He started the project after one of the prettier waitresses, Carol, asked Buckley, “Are you an actor or a singer?”
“Neither.”
“What do you do?”
“I wash dishes.”
“Be serious. Are you an artist?”
Buckley didn’t say anything. He thought of Clementine. Carol could be Clementine if Clementine had lived. Buckley dunked another plate in the soapy water.
Two weeks later, having not spoken to Carol since their initial conversation, he stopped her, her hands full, carrying a tray of outgoing orders, and Buckley blurted, “I’m a writer. I’m writing a book about lightning.”
“I’m kind of busy right now, but good for you.”
Buckley could sense when people thought he was retarded. Carol probably thought that about him. In his head, he rehearsed, I’m a writer. I’m writing a book about lightning strikes. About people who survive. It’ll be a handbook for them. Something easy to understand.
Buckley, remembering his first weeks at Damici’s, dug for his keys. Carol didn’t work there anymore. She actually landed some off-Broadway role playing a woman named Purple. He’d been to see the show, leaving during intermission. It was a strange sort of performance piece lacking a story line.
Buckley carried a large ring of keys. Oftentimes he was in charge of locking up the restaurant and the walk-in freezer where Damici kept his meats. Flipping through the ring, Buckley came up with a line for his book: When lightning strikes, treat the apparently dead first. He’d always believed that his mother could’ve survived, if she hadn’t been directly struck, if she hadn’t fallen off the dock, if she hadn’t been burned. Too many ifs. In Arkansas, Dr. Jack had said, “You said that her brain was showing.” Buckley remembered Dr. Jack pointing at him, his face stern. “There was nothing you could do. Nothing.” Buckley knew from research that others had survived. The majority of people struck survived, even after “appearing” dead, even after their hearts had stopped. He couldn’t save his mother, but maybe his book could save someone else. It was possible. Treat the apparently dead first.
Treat the apparently dead first. Write that down.
Finding his key, he raced upstairs to his apartment. He felt fortunate that most of the other tenants were quiet, keeping to themselves. He unlocked his door, dropped his knapsack on the floor, and finding a grease-stained paper bag, wrote in red marker, Treat the apparently dead first. It was important. His book would be important.
Excerpt from
THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS
TREAT THE APPARENTLY DEAD FIRST
Most lightning strike fatalities are caused by cardiac arrest. Begin CPR immediately!!!
[23]
Time to fly, 1987
Before Becca takes an Amtrak one way from Chapel Hill to Penn Station, by way of Greensboro, Charlottesville, and Washington, D.C., she writes a letter to Buckley Pitank.
Dear Mr. Pitank,
Thank you for your book! I’ve been struck twice. I didn’t know (until your book) there were other survivors out there like me. I’m sorry your mom died. I really am.
Sincerely,
Becca Burke
It’s short, to the point. She doesn’t tell him that she once believed the lightning gave her special powers: the watch hands, the fireflies, the halos. She had a wild imagination as a child. Believing the dead walked the earth. Believing she saw Grandma Edna and Bo after they died. Believing she saved that fish.
The past is gone.
Her mother teaches poetry to old people now. Her father lives on Cedar Island. He takes photographs. The Yeatesville picture of her standing beside the watermelon truck is on display at the Belle Tara Gallery in downtown Chapel Hill. She doesn’t want to see it. It reminds her of that trip to the beach—when she still had hope. Her father’s photographs have been widely and enthusiastically critiqued. He claims to only “dabble” in photography. He’s a liar.
It strikes Becca as strange that someone who seems heartless can take an emotionally compelling picture.
Her latest painting received an honorable mention at the Carrboro County Fair. No one cares.
Carrie no longer speaks to Becca.
The tone has changed. The colors are brighter. The windows are open. The curtains are red. The rain has ceased. The landscape altered.
Becca’s life is no longer a still life—a bowl of fruit, static and boring, making turkey and bologna sandwiches for her mother, spraying Pledge, rubbing at the furniture that won’t come clean, licking dust from her fingertips—but it’s a life, still.
Many of the train’s passengers disembark in Baltimore. Becca hopes to make friends at the School of Visual Arts. Her dad has arranged for a loft in the Village. Her possessions are already there. She’s excited. She’s sad. She’s leaving Whiskers behind. Mary said, “He’s not a city dog.”
“But he’s my dog.”
“He won’t be happy.”
Becca wants him to be happy.
She’s not happy.
There is a reason that Carrie no longer speaks to Becca. It has to do with lies. Becca is all too familiar not only with death but with liars. Her father lied. Kevin lied. Carrie’s boyfriend, Mike, lied.
Carrie was in Texas visiting her grandmother.
Becca telephoned Mike. She needed an ear.
They met on the lawn of Coker Arboretum just shy of midnight. “How can I get Kevin to like me again?”
“You can’t.” Mike yanked a patch of grass from the ground, dropping the blades on his jeans. “Plus, you can do a lot better than him. You’re so pretty.”
“I thought we were meant to be—you know, like with you and Carrie.”
Mike was blond, like Kevin, but with a wider nose and his face pocked with acne. He dropped a few blades of grass on Becca’s calf.
Mike said, “I like you.”
“I like you too. You make Carrie happy.”
“No, I really like you.” Mike leaned in, attempting to kiss Becca, the blades of grass on his jeans spilling to the dirt.
“What are you doing?”
He climbed on top of Becca.
“Stop it!” She pushed him off—which wasn’t easy.
“We could do it. Carrie won’t find out. What’s the harm?”
Becca ran from the arboretum.
That same night, Mike called Carrie in Texas: “Becca hit on me. I guess she’s so upset about this Kevin thing, she’ll try and do anybody.”
Carrie planned to marry Mike.
Carrie knew Becca’s history with and feelings about sex.
Becca and Carrie Drinkwater, best friends since third grade, no longer.
On her way to New York, The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors open on her lap, Becca reads that victims often suffer sleeplessness, listlessness, and pain in different regions, depending on where the lightning entered the body. Becca thinks, I have every one of these symptoms. Even my soul hurts.
Before she left Chapel Hill, Buckley Pitank responded to Becca’s letter. She keeps the letter nearby, rereading it now:
August 1, 1987
Dear Ms. Burke,
Thank you for buying my book. Thank you also for your condolences. I am glad to know that you feel less alone as a result of my book. That was one of my goals when I started the project. I wanted people to know they weren’t alone. I also hope that The Handbook will help prevent future lightning deaths. As you’ve read, most lightning deaths are preventable. Please do your part.
Thank you again for your interest and personal story.
Sincerely,
Buckley R. Pitank
Becca muses on “Do your part.” Buckley R. Pitank sounds like Smokey the Bear.
The loft is on the southwest corner of Washington Square Park. There are high ceilings and exposed brick. It’s more than she needs. The four windows that face the park are thick-paned, long, and full of light before noon. She takes morning classes and paints late into the night. She doesn’t know w
hat she’s doing at four in the morning, her hands permanently stained, a palette of browns and reds slopped onto another layer of paint not fully dry, but she can’t stop. Before dawn, she remembers Grandma Edna asking, “Can I keep it? Can I keep the sketch?” It had meant so much to Becca. Going to the kitchen for coffee, she sees Grandma Edna leaning against the counter, those long freckled arms crossed, smiling at Becca. Becca rubs her eyes, and Grandma Edna is gone.
Paintings that aren’t good enough (and none of them is good enough) are mishandled and chucked into the unused pantry. She thinks the second-year professor Christopher Lord is talented and cute. Some of his paintings have been on display in the main hall. His eyes remind her of Kevin Richfield’s.
Excerpt from
THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS
In one study, young and old victims of lightning and electric shock were given the task of drawing what the electricity felt like. Because victims have difficulty verbalizing electric shock, art can help survivors remember (and hopefully heal).
In this particular study by S. Razzleford, the pictures produced had one similarity: jagged, sharp, or pointed edges appearing somewhere in the picture.
[24]
Publication, 1984
It took Buckley five years to write The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors. He did most of his research at the midtown library. He took the 6-train before and after work. When he forgot his legal pad, he jotted notes on Damici’s take-out menus, paper bags, anything at hand. He spent his days off reading NASA publications at the library. Arriving home late, he typed his notes on a Remington portable he bought secondhand in Chelsea.
Engrossed in research, Buckley quickly learned that NASA knew more about lightning than any person or organization, because the space program, from its inception, was plagued by lightning hazards. NASA needed their meteorologists to accurately forecast and predict strikes. During Apollo 12’s 1969 launch, lightning briefly knocked out vital electronics. Fortunately, the astronauts were able to regain control of their ship.
At Damici’s, Buckley talked about his research. He talked more than ever. The waitresses told him that his next book should be about something less technical. “Write a romance, or if you really like nonfiction, write about abortion. That’s really controversial. Or you could write about the Reagans’ astrologer. It’s good to know that even stiffs like those two believe in astrology.”
If Buckley had decided to write a book about the Reagans, he might’ve discovered that his biological father currently worked for the Reagan administration, meeting on several occasions with Panamanian leader Manuel Noriega. His father’s official title was hospitality liaison.
Because of Buckley’s organizational failings, the book was taking a long time to complete. Each time he read about another survivor, he revised the book. I wish my mom had survived.
To feel the weight of the typed pages excited him. It was incredible to produce something of substance. As the pages grew, he took to carrying the manuscript everywhere. On the subway, holding his green knapsack, the pages inside, he knew that his mother would be proud of his accomplishment.
Buckley wrote to Paddy John, confessing, I might never finish The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors. Reading all the survivors’ stories makes me feel close to my mom.
Paddy John wrote back, You once wrote to me that your book could save someone’s life. I say finish it. Publish it. Stop dicking around, and put it out there. He also wrote: Tide is a mess. His grades are poor. I caught him smoking marijuana IN MY HOUSE. Tide was nearly seventeen now—which was hard for Buckley to imagine.
Early mornings, before the clanking pipes and noisy radiators distracted him, Buckley worked on The Handbook or wrote letters to his friends in Galveston—Sissy and Joan, or Paddy in Wanchese. Even though Buckley had never liked the kid, he’d been a kid himself then, so he hated to hear that Tide was doing poorly.
With each letter from Paddy John, the news concerning Tide got worse: he was skipping school and drinking beer. Buckley didn’t pray, but he wished really hard that Tide would straighten up.
On Friday night after working the dinner shift, Buckley watched The New York Nighttime Music Hour, a public-access variety show featuring Kate Lovely, a Forty-second Street favorite, stripping to bagpipes. He sat there laughing, thinking, Paddy John is right. Soon, very soon, I’ll give the book up. I’ll put it out there. He leaned across the couch, reaching for his knapsack. Pulling the pages out, he held them to his chest. Soon.
Two years later, in March 1986, Sycamore Press published one hundred copies of The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors. Buckley dedicated the book to his mother.
Excerpt from
THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS
What you need to know:
Each year, thunderstorms in the United States produce an estimated 20 million lightning strikes. The most cloud-to-ground strikes occur in southern Florida, Texas, and parts of Louisiana. 30% of the time, the lightning forks, touching down in two or more spots.
Never wait to see lightning strike! If the wind picks up and clouds form overhead, seek shelter immediately!
If indoors, don’t use the telephone. Don’t shower or bathe. Stay away from doors, patios, and windows.
[25]
You’re the reason men break down, 1987
Mary sang. The house was empty except for her and the dog.
“I think I saw you in an ice cream parlour, drinking milk shakes cold and long, smiling and waving and looking so fine, don’t think you knew you were in this song …” In the kitchen she twirled, her red A-line dress opening like a flower. She tapped her heels against the floor tiles. She loved her job.
She did not have to work. Rowan was incredibly wealthy, having developed fourteen different cigarette additives for Atkins and Thames, none of them as lucrative as his first additive, QR66, but he was financially set for life, and John Saltz, Mary’s lawyer, made sure that she and Becca saw a large chunk of Rowan’s fortune. There was no disputing his extramarital affairs. Mary had known from the onset that Rowan wouldn’t raise the issue of fidelity in a public courtroom. He wouldn’t have his name dragged through the mud. The settlement was weighty and quick.
Slipping her heels off, Mary settled in an old recliner. She tapped the points of her shoes together. She’d found her niche: It was teaching poetry—her first love. It was Browning, Keats, Byron, and Ginsberg! It was Auden and Ashberry! It was wonderful. Leaving her shoes in the den, she sashayed to the garage. Digging through cardboard boxes of college textbooks, dusty paperbacks, and literary essays, she remembered Dr. Carver telling her, “You know your stuff, no doubt about it” and “Even if you sometimes come across as ditzy, it doesn’t matter because you’re smart. You’re the reason men break down.” She remembered liking herself, telling her father she was leaving Prospect and she never wanted to see him again. Late at night, she’d applied to one college after another, paying the application fee with money she’d saved and stashed beneath her bed. She remembered, having earned a full scholarship, taking the bus from Farmville to Chapel Hill. She was seventeen.
Among her books, Mary found her first publication, an essay on Kate Chopin’s The Awakening. She’d been so proud, fruitlessly sending copies to her parents—who didn’t call or respond. What had she expected?
Dr. Carver had commented, “You don’t go home for holidays.”
“My parents died.”
Dr. Carver was three times her age, and she loved him. There is solace in poetry. There is solace in art. Mary was nostalgic. She felt happy—an unusual and wonderful thing to be.
Then she found an old notebook, the pages yellowed and scrawled with black ink. She had her father’s handwriting.
She was sixteen, attending Prince Edward Academy. (There was no public school, as to avoid integration.) She’d been to see the movie It Happened One Night at the drive-in. She’d gone alone. She loved Clark Gable.
When she got h
ome, her father was waiting with his belt. Mary felt for the buckle scar on her lower back.
She turned the pages in the old notebook, remembering the poem she’d written that night, wanting to read it again but not wanting to remember the rest—her father in pursuit, shouting, “You broke curfew!”; hearing the leather slip from his belt loops and the clack of buckle against the plaster wall; feeling the buckle strike her back, the burn of blood rising to the surface. Her room wasn’t close enough. She wasn’t going to make it. She fell, and the buckle had come down again, but the first hit had been the charm.
She turned the pages. There was nothing to fear. Not anymore.
THE SPACE BETWEEN YOU AND ME
The space between you and me grows with each door slamming shut, with each boot hurled. With that fork you threw at me.
The space between you and me is greater than the universe, and I think to pounce when you sleep
when you first wake
when your feet are bare and
your hands are empty.
She smiled, remembering how she nightly wished him dead. He never got the best of her.
Mary’s mother lived in that space between Mary and her dad. Her hands had smelled like baked pears and Mary swore she could smell those hands now—just a whiff.
Mary remembered her dad pressing one boot on the back of her thigh, pressing her chin into the floor with his left hand. She’d stifled the tears. Without her permission, some fell anyway—a response to pain, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors Page 21
