The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors (37 page)

Mary picked up the telephone. “Hello.” Silence. “Hello.” She thought,
Fucking telemarketers
.

“Mrs. Burke.”

“Can I help you?”

“It’s Carrie. Um, Carrie Drinkwater.”

“How are you, Carrie?”

“I’m all right. I was actually calling to see how Becca’s doing.”

On March 25, 1995, Carrie Drinkwater Kingsley drafted and redrafted a letter to her old friend Becca Burke. The letter she finally sent read:

In New York, Becca read and reread Carrie’s letter before picking up the phone and calling her.

“Hello.”

Becca heard the TV in the background.

“It’s Becca.”

Carrie tried not to cry, not right away at least, but succumbed just the same. Then Becca started. They talked about their lives, the highs and lows. Becca talked about her art. They laughed about stupid Kevin Richfield. Carrie said, “I hate that guy.”

Becca said, “Yeah. Me too.”

“I can’t wait for you to meet Alice.”

“Me either.”

It was like they’d never been apart, except there was a new person, a next generation, in their midst.

Becca handed her mother a paint roller. Her father leaned against the plate-glass front of the Seaside Gallery. “Can I help?”

“We’ve got it,” Becca said.

Between rolling zigzag strips of white paint on the gallery wall, Becca gawked at eight-year-old Alice, the spitting image of Carrie at Alice’s age. Becca still remembered that first day she met Carrie, her insta-friend, the little girl with the grape Kool-Aid smile, the little girl Becca had loved more than anyone.

Alice bounced a rubber ball on the concrete floor and blew a pink bubble, which popped on her bottom lip.

Rowan said to Carrie, “I could take Alice to get an ice cream next door.” The Seaside Gallery was in a strip mall on Beach Road. It was not what Becca expected, but Peggy, the owner, was only
taking thirty percent and she promised a good turnout, a good crowd. She was nothing like Sue in Soho. She said, “This is your show. It goes how you want. You’re in charge.” Becca swept an annoying curl from her face.

“Can I, Mom?” Alice asked. “Can I get some ice cream?”

“Sure.” Carrie dug into her shorts’ pocket.

“It’s on me.” Becca’s dad pulled the door open. “I like butter pecan.”

“I like mint chocolate chip.”

“Becca liked mint chocolate chip.”

Becca thought,
You liked mint chocolate chip. I liked vanilla
.

After the door closed behind Alice and Rowan, Becca cleared her throat and said, “I can’t believe he’s fucking here.”

“That’s your dad,” Mary said.

“This is why I didn’t want to do this. It’s got to be his thing.”

Carrie said, “He’s not so bad. I think he wants another chance.”

“A little too late.”

Mary didn’t say it, but she thought
, It’s never too late, Becca. Never
. She wasn’t thinking about herself and Rowan. It was much too late for them, but for Becca and her father, there was still time. Mary wished her own father had made some effort. Anything. Even if she hadn’t forgiven him, to know that he had tried would mean something. But he hadn’t.

Rowan, like Becca, thought it was a little too late. He was old. There were no more chances. His daughter didn’t approve of or like him, and he knew it. When he looked at his own life now, he felt regret. He wondered
What if?
every day. What if he had stayed at UNC? What if he’d tried to work things out with Mary? What if he’d spent more time with Becca? What if he hadn’t slept with Victoria the attorney? He’d still have his Patty-Cake. He pined for that woman.

Every day, he felt like crying.

His therapist said, “
What if
gets you nowhere, Rowan,” but Rowan couldn’t help it.

His therapist said, “You have your photographs,” but Rowan countered, “My claim to fame is Atkins and Thames. I caused the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands, of smokers. After all, it was
my
additive. No mistaking that.”

His therapist said, “You can’t beat yourself up,” but Rowan didn’t know how to stop. He got up every morning, took his prescribed antianxiety medication, and tried to feel better. The pills only made things bearable. Besides, his need for the drugs was the ultimate weakness. Rowan would agree with Becca: It’s too late.
I ought to start smoking
.

The caterers were late the Friday night of the opening.

In a yellow daisy sundress, Becca paced the concrete floor. It never got easier. The jitters were always there.

In South Nags Head, Buckley fumbled with his tie. Paddy John looked at Buckley in the mirror. He untied and retied Buckley’s tie, his wrinkled hands working the yellow silk. He said, “I’m eager to meet your friend.”

“She’s not really my friend.”

“She sounds like a friend.”

Buckley said, “She read my book. She’s a lightning strike survivor. I told you that.”

When Buckley read that Rebecca Burke, “a successful painter from New York,” was showing her work at the Seaside Gallery in Kill Devil Hills, he could not believe it. Joan and Sissy were visiting from Galveston. Buckley told them about meeting Rebecca in New York, about her wonderful paintings of the fish and lightning. “She wrote to me,” he told them over and over.

Paddy John turned Buckley to see himself in the mirror. “You are a handsome young man.”

Thirty-six-year-old Buckley touched the silk tie. “I look a lot better than the last time I met her.”

“You look good.”

Paddy John wore a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. He was too old to dress up for anybody. Buckley didn’t mind.

He and Paddy John could hear Sissy and Joan Holt in the living room, quarreling over who should drive. Sissy was saying, “I’ll drive,” and Joan Holt was saying, “I’m tired of riding around with you. You’re like to kill me. Let Paddy John drive.”

“I’m a good driver,” Sissy said.

“Says who?”

Buckley and Paddy John laughed. Buckley said, “You should drive.”

At the Seaside Gallery, Becca’s paintings were hung with wire from picture molding. Her father said to her, “This is my favorite collection.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“It’s like your soul’s in the paint.”

“What did you say?”

“Your soul: It’s in the paint.” He pointed to one of her paintings, a graphite drawing of a man washed with turpentine, faint splashes of yellow ochre, and sap green.

Becca said, “I’m going to get some air.”

“Let me know if I can do anything to help.”

Outside the gallery, Carrie was smoking a cigarette. “You doing okay?”

Becca took a smoke from Carrie’s pack. “I don’t get the big sudden interest in my life. I can’t deal with my father.”

“Do you have to get it? He’s taking an interest.”

Becca’s father knocked on the glass to let Becca and Carrie know that the caterers had arrived. At the same time, Becca’s mother and Peggy entered the gallery through the back door.

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?