The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors (32 page)

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 homeless 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?”

“I met Buckley R. Pitank.”

“Mia’s weird neighbor friend. Oh, good.”

“I read his book.”

“I didn’t know he wrote a book. That’s impressive.”

“It’s a handbook for lightning strike survivors.”

“How very strange.”

“I was struck by lightning.”

Paulo looked around the gallery. “That explains it.”

“I’m serious.”

Becca looked for Buckley, but the twirling crowd was like a maze. She said, “He sliced his finger, and Sue took him for a Band-Aid.” Becca took Paulo to
Fish, Number Twenty-one
, a painting of two severed fish heads. “Buckley Pitank’s blood was the color of rose madder.” She pointed to the blood-streaked fish.

“That’s a little strange, Becca.”

“I know.” Becca scanned the crowd for Buckley. She wanted to talk to him. She asked Johnny, “Have you seen him?”

“Sue’s getting him a Band-Aid. He came with punk rock goth girl.”

Paulo interrupted. “Mia. She went to Columbia.”

The night vibrated with electricity. Becca felt the energy and light pulsating, moving from one end of the room to the other, from one person’s hand to another, and her canvases were the perimeter. With the rain falling outside and the scent of it filling the gallery like a clean perfume, Becca was walking around inside one of her paintings.
Buckley R. Pitank and
The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors, she mused.
Life is strange
.

Buckley’s thumb was wound tight with Band-Aids, one on top of another and crisscrossed. Mia bumped her hip into his. She sipped a glass of wine and said, “It’s just a little cut. He’s okay. Right, Buckley?” Mia bumped him again and again, like she was magnetically attracted and repelled by Buckley’s hip. “It’s great to meet you,” Mia said to Becca. “I think this shit’s amazing.”

That’s more like it
, thought Becca.
My shit’s amazing
.

Paulo rolled his eyes.

“You know what I mean?” Mia said. “It’s really good. God, Paulo, I’m a fucking painter. It’s shit. That’s what it is. Becca knows what I’m talking about. It’s in your head. You don’t have to be all ‘school’ about it.”

Paulo said, “Okay, Mia. I’m going to find Jack.”

“I’ll join you,” Mia said. “That kid Jack ought to be afraid of you.”

Becca said to Mia, “Thanks for coming.”

Mia leaned in close. “It’s so good. Really. It’s the shit. You’re amazing.”

Buckley stood across from Becca with a finger in the top groove of his ear, running it back and forth. He stared at the gallery floor. “I’m sorry you got struck by lightning.”

Sue waved from across the gallery, calling Becca over. Becca held up a finger to indicate
Just a minute
(as her father used to do), and then she said to Buckley, “I’m sorry your mother died.”

“I like your paintings.” He kept running his finger in the top groove of his ear. “I can’t believe we’re meeting, and you painted these pictures.”

“Thank you for
The Handbook
. I felt like a freak until I read it.”

“You’re not a freak.”

“No one believes you,” she said, “or they act like it didn’t happen.”

“You’re a survivor.”

“Thank you for writing me back.” She was flustered and jumbled. Sue waved again. “Look, I’ll be right back. Don’t go, okay?” But Becca wasn’t right back because she got shuffled from one interested person to the next, and when she looked for Buckley R. Pitank and his bandaged thumb, he was gone.

Buckley rode the train home, thinking it was a bit of good luck meeting Becca Burke, meeting someone who had read his book, meeting her face-to-face. He was hopeful—which he hadn’t been in a very long time—that he would meet her again.

It was a dreary November.

Carmine saw the thin man through the plate glass and unlocked the door. “How’s it going?” he asked. “You want a drink or something?”

The thin man didn’t say anything. He pulled a cassette tape from his back pants pocket and slid it into the tape deck on the bar.

The music started and Carmine said, “What the fuck’s this shit?” When the thin man didn’t answer, Carmine said, “She wanted it, man. I’m telling you. It was mutual.”

The thin man turned the volume up.

In the kitchen, Buckley heard the menus slip one after another like playing cards from the tabletop. He heard Carmine mumbling and the
tap-tap
of menus being restacked. “Hurry the fuck up!” It was after midnight. “I ain’t got time for this shit.”

Buckley dropped the Tupperware bowl of mozzarella trying to seal it shut, and the white brine sloshed across the tiles. He was down on his knees, his fingers milky with cheese, when Carmine called, “Did you mop out here? It doesn’t look like it.” Mr. Damici, Carmine’s father, still didn’t trust Buckley to lock up.

Buckley thought,
Of course I mopped the floor
. Carmine was a real jerk. Buckley tossed the mozzarella balls into the trash and
wiped the floor with a rag. He wasn’t going to mop the kitchen floor again. He checked to make sure the grill was off, and then he heard the music. It was a Jesus and Mary Chain song, “Dark-lands.” He knew the song—had heard it in Mia’s apartment only a week earlier. It was a strange song, Buckley had thought. It was stranger now.

He liked Mia a lot, despite her weird music, like the Jesus and Mary Chain. Despite her punk rock clothes and eccentric friends, like Paulo and Sheila. Mia had taken him to see Lightning Fish. If it weren’t for Mia, he wouldn’t have met Becca Burke or seen that painting with the fish on the beach and the lightning. He was going to get in touch with Becca Burke. Buckley thought,
I’m glad I met Mia. I’m glad she harassed me. I’m
not
glad about Sheila
. Sheila wrote him poetry that didn’t rhyme. She said he was her “dark lord.” He needed to stay clear of her.