by Bobbie Pyron
Nate expected everyone to laugh. Instead, some folks nodded in agreement. Others studied him like something shiny half buried in the sand.
For the rest of the day, kids pestered Nate to touch their crab so they’d win the crab race, grown men begged him to sit by them during the oyster shucking contest, and the ladies of the Paradise Island Garden and Beautification League insisted he be one of the kissees at their kissing booth.
By the afternoon, Nate was worn out.
He tugged on his grandpa’s hand. “I’m going to head over to Gen’s, Grandpa.”
“I’m ready to leave too,” Grandpa said. “And I got to be back up here at the crack of dawn for the Blessing of the Fleet.” He took the boy’s hand in his and they walked across the park together.
As they got to the far end of Billy Bowlegs Park, they saw a bright red Ford truck with gleaming hubcaps parked on the grass. Above it a banner read WIN ME FOR A DOLLAR! Grandpa cut a beeline over to the truck. He shook his head as he admired it tip to tail. “Sure is a pretty thing. Makes my old Alfred look like he’s ready for the junkyard.”
“Only costs you a dollar to buy a raffle ticket,” Chief Brandy said. “It’s for a good cause.”
Grandpa dug around in his pocket and pulled out a dollar bill. He handed it to Nate. “Might as well give it a try, huh, boy?”
“Yes sir,” Nate said. He handed Chief Brandy the dollar with his scarred hand.
“Ha!” Nate crowed. “Double sixes again! How many times in a row is that, Gen? Huh?” He held up his hand for a high five, even though he knew Gen never, ever gave high fives.
Gen took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Too many,” she mumbled. She thumbed through Test Your Luck. “Let’s try another test.”
Rain tapped against the stained glass window in the sanctuary of The Church of the One True Redeemer and Everlasting Light. Nate leaned his back against the pulpit, glad to be away from the crowds of people down at the festival. It wouldn’t be so bad, he thought, if they didn’t all want something from him.
Gen shuffled a deck of cards and fanned them out before Nate, facedown. “Pick one,” she said.
He pulled out the ace of spades.
She shuffled the deck again. “Pick another one.”
The ace of hearts slid into his fingers slick as a whistle.
Gen shook her head, shuffled the deck three times, and said, “Pick one with your eyes closed.”
He squeezed his eyes shut tight and drew the ace of diamonds.
“Impossible,” she said.
For the next hour, Gen threw every test in the book at Nate. And every single time, he was lucky. She closed the book and studied him for a good long while — long enough that he squirmed under her gaze.
“Fascinating,” she said, tapping her pencil against her knee. “The lighting strike — theoretically — could have reversed certain magnetic fields in your body.”
“Huh?” Nate said.
“Of course, that would assume a magnetic field of unluckiness before the lightning strike,” she mused. “Which I, for one, find hard to believe.”
“But, Gen, how else can you explain it?”
“There is that ‘law of attraction’ hokum that says you attract into your life whatever you think about. I’ve always written that off as wishful thinking,” she said.
He threw his hands heavenward in exasperation. “Jeez, Gen, you have to believe in something.” Before Gen could give her usual reply, Nate leaned forward and whispered, “You come to the Blessing of the Fleet in the morning. My granddaddy bought a raffle ticket for that brand-new 1992 Ford pickup truck they’re raffling off.”
“So?”
“So,” he said, leaning in closer, “I gave Chief Brandy the dollar bill and took the ticket with my burned hand.”
Squabbling, squealing voices filled the household above.
“It’s mine!”
“No it’s not, it’s mine!”
“If my granddaddy wins that truck, will you believe in me?”
Gen opened her mouth to say something, then snapped it shut. She plucked at one eyebrow, then the other, and nodded her head.
Nate sighed. “I sure wish I hadn’t lost my shoe and camera today, though. That’s not so lucky.” He had looked all down by the docks where he’d lost them, and even waded out into the water among the seaweed and floating fish heads to see if they ended up under the docks. No luck.
Gen shook her head. “I’ve never understood your obsession with lost shoes.”
He shrugged. “It’s not lost shoes, it’s finding just one shoe in all these weird places. Just one. It’s a mystery.”
She snorted. “It’s not a mystery, just careless people, that’s all.”
Nate’s brow furrowed with concentration. “All these years, I’ve been collecting those single shoes, taking pictures of them, hoping I’d find the other dropped shoe and bring them back together. And now I’ve lost shoes twice in the last three weeks. It’s weird.”
The sun was just barely showing its face the next morning when the residents of Paradise Beach gathered on the docks for the Blessing of the Fleet. Gulls and pelicans fluffed their feathers against the morning chill. Ten yards out, the slick backs and dorsal fins of dolphins shone in the new light.
Nate and his grandpa stood on the front deck of the Sweet Jodie. Grandpa sipped a cup of coffee while Nate blew on his hot chocolate. “Looks like a good turnout,” Grandpa said. “Folks must be feeling frisky this morning.”
Father Donovan, Pastor Jimmy, Rabbi Levine, and the good Reverend Beam stood resplendent in robes and pressed suits. Years ago, only Father Donovan blessed the fleets to ensure a safe and bountiful season, a tradition begun centuries before among the mostly Catholic fishing communities of the Mediterranean. But times being what they’d been (hard) for the last number of years, the community agreed they needed to cover all ecumenical bases.
The sun climbed the horizon. Councilman Lamprey mounted the steps to the makeshift stage with Mayor Barney by his side.
“Good morning, everyone. Welcome to the fifty-third annual Paradise Beach Blessing of the Fleet.”
“Aroof! Roof! Roow!” said the mayor.
“Thank you, Mayor, and thank you to everyone for coming out on this fine morning.” Nate’s heart lifted as a squadron of pelicans skimmed over the glassy water.
“As always, we come together this morning to bless the fleets of brave fishermen —”
“And women,” Jinx Malloy called from the bow of her mother’s charter boat, the Athena.
“And women,” Councilman Lamprey amended. “These good and brave folks who depend on the vagaries of the weather and the sea for their living, we wish them safe passage and bountiful catches.”
The councilman motioned to the four clergy. “In just a minute, I’ll invite these gentlemen up to give the blessing. After they’re done, there’ll be a pancake breakfast over in the park put on by our own Rotary Club. Oh, and y’all don’t forget, we’ll be drawing the winning raffle ticket for that new Ford pickup truck at ten this morning.” Applause and cheers scattered the gulls.
Nate tugged on his grandpa’s arm. “You’ve got the ticket, don’t you?”
Grandpa patted his shirt pocket. “Right here. Although I don’t think I have much chance of winning.”
Nate wasn’t too sure either, after losing his flip-flop and camera.
Father Donovan mounted the steps, followed by Pastor Jimmy, Rabbi Levine, and Reverend Beam. The crowd grew quiet.
The four men closed their eyes and bowed their heads. Father Donovan raised his arms, the gold-trimmed white sleeves of his cassock sliding down his sunburned arms. “Most gracious Lord, who numbered among your apostles the fishermen Peter, Andrew, James, and John, we pray you to consecrate these boats to righteous work in your name. Guide the captain at her helm. So prosper her voyages that an honest living may be made.”
“Amen to that,” Grandpa said.
“Watch o
ver her passengers and crew,” Pastor Jimmy added.
“And bring them to a safe return, Mechayeh Hakol,” Rabbi Levine continued.
“And may the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Reverend Beam’s voice rang out, “be upon these vessels and all who come aboard, this day and forever. Amen.”
“Amen,” the crowd and captains said as one.
“Awoooooooo,” the mayor agreed.
Grandpa grinned down at Nate and squeezed his shoulder. “Good Lord, let’s eat.”
As Nate and Gen licked the last of the syrup from their fingers, Councilman Lamprey announced the raffle drawing.
“Y’all gather around and get your tickets out. Somebody’s going home with a brand-new truck today.”
“Remember our agreement,” he said to Gen.
She rolled her eyes.
“Chief Brandy,” Councilman Lamprey said, “is a bit under the weather and can’t be here to draw the winning ticket.” The councilman turned to the old dog. “Mayor, would you kindly fetch someone to do the honors?”
The mayor wove his way through the crowd sniffing here and there until he came to Nate. “Rooo, rooo!”
The mayor grabbed Nate’s wrist in his mouth and pulled him through the crowd. Hands reached out to touch him, along with hopeful whispers of “Pick mine, boy. Pick mine.” By the time Nate got to the front of the crowd, his shirt was half hanging off, exposing the symphony of lightning-conducted scars.
The councilman held out a shoe box full of raffle tickets. “Stir them up real good, son.”
Nate did.
“Now reach down and pick out the lucky ticket.”
He swallowed hard and plunged his hand into the box. He held his breath as his fingers pulled out a ticket and handed it to the councilman.
The folks in the crowd were as quiet and still as they had been for the blessing.
“The winning ticket number is …” The councilman squinted at the ticket and adjusted his glasses. The crowd shifted impatiently.
“The winning number is 10299. Who has 10299?”
“Well I’ll be dipped and fried,” a voice from the back said. “It’s my ticket.” Grandpa held his ticket high. “I won a new truck!”
“That’s not fair!”
“How come Jonah Harlow’s having all the luck?”
Suspicious, resentful eyes darted from Nate to his grandpa and back.
“Come on up here, Jonah, and claim your prize,” Councilman Lamprey called out in a bit-too-jovial voice.
Jonah Harlow made his way through the grumbling crowd. Only Chum Bailey’s father patted him on the back and said, “Good for you, Jonah.”
Councilman Lamprey thumped Grandpa on the back, then pumped his hand up and down. “Congratulations, Jonah! Here are the keys to your brand-new truck!” The councilman held them up for everyone to see. As he handed the keys over to Grandpa, he said, “Of course, none of us are going to know you, seeing as how you won’t be driving old Alfred anymore.”
Grandpa chuckled uneasily. A photographer from the newspaper snapped a picture or two. The crowd wandered away, still grumbling.
Nate walked with his grandpa over to their new truck, shining in the sun. It looked ready and raring to go.
“Sure is something, isn’t it?” he said to his grandpa.
“Sure is.” Grandpa kicked at a tire and gazed into the spotless bed of the truck. “Seems too nice to carry a bunch of bait buckets and dead fish around in.”
Just then Reverend Beam, Mrs. Beam, and Gen walked up. “Whoowee, that is one fine truck, Jonah Harlow,” the reverend said with a grin. “You think you’ll be able to stand driving that thing?”
Grandpa smiled. “I don’t know, but I’ll sure give it a try.” He ran one hand reverently along the flank of the truck. “Never owned anything brand-new before.”
Two bouncing boys ran up to the truck and commenced to clamber up the sides. “Can we go for a ride?”
Grandpa grabbed the twins and pulled them off the truck. “Whoa now, boys. Let’s not scuff up the shine.”
Nate and Gen exchanged a look. Mrs. Beam took their hands and said, “Now, Leviticus and Joshua, you just calm down. Let’s not mess around Mr. Harlow’s nice new truck.”
They all looked at the truck. Grandpa lifted his blue sombrero and scratched his head. “Sure is something,” he said.
“Sure is,” Levi agreed.
“Well, son,” Grandpa said to Nate. “Let’s take this puppy for a ride. You too, Gen.”
Ricky and Connor trotted up. “Hey, Sparky, we’re getting up a baseball game over on the field. My dad’s taking the winning team out for ice cream after,” Ricky said.
“Yeah,” Connor said. “We need you on our team so we’ll win.”
Nate swelled up with pride. He smiled up at his grandpa and puffed out his chest at Gen.
Reverend Beam smiled. “Didn’t know you’d become such an athlete, Nate. Baseball’s a fine game. The true American sport.”
“Aw, he’s not as good a player as me,” Ricky said.
“Yeah,” Connor said. “Mostly we need his luck.”
Nate’s heart sank, and his scrawny shoulders bunched up.
Gen pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and glared at the two boys. “May I remind you dunderheads that Nathaniel hit a home run the last time he played baseball in PE?”
“He did?” Grandpa asked in surprise.
“He did?” Joshua asked in awe.
“And,” Gen said, as if she had witnessed the whole thing, which she surely had not, “he caught a fly ball in the outfield.”
Nate looked at Gen like she’d grown two heads. How in the heck did she even know words like fly ball and outfield?
Ricky shrugged. “Well whatever, Sparky. You coming or not?”
He looked at the boys gathering over on the baseball field with longing. He looked up at his grandpa and then at Gen.
Gen took off her glasses and rubbed them with her shirttail, not looking at him. But oh, how she wanted to ride next to him in the new truck. And hadn’t they made a bet? Why, after what happened, she’d even be willing to entertain the idea that he was right: The lightning had indeed changed something.
She cleared her throat. “Nathaniel, we had that bet, remember?”
Ricky snorted, Connor rolled his eyes. Nate’s face burned.
Without looking at Gen or her family, he asked, “Can you pick me up later, Grandpa, in a couple of hours?”
And before anyone could answer, before he could see the stricken look on Gen’s face, Nate raced off across the park to the baseball field with Ricky and Connor.
“Well would you look at that,” Mrs. Beam said at the breakfast table Monday morning. She held up the front page of the Paradise Beach Herald for all the Beams to behold: DOES LIGHTNING BOY HAVE MIDAS TOUCH? Underneath the headline was a photograph of Nate and his grandpa smiling, holding aloft the keys to the new truck.
“Read it to us, Mama,” Joshua said.
“Read it to us, please,” Reverend Beam reminded his son.
Mrs. Beam cleared her throat. “Paradise Beach resident Nathaniel Harlow is fast becoming a bit of a local legend. Just two weeks ago, the young boy was struck by lightning while playing Goofy Golf on his birthday. Everyone, including the doctors at the Panama City Hospital, agreed it was nothing short of a miracle he survived, and now the lightning may have given our young resident the Midas touch. It seems Nate’s Midas touch has helped his grandfather, Jonah Harlow, captain of the Sweet Jodie, win the brand-new Ford truck generously donated by Crystal Sands New and Used Cars.”
Gen sighed and took her plate to the sink. “I’m going to school.”
Reverend Beam followed his daughter down the narrow staircase from the living quarters to the church and out onto the front steps. He lifted his face to the sun and smiled. “Another day in paradise, daughter.” He rested one large hand on her shoulder. “You going to do me proud at school today?”
>
Gen shrugged. Then she said, “Do you believe the lightning could have changed Nathaniel’s luck?”
The reverend clasped his hands. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways, Gen.”
“Yes sir, but could the lightning have taken his bad luck away and given him good luck?” she asked. “Not that I necessarily believe in luck, but let’s just say, for the sake of argument —”
“Nothing to do with the lightning, daughter. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.” He bent and kissed his firstborn on the top of her head. “Best go catch the school bus now.”
Gen planned what she would say to Nate about the raffle ticket as she trudged down the red clay road to the bus stop. Nate’s abandonment of her for those boys still stung. On the other hand, she had made a promise to Nate. And a promise was a promise to keep.
“Nathaniel, while I still believe that luck — bad or good — is merely probability taken personally,” she said aloud to the pines and the birds and shining sun, “I am beginning to consider the unlikely but fascinating idea that the lightning strike could have changed something in you. Still, we must not fall prey to …”
Gen stopped in her tracks. Nate was not waiting for her beneath the osprey nest topping the tall pine as he did every morning all school year. Except when he was struck by lightning.
She looked up the road one way and down the other. No Nate.
She wiped at the sweat beading her forehead and worried an eyebrow. A gray squirrel chattered from the branches of an oak.
“Cripes,” she said.
The school bus eased to a stop and unfolded its doors. Gen looked up the road toward the Sweet Magnolia RV and Trailer Park. No Nate.
She climbed the steps of the school bus, her backpack bumping the back of her knees.
“Where’s your partner in crime?” the bus driver asked.
“He’s late,” Gen said, squinting in the direction of the trailer park. “Perhaps we should wait for him, Mr. Tom.”
The driver slammed the door shut and laughed. “I imagine his granddaddy’s taking him to school today in that new truck with those fancy wheel rims. No need for him to ride this old can of sardines to school anymore.”