Becca read and reread, “Rowan Burke is a liar.” She tore page A12 into shreds and walked on, the scraps of newspaper trailing behind her.
Excerpt from
THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS
No one deserves to die.
[33]
Sue’s Gallery, 1989
Early on, Sue said, “I take fifty percent, but we’ll help with the installation.” Having first spoken with Sue in May, Becca already had her first gallery show. It wouldn’t have been so quick, but to use Sue’s words, “The artist we scheduled flaked and burned his canvases. I don’t know why every artist thinks he has to be fucking nuts to make art.” She paused. “I don’t mean you. It’s been a long week.” Becca had a long September, painting every night until well past midnight. And it just figured that the second Friday in October had to be Friday the thirteenth. She didn’t believe in bad omens or jinxed numbers, but just the same, her friend Lucy advised, “Try to postpone. It’s bad luck. This dude burns his paintings and you get his show, and the show’s on Friday the thirteenth!”
“I can’t postpone.” Becca couldn’t. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
On the phone, Sue told Becca to call Mark Kelly. “He prints the price list and the programs.”
Two days before her opening, Becca, Paulo, Jack, and Lucy met Sue at the back door to her gallery. The foursome unloaded Becca’s canvases from Paulo’s pickup. Becca was sweating. Sick with anticipation, not so much about the work itself but about the opening, about possibly having to talk about her paintings, she could barely speak. Jack and Lucy, who’d seen Becca’s paintings in the making, had said things like, “I think it’s good. I like that color” or “That one’s neat.” Their opinions and their observations were in some way insulting. They didn’t understand that her soul was painted into each canvas. They couldn’t understand. Becca wondered if anyone could.
Becca pulled an old bedsheet off Fish, Number Twelve in the high-ceilinged gallery while Sue watched. Becca said to Sue, “We shouldn’t take long.” Becca wore a pair of cutoff Levis and a red T-shirt embossed with the logo BUILT FORD TOUGH. Down on her knees in front of Fish, Number Twelve, she smiled at Sue. “I really appreciate this opportunity.”
Sue handed Becca a copy of the Lightning Fish program and price list. Half of Becca’s paintings were reproduced on the thick paper in one- and two-inch squares, the titles underneath. Sue said, “Mark does a nice job.”
“He does.”
“I’ll be upstairs if you need me.” Sue was brunette, older, but well coiffed and made up in bright pink blush and blue eye shadow.
Paulo and Jack were still carrying Becca’s canvases into the gallery.
As Sue’s heels tapped the oak steps, Lucy said, “You look like you’re going to hurl.”
“Do I have to come to this thing?”
“You probably should.”
Sue’s intern, Johnny Bosworth—who was a few years older than Becca—was supposed to help with the installation, but Becca said no. She wished that she could hang each of the paintings herself, but there wasn’t time. For months, there hadn’t been time for anything but painting.
Panicked about the impending opening, Becca had telephoned her mother the night before. She’d said, “What if nothing sells? What if no one comes? What if they don’t like it or they don’t get it?”
“How old are you?” her mother asked.
“Twenty.”
“You have your own show. You’re twenty. That says something. That says a lot.” Becca knew that if she hadn’t threatened to tell Apple Pie’s wife about their affair, she wouldn’t have met Roderick Dweizer, and if she hadn’t met Roderick Dweizer, she wouldn’t have a gallery opening. She wondered if she deserved her own show.
Becca hung ten of her fourteen canvases. She said, “There’s a smudge here,” staring at the wall. “Do you think she painted in here?”
“Of course she painted,” Lucy said. “There’s a gray spot here. See it.”
“That’s a shadow, Becca. They’ll fix the lighting.”
“There’s a glare on Fish, Number Twenty-two.”
“They’ll fix the lighting before Friday. Calm. Remember calm? Take deep breaths.”
Lucy was a blond waif with doll-baby blue eyes and thick eyelashes. Jack, her effeminate steady boyfriend, was also blond and blue-eyed with thick eyelashes. As a couple, they were often mistaken for brother and sister. They were Becca’s closest friends. Lucy the wannabe actress and Jack the waiter. Jack was content as a waiter. Having grown up in Newark, New Jersey, his only aspiration was to leave Newark and live in Manhattan. He was twenty-five and he had achieved his lifelong dream. Lucy, on the other hand, was, as Paulo would say, “mad with the acting.” She had complex dreams and aspirations that included living in Hollywood and being interviewed on Entertainment Tonight. She was funny and bubbly and always smiling. Becca could never tell when Lucy was acting or being her real self, or if Lucy had a real self. It seemed to Becca that Lucy’s onstage persona was forever and permanently mixed in with her real self. Lucy and Jack were like all the friends Becca ever had—other than Carrie Drinkwater. They were acquaintances. Becca knew deep down that she would never really know these two, but they were her closest friends, and as such, they would escort Becca to her first opening at Sue’s Gallery on Friday.
As she installed the last painting, she thought about Carrie. She wanted to telephone Carrie in Chapel Hill, but Carrie had a daughter (she knew this from her crazy poetry-writing mother), and people who have kids, people with husbands and jobs and mortgages, don’t much want to hear about other people’s paintings.
With each of her paintings mounted on the walls and the sun setting, casting shadows on the glossy gallery floors, Becca stared uncomfortably at what she had spent the last year creating. She cried. She didn’t mean to cry. Lucy said, “Let’s get a drink.”
Paulo, a thirty-year-old Columbia graduate, who at one time had fancied himself an artist (but gave it up, he explained, “because it was too much work for too little money”), offered to treat them to martinis at the Gypsy on Fifty-ninth. Paulo, clearly smitten with Jack, worked at Macy’s in the men’s department. That’s where he’d met Jack and thus met Lucy and thus Becca.
Sipping her martini at the Gypsy and making an ugly face (she loathed vermouth), Becca was hopeful. She was the antithesis of her dejected father, who sipped an airplane cup of chardonnay on his way to a deposition in St. Louis, Missouri.
The night of her first opening, Becca rubbed her hands down the front of her vintage cherry-printed dress. A tear escaped her left eye. Shhh. Don’t cry. Not here. With Indian summer making an appearance, the doors to the gallery were propped open.
Buckley blew his nose on the 6-train and shifted in the orange plastic seat. He leaned forward and held on to the silver pole for support as the train jerked on the tracks. Mia said, “This’ll be fun. You know Paulo. He’ll be there.”
The sky outside grew black and the wind picked up, whirling trash on the sidewalk. Becca paced inside the gallery while Paulo ate grapes from the hors d’oeuvres table. He said, “You got those nails clean.”
“Don’t think it was easy. Sometimes I think my hands will be permanently stained.”
He popped a grape in his mouth.
She smacked at his hand. “Don’t do that. It’s not seven yet.”
Sue, her arms folded at her waist, whispered to her intern, Johnny Bosworth, “It figures it’d rain.” Johnny Bosworth, who fancied himself a much better artist than Becca, grimaced at Fish, Number Fourteen. He said, “So there’s a lightning storm that kills all the fish in the sea? How original.”
Sue said, “Be nice, Johnny.” She pointed to the front of the gallery. “Close the doors. It’s moist.”
“She hasn’t even graduated,” Johnny griped.
“Get the doors.”
Becca watched Johnny pull the doors shut. Nervous, she wondered if there was still a chance she mi
ght slip out the back. Thunder cracked and she took a deep breath.
Roderick Dweizer was the first to arrive, and Lucy, knowing to what extent the old man had helped Becca, met him at the front door. She said, “Did Becca tell you I’m an actress?” The rain had already begun, and he shook out his umbrella, the water sprinkling Lucy’s brown skirt. “So sorry,” he said.
“Don’t apologize.” Lucy’s lips shone pink in the gallery light.
Roderick Dweizer, Lucy jabbering at his side, made a beeline for his favorite artist, Rebecca Burke. “Don’t worry,” he said, patting Becca’s arm. “It’s going to be a great success. That worry of yours is in the paint.”
“I guess so.”
“Enjoy tonight.” Roderick fixed a plate of brie and crackers and said to Becca, with Lucy still hanging on, “I’ll tell you a secret, Becca Burke.” He leaned close, a smidgen of cheese on his lower lip. “Sue knows nothing about art. If it weren’t for her wealthy husband and my taste, she would not be in business. She is not as smart as she thinks.” He tapped his temple with his pointer finger. “We will surprise her tonight when everything sells.”
Becca blushed. Roderick Dweizer had no motive to help her. She had done nothing for him but given him one painting because he appreciated it.
“You are magnificent.” He kissed her cheek.
The gallery filled with Sue’s regular Friday-night crowd, including Apple Pie and his preppy wife.
Fanning herself with the program, Becca hung by the buffet table. She didn’t want to mingle. She didn’t want to see Apple Pie or his ridiculous wife. More and more people filled the space despite the pouring rain.
Mrs. Apple Pie approached Becca, her husband following close behind. She said, “Wonderful show.”
Apple Pie nodded his agreement.
“Thanks.”
“I particularly like Fish, Number Twenty, I think it is. The one with the little girl.” She turned to her Apple Pie husband. “Didn’t you like that one, honey?”
“It’s fine.”
Becca knew that “it’s fine” was all she’d ever get from Apple Pie.
Apple Pie said, “I think I’ll get another glass of wine. Anybody need anything?”
“I’m fine,” Becca said, thinking, We’re all fine. The paintings are fine. Your Betty Crocker wife’s fine. I’m tee-totally fine. You’re a fine jackass.
Mrs. Apple Pie, who of course knew nothing of Becca’s affair with Apple Pie, said to her husband, “I’ll join you.” With her hands in fists like a cheerleader’s, she said to Becca, “Just wonderful. Really wonderful.”
As Mr. and Mrs. Apple Pie walked away, Becca heard Mrs. Apple Pie say, “This is one of the best shows I’ve seen. Really compelling.”
“Jesus Christ,” Becca said, grabbing on to the edge of the buffet table. It had been only seven months since Apple Pie. Remembering the pills and the late-night phone calls, how pathetic she’d been, unnerved her. What had she been thinking?
“Mingle, mingle,” Sue said, taking Becca’s hand in hers. “We’ve got quite the crowd. Mingle, mingle.” Sue patted the back of Becca’s hand. “Good show. Really good show. Smile.”
Mia, wearing a black skirt and her standard Dr. Marten boots, and Buckley, in a pair of khakis and a sweat-stained oxford, ran down Broome Street toward Sue’s Gallery. Thunder boomed in the distance. Neither Mia nor Buckley had foreseen rain when they left the Bronx, so by the time they reached the front door of Sue’s, they were dripping wet. Buckley thought it was perfect. An art show about lightning in a thunderstorm. Mia and Buckley entered laughing and were promptly handed the Lightning Fish program. Before he saw the one- and two-inch reproductions of Becca’s paintings in the program, let alone the paintings lining the gallery walls, he saw Rebecca Burke’s name printed in Courier font on the program’s cover.
She was the only person who had ordered his book out of a magazine, and she was the only purchaser of his book to write him a letter, and here she was, Rebecca Burke, lightning strike survivor. I don’t believe it.
Buckley, his loafers squishy with rain, stumbled. Reaching for the gallery wall to steady his feet, he crumpled the program in his fist. He felt dizzy, and Johnny Bosworth, Sue’s flunky, said, “Watch it. Watch it.” He asked Mia, “Is your friend all right?”
“Are you okay, Buckley?” Mia reached for Buckley’s hands to ground him. “Are you okay?”
He dropped the program. “I should go.”
“Why? It’s ‘Lightning Fish.’”
“I don’t know.” Buckley bent down for the program. “Is she here?”
“Who?”
“The painter. Is she here?”
“Of course she’s here,” Johnny Bosworth said. “You know her work?” After all, it was his job as studio and gallery assistant to sell Becca’s work. The gallery took fifty percent. Johnny would one day show his own work at Sue’s. It was a matter of time.
“I’m not a fan. I’m wet. My head hurts.” Buckley glanced up and saw Fish, Number Fourteen. He saw the lightning striking the ocean, the red zigzag across the sky, the white translucent furious line touching and illuminating the black water. The yellow streaks twirling north and south. The dead fish on the beach. He approached the painting. Mia followed. She shrugged as they left Johnny Bosworth to clean up the puddles of rain they had deposited at the gallery entrance. Johnny knelt down with a roll of paper towels.
“We should find Paulo,” Mia said. Buckley was speechless. He remembered his mother, the stagnant water, reaching for her arms.
He said, “I want to buy it.”
Mia said, “Good luck. Have you seen the price list?” She held the program open. “It’s three thousand dollars. I don’t think she wants anyone to actually buy anything at these prices. Jesus God. You’d never know this was her first show. I’m going to get some wine. See if I can’t find Paulo.”
The crowd seemed to twirl in front of Becca like ballroom dancers—one partner spinning another, the group as a whole circling round and round, dizzying her. She had a third glass of wine and felt her face flush. She felt safer. She asked Lucy, “What time is it?”
“Quarter to eight.”
“This isn’t so bad.” I don’t have to do anything. I stand here, and Sue brings people over, and they say things to me like what Jack and Lucy have said for the past year: “I really like it,” “It’s dark,” “It’s bright,” “The medium’s impressive.”
My soul is in the paint. She sipped her chardonnay. They don’t know. My soul is in the canvas.
“Maybe you should lay off.” Lucy pointed to Becca’s glass.
“I’m fine, really.” As she took another sip from her glass, Becca saw the stout fellow standing in front of Fish, Number Fourteen, cocking his head right and then left, walking forward and then backward, reaching his hand out and actually touching the titanium white wash of lightning on the canvas. He’s not supposed to do that, she thought. He’s not supposed to touch my painting. From her position in the gallery, she could see that he was sopping wet, with a wavy head of dark brown hair. Rumpled, she’d say, between the hair and the clothes. Rumpled. She left Lucy standing by the buffet table.
As she made her way toward the rumpled man, one person after another in their fall hues of sap green, yellow ochre, and burnt umber stopped her. The star of the show, the centerpoint, she played along, responding, “Oh, thank you. Thank you. I’m so glad you like it.”
She tapped the rumpled man’s shoulder. She tapped his shoulder again. “Excuse me!”
He turned and faced her.
“I’m the artist.” What did she expect from him? Praise? “I’m the artist”? I sound loony. She immediately reconsidered. “I’m Rebecca Burke.”
“I know who you are now.”
“Excuse me?” Very creepy. “Don’t touch my painting.”
“You wrote to me.”
“I don’t think so.” Becca looked around for Paulo or Jack or Lucy or Sue. She suddenly imagined the rumpled man a home
less person, a derelict.
“I’m Buckley R. Pitank. I wrote The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors.”
Becca dropped her glass of wine. It shattered.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry,” Buckley said. He bent and began picking the large shards of glass from the floor, slicing his thumb on the stem. “I’m sorry. Did I startle you? I shouldn’t have touched the canvas. It’s hard not to touch it.”
Becca saw the red blood on his hand, a shiny new blood, like rose madder, her favorite red paint.
Johnny Bosworth and Sue approached. Sue said, “It’s all right. Everything’s fine. The show’s a big success.”
To Buckley, she said, “How are you? Looks like you’ve got a nasty little cut. Come with me. Come on.” She pulled Buckley’s hands away from the broken glass. “Johnny, please take care of that.” To Becca, she said, “I’ll have someone get you another glass of wine.”
Becca knew from Buckley’s book that his mother was struck by lightning when he was just fourteen. She had titled the painting Fish, Number Fourteen. Was it subconscious? She lingered in front of the painting while Johnny Bosworth swept glass around her feet. She said, “Sure. I’ll have another glass of wine.” It was a delayed reaction. Someone was already handing her a glass.
Buckley R. Pitank’s Handbook. I read it on the train ride to New York. He’s like my brother. Can I have a brother? Am I allowed that? Can I adopt family members?
If she had had the opportunity to ask Buckley that very question, he would’ve been delighted. He would’ve said, Yes, absolutely, but don’t adopt me. I hurt people.
Hugging her from behind, Paulo said, “What’s going on, fair artist?”
The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors Page 25
