The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors

by Michele Young-Stone

  Ten miles away, Joan Holt, Sissy, Paddy John, and Buckley rode in Sissy’s station wagon toward the Seaside Gallery to see a collection of paintings by Rebecca Burke entitled Visions. Sissy drove.

  By seven-thirty, the gallery was crowded with people, and Becca was amazed at how relaxed she now felt even though her father, her mother, and her best friend were in Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina, for her latest unveiling. It was almost surreal. The crowd twirled round and round, but unlike the dancing art lovers at Sue’s, who’d sucked her in and spit her out, these people were family. Becca was used to being alone even in a crowd.

  Over and beyond the mishmash voices of the crowd, Becca heard the low-pitched boom of fireworks. She pictured the red and blue plastic launchers littered on the sand, and then she saw Buckley R. Pitank. Even with his hair long, she couldn’t mistake him. What luck! She knew he had to be the buyer from North Carolina. I’ll thank him, she thought. I ought to marry him. I wonder what he sees in the paint. She smoothed the wild curls at her temples, but because of the humidity they spiraled again. Handing her plastic cup to Carrie, she said, “Be right back.”

  “Want some more?”

  “I’m good.”

  Becca twirled with the crowd crossing the concrete floor. She tapped Buckley on the shoulder, much as she’d done in New York, except this time Buckley was looking at a painting of a barn loft scattered with fireflies, the moon full through an open window—not a beach lit up and strewn with dead fish.

  Seeing her, Buckley said, “You remember me?”

  “Of course.”

  “This is Paddy John. This is Sissy. This is Joan Holt.” Buckley introduced his friends like he and Becca were old friends themselves. Brushing his shaggy hair from his face, he smiled. Becca thought, We are old friends. Buckley and I are old friends of sorts. She remembered the day The Handbook came, the day she realized she wasn’t alone.

  Sissy extended her hand. She had long, brittle white hair and wore a T-shirt embossed GIRL POWER. Forever the feminist. No bra. Joan Holt had circles of pink rouge on her brown cheeks. No bra. She said, “Look who it is! I never forget a face.”

  Paddy John said, “I remember you. We’ve met before. You were just a kid, but I remember.”

  Joan Holt said, “It’s Flamehead.”

  Becca said, “Who’s Flamehead?”

  “A girl I knew in Galveston,” Buckley said. “No, Joan,” he said. “It’s not Flamehead.”

  “I’m Becca Burke,” she told Joan. “Nice to meet you. I like that name: Flamehead.” Becca remembered Paddy John—even without his beard. “Captain,” she said.

  Buckley said, “This is the artist, Becca Burke.”

  “We got that, Buckley,” Paddy John said.

  Becca hugged Buckley. He patted her back. He didn’t want to get too close. He was sweating and worked his hair again, tucking the golden-brown strands behind his ears. “How do you know Paddy John?”

  “My dad had this boat and Paddy John was his captain. Long story. I’m so glad you’re here. It’s a small world. I got your message when you left New York. I’m glad you called.”

  “I didn’t know if I should.”

  Mary, who would never forget the fateful day her husband’s lover and future wife showed up at Barnacle Bob’s, rushed over and said, “Paddy John.”

  Like Buckley, Paddy John fumbled when Mary tried to hug him. He too was sweaty. He said, “I ain’t seen you since …”

  “A long time.”

  “Not by the look of you. And don’t waste your time going to Galveston. The best part of the town’s here now.” He introduced Mary to Sissy and Joan.

  Becca took Buckley’s hand. “Thank you for taking an interest in my career.”

  “When I saw your name in the paper, I knew I couldn’t miss your show.”

  “You must have four or five of my paintings.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The paintings you bought.”

  “I wish I did. I don’t have that kind of money.” His hand was moist in hers. He took it back, sliding it in his pocket. “You and your mom should come over after the show.” Buckley turned to Paddy John, “Don’t you think they should come back to the house?”

  “A fine idea.”

  Becca took Buckley’s other hand, but he pulled it away. “Sorry,” he said. He wiped his palm down the front of his khaki pants. “I’m sort of sweaty.”

  “I don’t care.” She took Buckley from one numbered painting to the next. She said, “You bought some of my paintings. I want to know about it. I want to know why.” They were looking at painting number one, Edna, and he said, “I love your paintings, but I didn’t buy any.” Becca took him to the second painting, a shiny bag of pork rinds with red roses painted into the bag’s crinkles. She folded her arms at her waist and shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”

  The third painting, titled Falling Down, depicted a boy on a wrecked bike, but the bike’s handlebars and the boy’s arms were elongated like the road itself, leading to a skyscraper. The fourth painting, titled The Edge of the World, showed an old woman and a black dog walking through a field of wildflowers in front of a barbed-wire fence. In all, Becca had fourteen paintings in her Visions collection.

  In the gallery program she described the collection as “A glimpse into childhood.”

  Buckley said, “When I saw your paintings in New York, I wanted to buy the one with the lightning on the water and the fish on the beach, but it cost three thousand dollars.”

  “Yeah. I overpriced everything on purpose. I don’t know why. I was—”

  Buckley interrupted, “It doesn’t matter.”

  Around eight o’clock, Becca got a glass of wine. Her mother jotted down directions to Paddy John’s house. Carrie, who had a babysitter for the night, was talking with Buckley, fascinated that he’d self-published a book to help lightning strike survivors. She’d never met a real writer before.

  Peggy touched Becca’s elbow. “There’s someone dying to talk to you,” she said. “He’s a huge fan of your work.”

  The man was at least six feet tall. Just below his chin, he cupped his wine in both hands. Smiling close-lipped at Becca, he was balding with blue-gray eyes. She did not recognize him.

  He said, “I think your work’s amazing.”

  “Thanks.”

  “We knew each other.”

  “At SVA, right? I think I remember.” There was no telling, really. There were so many years when there were so many men: SVA? A club? A bar? A bathroom? A boy from Whitby’s Academy?

  “No. Not at SVA.” Reaching into his pants pocket, he said, “I have something that belongs to you.” He pulled out the long-lost butterfly brooch. The twenty-eight amethysts were still in place. The setting gleamed. He said, “I’m Colin Atwell from middle school. Remember me?”

  Of course she did. She remembered him standing in her kitchen, the rain outside, her mother sticky and drunk on the linoleum. The sirens. Her neighbors gawking. Her dad not there. She remembered Colin Atwell bobbing her knee, making her fall. Chasing her through the woods. He had her brooch. She felt uncomfortable. She was not, until recently, one to search the past for anything.

  Taking the brooch, she said, “I remember you.” She pressed it between her palms. “It was my grandmother’s brooch. Where’d you get it?”

  “I found it in the woods. I tried to give it back to you at school, but you wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “You could have given it to Carrie or just handed it to me.”

  “I know, and I don’t know why I didn’t.” He sipped his wine. “I put the brooch in my sock drawer and forgot about it. I found it again when we left Chapel Hill. I figured if I ever saw you …” He pressed two fingers to his pink lips, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, adding, “I’m not a stalker or anything weird like that. I just always thought about you. Not always, just sometimes. You know how you do when you think about somebody and you wonder what ever happened to so-and-so, and
then five years ago I saw one of your paintings in a gallery brochure. What a small world! That sounds cliché. Sorry. I swear I’m no stalker weirdo.” He took a breath. “Are you married? Is that an appropriate question? I swear that I’m not always like this. I’m bumbling, aren’t I?”

  Colin Atwell bumbled sometimes—like when he married Brittany—but he was a good boy. He grew up with a single father telling him, “Girls are crazy,” and as he grew older and taller, his father reminded him, “Women are just as crazy,” and for Colin Atwell, that proved to be the case. He latched on to one crazy woman after another—none of them comparing with crazy Becca Burke running through Morgan’s Woods during a thunderstorm.

  Five years ago, he looked at the Lightning Fish program, and, retrieving Becca’s butterfly brooch, pressed the stones to his lips. He liked the feel of the cold smooth amethysts. In his mind, the brooch, platinum and amethyst, metal and rock, still smelled like rain. He telephoned Mortimer Blake, one of his financial advisors, explaining to Mortimer that he wanted to buy one of Becca Burke’s paintings. The cost was three thousand dollars. Mortimer advised, “It’s a bad investment.”

  Colin countered. “It’s not because of money.” Didn’t Mortimer know him? It’s because I remember freckled Becca dripping in the rain: Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm; her corduroy dress that felt like velvet to me; her legs in tights sliding across the linoleum; Becca Burke, struggling to lift her mother’s head; Becca’s pride; Becca’s grace. He remembered wanting desperately to kiss her, teasing her instead, the two of them sitting on the Coker Arboretum lawn.

  He was twenty-six now, like Becca. Married and divorced. Tonight, he was nervous. “I just wanted to say hi and return your brooch.”

  “Thanks. So what have you been up to?” she asked.

  He told her about Brittany, about his money, about the paintings he collected. Hers included. He said, “My dad lives with me,” adding, “It’s good. We sail together. He helps me stay clear of crazy women.”

  “It’s a good thing he’s not here tonight.”

  He laughed. “You’re not crazy. You’re talented. I speak from experience. There’s a difference. Imagine walking into a studio and finding stick-figure drawings of yourself labeled dumb-ass. It’s quite the eye-opener.”

  “I bet. Sometimes I pretend I’m Wonder Woman.”

  “I love your art. I love Wonder Woman.”

  “Did you ever find your mom?”

  “As a matter of fact, I didn’t.” He didn’t know what else to say. How much should he reveal about himself? His passions? “I bought the picture of you and the watermelon truck.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “It’s in the den. I like to collect things. Art mostly. Old stamps. Coins. And this is sort of strange, but wedding bands, really old ones. I go to estate sales and antique shops. I have a glass case of platinum and gold bands. They’re magnificent. It’s the history they hold.”

  “Wow.”

  “You should probably mingle.”

  “No, I don’t have to do that. Keep talking.”

  “I’ve been to Terezín, to Theresienstadt, to the site of the concentration camp where the Nazis sent artists and children, where they successfully tricked the Red Cross into believing the inmates were living normal lives. The children there were taught art. I am working to preserve the art that remains from the camp. The children’s teacher, before he was taken to the gas chamber, hid the artwork in suitcases that were found a decade later. The drawings are safe now, but I want them not just safe but reproduced. I want the world to remember.”

  Becca was speechless. As a girl, art had been her salvation.

  Like Becca’s father, Colin was a collector. Unlike Becca’s father, he was a sentimental collector.

  Staring at the brooch in her palm, Becca repeated, “It was my grandmother’s and then my mother’s.”

  “I’m glad you have it back.”

  “I’ll show you my new paintings.” Becca pointed to The Edge of the World. “That’s my grandma and her dog, Bo. Grandma Edna had these long freckled arms.” Colin studied the painting. Becca said, “Sue in New York … Obviously you know Sue, having bought my paintings, but anyway …”

  He interrupted. “I don’t actually know her. I have a liaison.”

  “Anyway,” Becca said, “she thinks my new stuff is too sentimental and pastoral. There’s not enough blood. I should be painting prostitutes and fairies. Some bullshit like that.”

  “She’s an idiot.”

  She showed him each of her paintings, telling him about the first lightning strike and the second. She told him about the second hand moving backward and about the fish on the beach. She told him about Buckley R. Pitank. She told him about her time spent as a drugstore clerk, about her dad and Patty-Cake. Then she said, “I’m all grown up now. I had to paint these pictures in order to realize something that simple: I grew up.”

  Later that night, as Peggy swept the concrete floor and Becca boxed the leftover wine to take to Paddy John’s, her father said, “I’m going to buy the painting of the barn.” From across the room, Mary watched him talking to their daughter, pointing at one of Becca’s paintings, hopeful that Becca might forgive him or at least give him a chance to make amends.

  Becca told him, “Dad, don’t buy my painting. I’ll give it to you.”

  “No, I want to buy it.” He put his arm around his daughter’s shoulder, and rather than pulling away, Becca put her hand at his belt. It was a small gesture, but it was the most she could do. He kissed her forehead. “You’re a great artist.”

  She showed him the brooch. “I’d lost it.”

  Mary approached, taking the brooch from Becca. “I thought you lost it.”

  “I had.”

  She handed it back. “Keep it for a while.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Mary looked at Rowan. “Are you coming to the after-party at Paddy John’s?”

  “I can’t.”

  Becca said, “How come?”

  “I’m driving back tonight. I have a busy day tomorrow. I have to let Shug out.” Shug, short for Sugar, was his new dog, his best friend. A Chesapeake Bay retriever, she was loyal to Rowan, which Rowan admired, having had difficulty his whole life with loyalties.

  “I love you.” He kissed Becca’s cheek.

  “I love you too, Dad.” It was strange for Becca to witness her dad’s insecurity. Maybe he had changed. Maybe he was trying to change. Trying, all by itself, was a change.

  Excerpt from

  THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS

  Skin tingles and hair stands on end when lightning is about to strike. If there is no shelter close by, immediately crouch low to the ground, shielding the head. Do not lie flat on the ground because this can do more damage to the body, and remember: Treat the apparently dead first.

  The Handbook, 1995

  Becca and Buckley stood on the beach.

  “What did it feel like, Becca?” he asked.

  “I don’t really remember the first time, except for the noise. It was so loud, I thought I was dead, and then the second time, it felt like I was a caterpillar squished under a fist, and it looked translucent white everywhere. It was really clean, but then it was deep too, like the whites of your eyes. You fall into it. Zap. There’s no way out.”

  They stood in front of Paddy John’s house where the black waves swept the shore. The wind blew hard off the water. Becca said, “How long did you live in New York?”

  “Eight years.”

  “It’s eight for me too.”

  “I was hiding,” he said. Buckley dug his heel in the wet sand. The waves washed over his feet and calves. The rolled cuffs of his khakis were stiff with salt and spray.

  “From what?”

  “This.” He looked up at Paddy John on the balcony and back out to sea. The wind whipped his hair. “You should get out of New York. There’s too much concrete.”

  Becca took a deep breath. “I like concrete.” />
  “No one likes concrete.”

  On Paddy John’s deck, Carrie was drunk on gin and tonics. She sat beside Joan Holt, who had nodded off, her chin on her bony chest. They rocked on a wood-slatted swing.

  Paddy John sat in a straight-backed chair beside Mary, who leaned against the warped railing. Paddy John and Mary drank bottles of Budweiser, and Mary said, “I will never forget when you told the bartender to give me a shot.”

  “Well, you needed it.”

  Mary laughed. “I did.”

  Paddy John’s rusted chimes clanked in the wind. Mary pulled a strand of salty hair from her mouth. Paddy John said, “It’s good seeing you again. You doing all right?”

  Mary told him about her job. About going back to school. She said, “I couldn’t be better.”

  “That’s apparent.” He rested his hand on top of hers, and Mary heard that voice again, the voice from fourteen years ago, telling her, This is the kind of man I was supposed to marry. And then, It’s the beer talking. Maybe. His hand was coarse and strong from hard work.

  Inside, Sissy washed dishes. From her place at the window, she could just see the white of Buckley’s shirt on the beach.

  Out on the beach, Buckley said, “You want to head inside?”

  “You know,” Becca said, playfully punching Buckley on the arm, “we need to keep in touch.” She squinched sand between her toes.

  He playfully punched her back. “I agree.”

  “I’ll race you.”

  Buckley felt the electricity first. The hairs on his arms and legs stood up. He saw Becca’s hair electrified about her face. He heard the crackling. His skin pinpricked. He shouted, “Get down! Get down!”

  Becca dropped to the sand. She thought, Please, no! Not again! The black sky turned bottomless and split open white and blinding. The sky lit up. Becca saw Buckley through her eyelids. The electricity sparked. In that fraction of a second when the world froze, Becca thought she’d dreamed Buckley. She’d dreamed Buckley the way she dreamed Grandma Edna and Bo, the way she dreamed fish. As the electricity shot to the ground and back to the heavens, she thought she was dead.