Hudson 02 Lightning Strikes

by V. C. Andrews

  If anyone should suffer from a poor self-image and lack of self-confidence, I thought, it should be me, and those were two things you needed to have in tiptop condition if you were going to become an actress and perform before thousands of people judging you, measuring you along with critics who had microscopes for eyes.

  "So ," Randall finally said, "the people you are living with here are really your relatives, but they don't know it?"

  "That's right. Mr. and Mrs. Endfield are my great-uncle and great-aunt, but Grandmother Hudson thought it would be better if they didn't know. The Endfields like being thought of as magnanimous and my Great-aunt Leonora won't be outdone by my grandmother when it comes to charitable acts, especially one as dramatic as this," I told him. "She brags to all her friends that she has an au pair from America."

  "But wouldn't it be better for you if they knew? I mean, maybe you wouldn't have to be a servant." he said, "and you could spend all your time on your studies."

  "To tell you the truth, Randall, I don't know if it would be better. I have the feeling Grandmother Hudson, who knows them a lot better than I do, believes they probably wouldn't let me live with them. They'd consider it all a big disgrace and ask me to leave. I'm surprised my Aunt Victoria hasn't told them the truth about me just so she could see that take place. She's probably torn between being happy I'm here and unhappy my grandmother cares so much about me and does so much for me."

  "If she had never met you before and never even knew you existed, why does she hate you? Is it simply because she's prejudiced or..."

  "I don't know if it's me or it's just that she hates her sister, my mother, and therefore anything or anyone connected with her. Except," I said thinking aloud, "I don't get the feeling she dislikes my mother's husband. It's complicated," I said, reaching for my clothing. "It gives me a headache just thinking about it all."

  Randall continued to look deep in thought, and then his face suddenly brightened with an idea. I could practically see the lightbulb flash above his head.

  "You said your mother told you that your real father came to London to write and to teach, right?"

  "Yes?' I clipped on my bra and slipped on my panties. Randall remained as he was, still thinking, his hands still behind his head, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

  "And your mother told you he was fond of Shakespeare and wanted to be a Shakespearean scholar and teacher? Isn't that what you said?"

  "That's what she said, but I don't know whether to believe anything she told me," I said and finished dressing.

  Randall lowered his gaze to me, his face even more animated and excited.

  "Why don't we see if we can find him?"

  "What? Find whom?"

  "Your father. You said you knew his name, Larry Ward. It shouldn't be impossible to locate him. We can start with the greater London phonebook and call every Larry Ward listed," he said.

  I shook my head. The very idea put icicles in my heart.

  "And do what, ask each one if he's the man who had an affair with a Megan Hudson back when he was in college?"

  "Maybe he succeeded and became an English teacher, a Shakespearean scholar, just like he had intended. That would pinpoint him, wouldn't it? How many black guys have come over from America to study Shakespeare, Rain? It's not going to be that hard to find him, if he's still here, that is. What do you say?"

  I shook my head more emphatically. "I don't think so."

  "Why not? Don't you want to meet him? Don't you want him to meet you? I would, if it was me."

  "What would I say to him if we did find him, Randall? Hi, I'm your daughter, the daughter you never hung around to see, you never cared about? No thanks. I don't need another devastating scene. I've been rejected once, and pretty firmly too, at birth. I couldn't take it again, especially face to face," I said.

  "Maybe it wouldn't be like that. Come on, Rain, don't tell me you're not the least bit curious about him."

  "I didn't say I wasn't, but..."

  "So what harm can it do to find him? After we are sure it's your father, you can decide whether or not you want to meet him and tell him who you are, but first things first. I'd be glad to help you," he said.

  "Why?" I smiled at him. "Why is this suddenly so important to you?"

  "I don't know." He looked at me. "I want to do it for you. I want to do something ... significant:' he said.

  "You are doing something significant, Randall. You're developing a great talent."

  "I know, but I'd like to do this too."

  "It's not just an amusing way for you to pass some time?" I asked.

  "No. It's for you. I want to do something for you. Really, that's the truth," he said.

  I took another deep breath and sat on the bed. He stared, waiting.

  "Aren't you ever going to get dressed, Randall?"

  "What? Oh, sure. I actually forgot I was undressed," he said with a laugh. "So, will you let me help you find your father?" he asked.

  "I don't know. I can't help being afraid, Randall. What if it causes more trouble?"

  "How can it cause more trouble to find him?" He thought a moment and then he leaned forward and looked me in the eye. "You and I were just talking about taking control of our own destinies, Rain. Your mother decided to send you in one direction and even now other people are still deciding on where you go and how you go. This is your one big chance to take a little control of your life," he said.

  I shook my head and smiled at him.

  "Maybe you ought to go into law, too. You're getting good at making arguments. You can sing for your clients in court."

  "I object," he sang in operatic tones.

  I laughed.

  "Well?"

  "All right," I decided. "We'll try to locate him and if we do, then and only then, I'll decide whether or not I want to, or should, actually confront him."

  "That's good," Randall said. He started to dress. "It'll be fun and you won't be sorry. You'll see."

  "I hope you're right, but I'm not as confident about it as you are."

  "And now, back to business. Start reciting while I get ready to go," he directed.

  "Reciting?"

  "The cut from Hamlet, Ophelia's big scene, remember? That's why you came, right?" he declared, amazed.

  "Oh. I wonder what made me forget:' I teased and he put on his little smirk.

  Just the thought of attempting what Randall had suggested we do about my real father kept the butterflies swirling in mad circles in my stomach. I was so distracted, I kept forgetting lines and had to start over twice. Then, in the middle of my third presentation, there was a knock on Randall's door. He was still in bare feet and shirtless when he opened the door. It was Leslie, dressed in only her thin, cream silk robe, and from the way it lay open at her breasts, it was obvious she was naked beneath.

  "Oh," she said, smiling at the sight of me and Randall still not completely dressed. "Pardon moi. I did not mean to interrupt."

  "It's all right," Randall said quickly. "Rain was just practicing."

  "I see, but I did not know it takes practice," she said with a laugh.

  "I meant practicing her part for the presentation next weekend."

  "Ah yes."

  "What did you want?" he asked sharply.

  "Just to see if you had left yet and if you were going to do anything interesting today? Catherine is just dressing. We slept late. You should have come with us last night. What a time we had. So, what do you do today? Anything of interest? Or do you stay all day in your room with this practicing?" she asked, looking at me with a suggestive smile smeared across her face.

  "We're going to Piccadilly Circus," I said. "To walk and have some lunch. You're both welcome to join us."

  "Ah, this is so?" she asked Randall.

  "You heard it," he said.

  She laughed.

  "How soon?"

  "Fifteen minutes or so," he replied.

  "Then, we shall go along," she declared. As soon as she left, he closed the door and t
urned to me.

  "I'm sorry. We don't have to have them come along."

  "Actually," I said, "I like them. They're happy, never depressed and great fun to be with."

  "Oh?"

  "Not that you're not," I added with a smile.

  "I'm glad of that," he said and finished dressing while I made another attempt to recite my speeches without mistakes. This time I did a lot better. Randall nodded.

  "Good," he said. "I can see you're going to do well. Who knows?" he added with a wide, bright smile. "Maybe before then, we'll find your real father and if he is a Shakespearean scholar, he'll give you some pointers, too!"

  I nearly threw my copy of Hamlet at him and he laughed. I wanted so to laugh about it all too, but those butterflies kept me tingling inside with just the thought of seeing him, much less meeting and speaking to him.

  We took the tube to Piccadilly station. Although the day had begun overcast, the clouds were thinning out and breaking up, permitting sunlight to brighten the streets. Nevertheless, many of the places, especially the theaters, had lights on and there was a glitter and excitement in the air. Crowds of tourists had converged on the area that some called the Times Square of London. Everywhere I looked there was something or someone to capture my attention, especially the punk rockers in their leather and chains, the girls with multicolored hair, boys with heads shaved or carved into strange styles. Catherine and Leslie exchanged remarks and comments with some of them.

  We browsed a flea market, window shopped and went in and out of unique stores, some reminding me of thrift shops back home, selling things from old shoes to used jeans and very old records and books. For lunch we had pizza and afterward, we walked and walked until we reached the river and then sauntered along, stopping to look at street artists and listen to street musicians. It was another fun day.

  Neither Randall nor I mentioned our intention to play detective and locate my real father. It wasn't something I wanted Catherine and Leslie to know. We parted company late in the afternoon when they met two friends from school who were going to a rock show.

  Randall thought we should return to the residence hall to do our research and then go for supper nearby. He located the phonebooks in the lobby and we sat copying out the numbers and addresses for all the Larry Wards. It turned out there were more than twenty, some called Lawrence, but most simply Larry. Then we went to Randall's room and used his phone. My fingers actually trembled with the first number I dialed.

  Three out of the five people we called either didn't answer or had been disconnected. The other two were definitely not my father, one a man who sounded as if he was well into his eighties or even nineties. I had to repeat everything and shout half the time. I hung up, disgusted.

  "Let's take a break and go grab some supper," Randall suggested, seeing the frustration and annoyance on my face.

  "It's stupid," I muttered. "It's a stupid way to go searching for your real father. I feel uncomfortable doing it."

  "Okay, okay," he said, "let's not push it. Come on. I'm hungry."

  I grabbed my jacket and followed him out. We went to his favorite restaurant, what he called a Mom and Pop place run by a couple from Ireland. Their specialty of course was Irish stew and I had to admit it was the best stew I had ever eaten. Good food and a cozy atmosphere with friendly people put me back at ease. I listened more to Randall describing his life back in Canada, some of the happier moments, the fun things he was able to do. Whether it was part of his musical ability or whatever, he seemed to have boundless verbal energy, his face bright-. ening with excitement, eyes twinkling like Christmas bulbs, his laughter melodic. He reached for my hand and held it while he talked about the first time he kissed a girl.

  "It was very disappointing," he told me.

  "Nicolette Sabon, your eleven-year-old?" I asked. He looked surprised that I had remembered.

  "No. We never really kissed. It was someone else, someone I didn't tell you about."

  "Oh? Why not?"

  "She was my cousin," he said. "We were both about fourteen and it was more like an experiment. Her experiment," he emphasized.

  "I don't understand."

  "She told me she was doing a science project about kissing and kissing me would be part of the research," he said.

  "You believed that?" I asked. He blanched at my accusing him of being naive.

  "Well, I couldn't think of any other reason why she wanted to kiss me," he replied.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  "I couldn't!"

  "Okay. So, then what happened?"

  "We kissed and it felt like I had rubbed my lips against a stone. Nothing. She jotted down some notes in a small notepad and then said we had to do it again and touch the tips of our tongues at the same time."

  I started to laugh.

  "And?"

  "The very idea made me nauseous and I ran out of the room," he confessed and we both laughed.

  How much I enjoyed being with him, I thought. He was so uncomplicated, so fresh and new like a real discovery, making it easier to relax, to shut away my fears and tensions and lower my steel wall of defense. Once, I lived in a world where danger lurked in every shadow, where no one could be trusted to be who he claimed to be and more than likely, if someone was nice to you, he had some evil reason smoldering just beneath his candy-coated smile.

  "You didn't run out of the room from me when my tongue touched yours," I said, teasing him again.

  He turned a little crimson and looked back to see who was nearby. Satisfied he could speak even more freely, he leaned toward me and said, "I bought something while you were browsing with Catherine and Leslie today?'

  "What?"

  He unfolded his hand.

  "Some of these," he said showing me a condom.

  Now it was my turn to look embarrassed and utter a small gasp.

  "Randall. Put that away," I said, watching the waitress move toward us.

  He laughed and did so quickly. The waitress cleared our dishes and asked if we wanted anything else. Neither of us did so she left the bill and walked away. He stared at me, still with that little tight smile on his lips.

  "First of all," I began, "that's taking a lot for granted. Who said I would be doing it again with you?"

  He looked devastated for a moment and then shrugged. "It's better to be prepared, just in case," he replied in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. "I don't want to look like an idiot again." He looked up quickly as a new thought crossed his mind. "You're not insulted, are you?"

  "I should be," I said, putting on an indignant face. "Oh. I'm sorry. I..."

  "But I'm not," I added.

  He smiled.

  "Which," I continued, "doesn't mean I agree to anything ahead of time."

  "Oh, sure. Like I said..."

  "I think I had better start for home," I said, catching a glimpse of the clock. "Breakfast is a ritual and a production at Endfield Place."

  "Right." He paid the bill and we left the restaurant.

  I told him I could get back myself, but he insisted that he escort me home.

  "I'll tell you what I'm going to do," he said as we walked up to the house a little while later.

  "What?"

  "I'll make some of the calls to the Larry or Lawrence Wards myself. It'll make it easier for you, and if I discover anything important, I'll let you know, okay?" he asked.

  I thought about it. Making those calls had splintered my nerves.

  "I won't say a thing, of course. I'll just try to locate him for you."

  "All right," I agreed quickly.

  We kissed.

  "Well?" I asked.

  "What?"

  "Did it feel like stone?"

  He laughed.

  "Hardly. It felt and tasted like candy cotton.

  "I'll call you tomorrow, early in the afternoon," he said as he walked away. I waved and then turned and started toward the front door.

  Suddenly, I thought I saw a shadow move on my right. I stopped and studied th
e darkness. My heart began to race when something did cross the lane of light that fell across the grass. The light came from an upstairs window.

  "Is someone there?" I called.

  All I heard was the soft breeze slipping in and out, under and above the leaves of the trees and around the roof of the house. Thicker clouds had moved in again and blocked what little moonlight there had been. The darkness felt heavier, deeper, rushing forward and coming up behind me like a tide of black water.

  Everything sensible and cautious told me to go into the house and forget what I thought I had seen, but I didn't like being spied upon. It was enough to feel constantly under glass when I was in the house performing my duties, but not to ever have any privacy even out here was more than just annoying. It raised the temperature of my hot blood to near boiling. If that Mr. Boggs was lingering there to watch what I did and then report my kisses, I would give him a blast that would have even surprised and shocked Beni, I thought.

  I took a step toward the corner of the house and then another, listening hard for footsteps and concentrating on the shadows, peering through the corridors of darkness in search of some silhouette. There seemed to be none. I was glad of that, happy to attribute it all to my overworked imagination, but before I turned back, I saw that there was a light on in the cottage.

  For a long moment, I just stood there staring at the cottage. All the time I had been here, I hadn't been closer to it than this, I thought. What was the big deal about it anyway? I gazed up at the lighted window on the second floor of the estate. A heavy curtain had been drawn closed. No one appeared and it was very still, very quiet about the grounds. The light in the cottage flickered. It was a candle, I realized. Why would there be a candle lit inside?

  Curiosity put magnets in my eyes and in my feet. I had to get closer. I had to know. Softly, almost as sleekly as a cat, I stepped through the shadows and the candlelight toward the small building. Every once in a while, I paused to listen, but I heard no one, saw no one. The candlelight flickered again. Shadows seemed to leap and fly across the grounds like dark spirits. A small glow burned through the darkness against the side of Endfield Place and then disappeared as would light from a match that had been blown out. The breeze picked up, whistled through some brush and small trees, spun a crown of cool air about my head and then lifted toward the ever darkening night sky, a sky without stars, blanketed in a shroud of silence.