Carrie grabbed her book bag. “You didn’t eat—”
“I don’t want it.”
Carrie snatched Becca’s pizza bread off her plate. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.” After all, her parents were simply going through a rough spot. She saw similar stories on The Phil Donahue Show. Certainly they wouldn’t get divorced. Her dad said divorce was tacky. Things would get better.
Carrie danced that May.
Rowan saw to it. He thought the recital was important to Becca because it was important to him.
That April, he drove to Mrs. Drinkwater’s office with the yellow sequined costume, the green tutu, and shoes for Carrie. Mrs. Drinkwater worked as an office assistant for Dr. Calhoun, a neurosurgeon. At three in the afternoon, she sat transcribing a recording of Dr. Calhoun’s diagnosis of a twelve-year-old boy with a brain tumor. She typed wearing headphones. Professor Burke entered the office in jeans and a polo shirt.
Carrying two bags from Dance Girl, he was there to “save the day.” Mrs. Drinkwater had barely gotten her headphones down around her neck when he swung the plastic bags onto her desk and said, “I’m really in a hurry, Belinda. These are for Carrie. So the girls can dance.” He winked. He smiled.
She said, “I can’t …” but he was gone. Who the hell do you think you are? Belinda Drinkwater did not like Rowan Burke.
What wasn’t to like? Rowan would want to know. He was intelligent and handsome and soon he’d have tenure, and one day he’d buy that yacht. Come hell or high water, he’d find a way to regain the wealth the Burkes had lost.
He wasn’t about to let Carrie Drinkwater drop out of the May recital. Not while he resided in Chapel Hill. Not while appearances mattered. If that little girl was his daughter’s best friend, she would dance.
The recital was, as always, a success. Along with thirty other girls, Becca and Carrie, dressed like yellow tulips, dipping and twirling in first, second, and fifth positions, flitted across the stage.
After the recital, Mrs. Hogg curtsied onstage with an armful of jonquils. The crowd was on its feet, impressed with the performing eight- and nine-year-olds, their poise and pirouettes.
Becca’s parents sat proudly in the front row. Belinda Drinkwater sat three rows back. Carrie’s dad had to work late, which was actually a relief to Belinda, who didn’t want him insulting Rowan Burke. She could imagine him saying, Who the hell do you think you are, showing up at my wife’s job? Do you think you’re better than me? Because, Goddamn it, you’re not! You’re not better than me. Chapel Hill was like no place the Drinkwaters had ever lived, and except for a handful of snobs, Belinda liked the town. It was charming—“beautified,” the realtor said—a college town with safe schools and art venues. And amid this culture, the Drinkwaters were making ends meet.
After the seats had emptied, the cicadas screeching, the black trees seeming to close around the spotlighted girls in their sequins and bright tutus, the parents paced and chatted while the well-respected photographer posed their daughters for posterity.
The next week, Mary drove to Mrs. Hogg’s school to pick up the ballet pictures she’d purchased. The photographer, known for his skill with shadow and light, was quoted as saying, “Pictures aren’t necessarily about the subject but what surrounds that subject.” This was never truer than at the Forest Theater, where the yearly recital was held. The long branches of the trees, although not visible in the pictures, were felt in the position and eyes of the ballerinas. For two de cades, Wallace’s photographs, documenting Chapel Hill’s graceful ballerinas and genteel citizenry, lined the walls of a dozen downtown eateries and shops. Wallace, the gentry agreed, was a rare orchid among the window-boxed roses and daisies lining Franklin Street.
Mrs. Hogg, a stout woman with a squeaky voice, handed the envelope of Wallace’s photographs to Mary.
Mrs. Hogg shuffled and straightened folders, walking back and forth to her metal file cabinet. “It was one of our greatest nights,” she said. Mary slid the first eight-by-ten from the envelope, dropping her keys. As they clanked to the floor, Mrs. Hogg continued: “We couldn’t have asked for better weather, and the girls danced divinely.” In Wallace’s photograph, Becca’s head was crowned with an iridescent orange-and-yellow-tipped light. Mary’s anticipation turned to irritation. She’d envisioned a portrait reflecting her daughter’s grace and strength. “Look at this,” she said, showing the eight-by-ten to Mrs. Hogg.
“I’m afraid they’re all like that.” Mrs. Hogg bent down for Mary’s keys. Setting them on her desk, she said, “It’s unusual.”
Mary said, “Is it some kind of effect? Why did he do this? Are all the girls haloed? What was he thinking?”
“No,” Mrs. Hogg interrupted. “All of Becca’s pictures are like this. The other photographs are as splendid as ever.” She took the photo from Mary. “I don’t understand it. Neither did Wallace.” Mrs. Hogg pulled eight more photographs from the packet, laying them out for Mary to see. “Here the light is reddish, but here it’s rather blue.” She pointed to another picture. “Most of the halos are yellow.”
“There’s something wrong with the film.”
“You can call Wallace. He said that Becca was an anomaly. He wants to photograph her again.”
Mary folded her arms at her waist, studying the pictures. Becca’s toes were pointed, her hands in arabesque. She was a beautiful girl.
Mrs. Hogg opened the squeaking file cabinet. “My masseuse says it could be her aura. I don’t know that I believe in such mumbo jumbo.”
“I’m not paying for these.” Mary tossed the envelope on Mrs. Hogg’s desk and grabbed her keys.
“You’ve already paid for them, Mrs. Burke.”
Mary crammed the envelope in her purse.
Mrs. Hogg said, “At least the orange light kind of matches her hair.”
Mary drove home, the envelope in the passenger’s seat, remembering Becca’s assertion: “I was struck by lightning.” She remembered Rowan countering, “If you were struck by lightning, you’d be dead.” This disagreement had continued for weeks, with Rowan finally telling Becca, “Do not go around saying that you were hit by lightning or you’re going to end up on a couch with a funny head doctor asking you how many times a day you go to the bathroom.”
Mary tended to believe Becca’s lightning story. What reason did she have to lie? Rowan asserted, “Giving credence to a preposterous story will only encourage further fabrication. Like you, she’ll want to be a victim.”
Mary reached into her purse, gripping the envelope. The strange light Wallace had photographed must be a result of the lightning strike. Maybe it was some sort of residual energy. Rowan would disagree. He’d say something like You can take the girl (referring to Mary) out of Podunk, but you can’t take the Podunk out of the girl. He’d laugh at Mary’s suggestion.
Driving home, she decided she’d keep the pictures in the bottom of her underwear drawer. Whenever Becca doubted herself, whether it was about the lightning or something else, she’d show them to her. There’s something very special about you, she’d say. There was no reason for Rowan to see these photographs.
Excerpt from
THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS
Victims report feeling an “other-worldliness” when struck.
Most surprising: 10% of lightning strike victims die, while just 50% seek medical attention.
[4]
… be on your best behavior, 1967
The reverend leaned forward, his black boot on the sill of the Pitank’s front door. “Reverend John Whitehouse.” He shook Winter’s hand.
“Evening.”
Behind his grandmother, Buckley held an empty brown bowl cupped to his chest, a bent spoon protruding from his mouth.
“Good evening,” said Abigail. The three Pitanks squeezed in the front hall. “Can we help you? Buckley, take the spoon out of your mouth.”
Buckley bounced the spoon off his hip. “This is the reverend from that revival on Mrs. C
atawall’s land.”
“Nice to meet you, Reverend.”
“Call me John.”
“Nice to meet you, John.”
“I’m Buckley’s grandmother, Winter Pitank.”
He took her right hand, cupping it between his own two. “Buckley was helping me out tonight, and I got to thinking I should pay y’all a visit and see personally if you wouldn’t be interested in joining us next Saturday. I hope I’m not calling too late. I saw the light on.” He gestured to nothing in particular. “The flock’s trying to build a church here in Mont Blanc. The tents get right drafty. I’m hoping the good Mrs. Catawall is going to donate a parcel of land. I told her that the Lord appreciates when those who can give, give generously.” He handed a postcard-sized pamphlet to each woman that read, The Holy Redeemer, a place where all are welcome regardless of denomination. Come and worshipp in the name of the Lord. Come All. Be Filled With the Spirit.
“Worship’s misspelled,” Abigail said.
“Where?”
She held the pamphlet out for him to see.
“You’re right. Awful glad you caught that.” He laughed. “It looks to me like Buck’s got two sisters.”
“I don’t go in for that kind of talk, Reverend,” Winter said. “I’m an old woman.”
“I don’t lie.”
“You most certainly do.”
“All God’s children are beautiful.” He bowed his head, looking up, his eyes dark and piercing. “As you are eternally young to the Lord, you are the same to me.”
Winter said, “That’s a nice thought.”
Buckley feared the reverend was going to mention the two dollars he’d rightfully earned, but instead the man pulled three gold foiled chocolates from his coat pocket and held them in his palm. He bowed his head once more. “I’m sure I’ve seen you ladies at services before, but I certainly do hope to see you again Saturday with Buck.”
Winter said, “Thank you for the invitation, but we’re terribly busy.”
“No one’s too busy to know God.” He pointed to the candies in his palm. “It’s chocolate and toffee from Hershey, Pennsylvania, where I spent time spreading His word. It’s an indulgence of mine, this sweet tooth.”
Abigail and Winter took their toffees, but Buckley left his gold foiled candy in the reverend’s palm. Reverend Whitehouse slipped it back in his suit pocket. “It was a pleasure,” he said. Winter held the screen door open and the reverend descended the steps. “I’m sure you know already, but five o’clock on Saturday, and nine on Sunday.”
“Thank you,” Abigail said. She unwrapped the gold foil.
Winter said, “We’ll try.”
“Bye, Buck.”
“Bye, sir.”
The screen door clacked shut. “What’s wrong with you?” Winter said to Buckley. “That man offered you a candy. You say no thank you if you don’t want it. You don’t just leave it in his hand. You’re ungrateful.”
As the reverend drove away from the Pitanks’, Buckley set his empty bowl on the kitchen counter. He wasn’t hungry anymore. He was mad. He pulled one of his Sears and Roebuck cowboy boots off and flung it against a bottom kitchen cabinet. He threw the other one thumping against the cabinet and waited for his grandmother to shout at him. Instead, the metallic pipes shuddered and squeaked. She was already running water for her bath.
That same night, he asked his mother, “Why are there blind people and deaf people if there’s a god? Why would God do that to someone?”
His mother said, “I think Perry Mason is on.”
Buckley changed the TV station.
Abigail said, “If you read Job, it’s to test a person’s faith, but that’s Old Testament. I think more likely it’s to work miracles through people, to show what they can do in spite of their setbacks.” She clicked on her table lamp. “We’ve got a Bible, Buckley.” She pivoted in the recliner. “Somewhere.”
That night, Buckley found the King James Bible stacked under a pile of old phone books. He took the Bible to bed and read the book of Job, but he still didn’t understand. There was something very wrong with this god and with Job. This god was petty. This god wagered on a man’s life as if it didn’t matter. Buckley didn’t think the reverend’s and Job’s god was his god. He placed his two dollars in the Bible and slid the book under his bed.
The Pitanks did not go to the Holy Redeemer revival on Saturday or on Sunday, but in a month’s time the reverend came back to them to tell them that work was under way to erect God’s own house.
Abigail, who had always been leery of preachers, instinctually thought to turn this preacher man away, but she had recently been to see Buckley’s teacher. At the teacher’s request, she had gone to the five-room clapboard school, where she could not sit down because the chairs were too small. She had heard her own heavy breathing trapped within the thin walls, the concrete floor, and the low ceiling.
The skinny Miss Johnson was holding detention. Two boys, both Buckley’s age, but neither of them resembling her pale, wide-hipped son, were washing Miss Johnson’s faded chalkboard. They dipped their foamy yellow sponges in a bucket of gray water as Miss Johnson, sitting in a student’s desk, insisted that a male influence was what Buckley needed. She said, “He needs a father figure. Plain and simple.” Abigail did not agree, but she didn’t speak up either. She would do what ever was necessary to help Buckley grow up to be a good man. Teacher knows best.
Of course, Miss Johnson had no children of her own and only one degree in home economics with a minor in art history from a rural women’s college in Mississippi. Abigail did not know that Miss Johnson had every intention of leaving teaching after she was married.
So, at his mother’s urging, Buckley helped the reverend pick up trash on Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons, and Abigail promised herself and Reverend Whitehouse that she would attend the Holy Redeemer services after the real church was finished, and thus, Abigail, Winter, and Buckley got to know the reverend.
Part of getting to know Reverend John Whitehouse was getting to know what he liked to eat, which included pork chops and buttered corn on the cob, fried chicken and macaroni and cheese, deviled eggs sprinkled with paprika, cornbread, biscuits with thick, heavily salted slabs of ham, Vienna sausages, iced oatmeal cookies, cherry Kool-Aid, white rolls, the number-five-dyed red sausages you fish from a jar with your fingers, fried bologna, meat loaf made with six eggs and a half a bottle of ketchup, tuna fish sandwiches with Miracle Whip and relish, homemade apple pie, and green bean casserole made with Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup. He didn’t care for lettuce or fresh vegetables or any other kind of pie but apple.
The reverend slept, snoring, his right foot in spasm, on the Pitanks’ sofa after Sunday dinner. Buckley saw his bumpy zucchini nose growing bigger and bumpier with each Sunday meal. There had been four in a row now. The reverend’s right foot jerked and fell, jerked and fell on the arm of the sofa.
Excerpt from
THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS
Danny Jones, pitcher for the Jolly Indians, stood under a tree with the rest of his team waiting out a rain delay when lightning struck the tree. Danny and his teammates were rushed to the emergency room. Danny remained conscious, saying, “It felt like a train hit me. Everything was white and loud.” For two days, Danny was numb from the waist down. Skipper McAdams and Jackson Feeley died.
Danny, in addition to suffering anxiety, also suffers survivor’s guilt.
According to Danny, “We [he and his former teammates] don’t talk about what happened. We just can’t.”
[5]
My mother’s father, 1978
Becca
Becca’s mother, Mary, drummed her fingers on the table. She didn’t like fried chicken, so of course her mother, Edna Wickle, had fried chicken for dinner. Mary didn’t want to be here, but Edna had telephoned and said, “I’d like you to come home. I think if you talk to your sister, it’ll make a difference. Plus, I’m getting up there in years. I’d like to se
e my granddaughter.”
Mary’s younger sister, Claire, was depressed and fat.
Her father used to say, “You’re lucky, Mary. You have a nice figure. Not like Claire.” He somehow thought things between them were good and normal, while every day Mary imagined the horses trampling him, an accidental shooting, a tractor mishap.
There was a scar on her lower back—the imprint of his belt buckle.
“I think if you talk to Claire, she’ll listen. She admires you.”
He lost his head. He didn’t mean it. That’s what her mother had said.
Now Edna wiped the countertop with a dishrag and opened the freezer. “Do you think Becca will want strawberry or vanilla?”
Mary brushed a few crumbs from the table into her palm.
“I’ve always liked strawberry,” Edna said.
“Are you even going to ask how I’m doing?”
“How are you?”
“Rowe’s in the garage most nights.” Mary tossed the crumbs in the trash.
“Becca’s not allergic to strawberry, is she? My aunt Lucille was allergic. It could run in the family. I hear a good many people have strawberry allergies. I can’t imagine.”
“You’re not listening.”
“No, Mary. I hear you. Your husband spends a lot of time in the garage.” Edna shut the freezer. “He likes cars, right? Fancy cars?”
“Right.”
“And I asked you: What do you think I should do about Claire? She’s my daughter who lives here with me, and she’s very sad.”
“I think Claire’s depressed because you let Dad treat us like dogs. She fell in love with that idiot Tom because he’s worthless like Dad was.”
Edna opened the freezer again. “I guess Becca could have strawberry and vanilla.”
“Mom!”
Edna thought that Mary’s confrontations were annoying. “And your husband spends his time in the garage because of your father? Why do you do this, Mary?”
“Because he was a bastard and you didn’t do anything.”
The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors Page 3