  Mary leaves the room, shutting the door on the husband and the babysitter because she can’t think. She knows about the affairs, but suspected someone named Patty—from the strawberry note. She’s known about the affairs for years, but not in her own bed, not with the babysitter, who isn’t so smart. Why her? Do you like stupid? Why here? Why not in her dorm? Why does it have to be in my face? In my home?

  Mary is only thirty-two, but already she feels old. It’s St. Patrick’s Day today. She remembers another St. Patrick’s Day when they first met, when they were in love. There’s a picture of the two of them on a parade float. She’s wearing a top hat and he’s kissing her. She’s looking at the camera, knowing he can’t keep his hands or his eyes off her. He loved her. It’s past tense, isn’t it? Where’s that picture?


  She thinks about taking Becca into the bathroom, or asking Becca to stay in her room so she won’t see Millie come down the stairs, but she doesn’t. She leaves Becca right where she is so Becca can see Millie leave. Maybe Becca will put two and two together and know that her father is a real shit. Where is that picture?

  Becca says, “Hey, what are you doing here?” when Millie descends the steps.

  “Nothing.”

  “Happy St. Patrick’s Day.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sick.”

  “Yeah. Your dad was helping me with school stuff.” She leaves. She didn’t say “Feel better” or “What’s wrong?”

  Becca hears the squeak of the liquor cabinet’s antique door, she hears an irritating, breathless moan, and when she thinks about the midday highball her mother is about to mix, about the two cars in the driveway, about Millie’s shirt untucked and her hair mussed, she understands. Having a fever of one hundred and two degrees, Becca stays put. She’s too sick to do anything. She wishes someone would bring her some juice and some baby aspirin, but she’s been forgotten. She remembers the day she saw Millie and her dad walking outside Mario’s, his hand grazing Millie’s arm, and it makes her feel sicker, knowing what he’s doing. She wishes she were naive. She doesn’t want to know about her dad’s philandering. (Last year, Aunt Claire called Becca’s dad a philanderer. Becca had assumed it was a good thing, but wrote the word down to look it up. It’s not a good thing.) Why can’t she fix her parents? Why can’t they get along?

  That afternoon into evening, Mary sits on the den floor, flipping through photo albums, dumping shoe boxes of pictures between her legs. Sorting through pictures and drinking, saying, “I don’t know where that picture is. It’s got to be here.” She says it over and over before making another drink. Becca is too sick to get up, but her mother does bring juice and aspirin. She also brings apple wedges and sliced cheddar. Becca is grateful, but sad for her mother. “You know what picture I’m talking about, right?” Mary asks.