The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors (13 page)

In fact, Charlie Zuchowski, a dark-headed thirteen-year-old boy with premature stubble on his chin, had far more than the March 1970 Barbi Benton pictorial. He had every
Playboy
from 1968 to the current October issue. His father was a
Playboy
collector. Charlie said his dad was a connoisseur of the ladies. Buckley pretended to know what that meant. Charlie pulled three issues, including his favorite, from his dad’s bedside drawer. “My dad said I can look whenever I want.”

They drank Cokes in Charlie’s faux-wood-paneled den. They crouched on the shag carpeting. Charlie, Buckley, and Charlie’s best friend, Eddie Smart, flipped from one page to the next until Buckley had seen all nine amazing, beauteous shots of Barbi Benton, including the centerfold. “She is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah,” agreed Charlie.

“I’d do it to her,” said Eddie. Eddie said he’d do it to everybody.

“No you wouldn’t.” Charlie got up from the shag and walked into the adjoining sunroom. “Buckley, Eddie says he’s not a virgin.”

“Because I’m not.”

“Eddie said he did it with Theresa’s mom.” Charlie began to laugh.

“I did.”

“Did you?” asked Buckley, pulling at the waist loop of his hip-hugger jeans.

“Yeah, I did. I gave it to her.” Eddie thrust his hips forward. “And she was screaming, ‘Oh, Eddie. Oh, Eddie!’”

“Tell Buckley the rest.” Charlie stood in the doorway between the sunroom and the den, his pinkish hands pressed into the sides of the archway. The afternoon sun lit the top of his chestnut hair, casting Buckley and Eddie in shadow.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Theresa’s mom had been drinking.”

“Tell Buckley how much she’d been drinking.”

“She was drunk. So what! It still counts.” Charlie laughed again, and Buckley joined in, smacking his palm on the carpeting for emphasis. It was funny. “Does she remember doing it with you?” Buckley guessed Mrs. Cormier, Theresa’s mom, was no Barbi Benton. Buckley rose from the shag and high-fived Charlie. “I’m no virgin.”

“I’d rather be a virgin.” Charlie shook his head in disgust.

Eddie said, “Flamehead’s got a thing for Buckley.”

“Marty Bascott?” Buckley asked.

“I heard she was going to invite you over today.”

“She did, but I told her I was coming over here.” Charlie and Eddie both said, “You should’ve gone there. She goes to second base.” Buckley felt ignorant. He didn’t know what second base was.

Eddie said, “I like older, more experienced girls.”

“Like old ladies,” Charlie added. “Old, drunk ladies.”

Buckley had no retort, only regret. Flamehead was pretty. Maybe she’d ask him over again.

Mr. Zuchowski, Charlie’s dad, arrived home at six, and after his standard martini (the man was a big Hugh Hefner fan), he took the boys to Tony’s Pizzeria on Seawall Boulevard.

Buckley stuffed his face with pepperoni pizza.

Mr. Zuchowski ate a salad. He said, “What did you boys do today?”

Charlie said, “I told Buckley about Eddie’s drunk sex with Mrs. Cormier.”

Mr. Zuchowski nodded. “It’s a good story.” Buckley felt queasy. It seemed weird that a grown man should know about a boy having sex with a divorcée and act like it was no big deal.

Eddie said, “She liked it. It doesn’t matter that she was drunk. Next time I do it with her, I’ll make sure she’s sober.”

Mr. Zuchowski laughed. “Be sure and take pictures.” Turning to his son, Charlie, he said, “When you turn fifteen, I’ll take you to Trina’s. We’ll take Buckley too. There’s no point in taking Eddie since he’s got so much experience already.” Trina’s was a whorehouse. Everybody in Galveston knew Trina’s.

Without thinking, Buckley said, “Don’t take me.”

Mr. Zuchowski nodded. “Don’t worry, Buckley. It’ll be all right. We won’t force you to go.”

But why wouldn’t he go? What was there to fear? There might be a girl at Trina’s who looked like bubbly Barbi Benton. She’d fall in love with Buckley and leave Trina’s behind. Buckley sipped his Coke. It was incredible that after a lifetime of worrying about his mother’s health and safety, of worrying about the reverend humiliating him, of worrying about the bullies at school beating the shit out of him, of worrying that Winter would scream at him,
this
was now his biggest fear: embarrassing himself at a whore house. Life was good.

Some people, like Paddy John’s son, Tide McGowan, get lost in the filthy crevices of life, and they never get found—at least not whole. Sitting across from him, Abigail Pitank recognized Tide’s position, as if dog fur and dust clung to his very being, not just his clothes. As he talked incessantly about his mother, Abigail worried that he’d already suffered too much damage to recover. There was something in the way he spoke quickly, manically, as if
at any second, this scene, the four of them sitting in the Sizzler, could implode. Tide said, “Judy from
The Jetsons
is just like my mom. Her name’s Judy, like Judy Jetson. Judy. Have you ever seen
The Wizard of Oz
? Judy Garland stars in that as Dorothy.” Tide’s face was slick from buttered hush puppies.

Buckley sipped his Coke from a straw. Why were they at the Sizzler? Reverend Whitehouse had liked the Sizzler.

Padraig John put his arm around Abigail.

“Where’s Judy now?” Buckley asked Tide.

Abigail shot him a disapproving look.

“On TV.”

“What show’s she on?” Buckley pressed.

Abigail said, “That’s enough.”

Tide stuffed a hush puppy in his pocket. Padraig John said, “I think she’s still taking acting classes.”

“That’s right,” Tide said, reaching over the table. To Abigail he said, “Are you going to eat your hush puppies?”

Buckley looked disgustedly at Tide.

“No, sweetheart.”

Tide stuffed them and her packets of margarine in his pockets. “After my mom finishes her acting classes, she’ll probably get a part on a soap opera like
Days of Our Lives
. She’s always watched that show, and I’ve seen her practice the lines.”

“Where does she take acting classes?” Buckley asked, knowing full well that Tide’s mother was somewhere getting stoned or what ever it was junkies did. He wasn’t sure if they used needles or snorted or what kind of drug they took, only that Tide’s mom was a junkie.

Tide said, “She’s close by. She hates for us to be far apart. When she moves to Hollywood, I’ll go with her.”

Paddy John said, “I’ll get the check.”

Abigail said to Buckley, “It’s rude to pry into someone’s business. You don’t need to pester Tide with so many questions.”

“Sorry, Tide,” Buckley said. “Sorry, Mom.”

Tide said, “It’s okay. I like talking about my mom.” He pulled a hush puppy from his pocket and took a bite before putting it back.

Since Judy McGowan, Paddy’s former wife, had disappeared, leaving behind a few possessions, some tattered furniture, some black-and-white photographs, a thawed turkey on the kitchen floor, and Tide, her son, Tide had moved into Paddy John’s home. It was a small one-bedroom apartment, but it was clean, which Tide appreciated. Afraid to sleep alone, he slept with Paddy John, insisting the door remain open, the hallway and bathroom lights lit. Tide was terrified of the dark. Paddy John had called social services, not to find a more suitable home for Tide, but because, having experienced the trauma of war, he could tell that his son had been traumatized in his former wife’s care. On the phone, he explained, “The boy needs someone to talk to.”

“We’ll send a caseworker out as soon as one’s available.” Months passed. Still no social worker.

Tide hoarded food such as hush puppies, apples, American cheese, and bologna beneath his pillow. Every day, Paddy John threw the rancid food away, took the pillowcases to the laundromat, and tried reassuring his son: “There’s plenty to eat. Hell, my girlfriend works at a restaurant, and if worse comes to worst, there’s an ocean full of fish out there, and I’m a hell of a fisherman. Please don’t worry.”

In kindergarten, Tide volunteered to pick the other students’ lunch trays up from their desks. He stuffed his pants with their discarded rolls and butter packets. He ate the rolls he’d saved after Padraig John was asleep, or he hid them beneath his pillow. Padraig John, unsure how to handle the situation, returned to the laundromat. It was pretty clear that Tide hadn’t been well fed while he was in Judy’s care. When Paddy John asked about life with Judy, Tide said, “It was fine.” He wouldn’t talk about what ever it was he’d
endured. After consulting the school guidance counselor and Tide’s teachers, Paddy John was told that it might be years before Tide was willing or capable of discussing his past. It wasn’t much comfort to Paddy John, who wanted his son to be happy. When he asked Tide, “How are you feeling today?” Tide answered, “Fine.”

He always claimed to be fine, despite his food hoarding, fear of the dark, and elevation of his junkie mother to famous Hollywood actress status.

Across town, on the waterfront in a dilapidated red-curtained house, Judy McGowan squirted baby oil into her palm. She massaged Charlie Zuchowski’s dad, Mr. Zuchowski, starting with his shoulders. She said, “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

It didn’t. Mr. Zuchowski felt sorry for and simultaneously disgusted by Judy. They’d gone to high school together, and now she was seriously messed up—not even the kind of girl he wanted rubbing his back, let alone anything else. Her face was sallow. Her hands were bony and cold. The heater was on the fritz. He felt cold all over. “Just stop,” he said, getting to his knees and taking a seat on the table.

“Do you want me to suck you off now?” she asked.

“I don’t want you to touch me.” He’d have to tell Trina that this was not the kind of trash he expected when he came to her establishment.

Judy said, “Didn’t we go to high school together?”

“I don’t think so. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like some privacy, please.”

“Sure thing.”

Colin Atwell was in Becca’s reading, math, social studies, and art classes. He was still weird, but he liked art. Becca liked art. Her teacher, Mrs. Fairaday, said Becca’s self-portrait was “the most compelling” she’d seen in her sixteen years as a middle school art teacher. In Becca’s painting, red flames shot from her eyes, and the top of her head opened like a lid. Mrs. Fairaday even suggested Becca attend an artist’s summer camp, to which Becca’s mother said no. The first image that sprang to Mary’s mind was from the sixties: flower children high on god knows what, smeared with psychedelic body paints. No, Becca would not attend an artist’s summer camp. Becca knew that there was no point arguing with her mother, who was irrational and paranoid.

Despite no artist’s camp, the summer passed quickly. Becca had a knapsack for her charcoals and sketchpad and spent most days drawing the beauty she saw everywhere in Chapel Hill. It seemed better to sketch and shade without instruction, which stifled the imagination.

Today, Colin Atwell was joining her. In the sunshine, her hair streaked gold, Becca waited for Colin on the green lawn of Polk Place. The sun was high in the October sky. She gnawed a pencil, the yellow flaking away. He was late. She knew he might not show at all. That’s partly why she waited—to see if he would. She sat Indian-style and wrote his name,
Colin Atwell
, in her sketchbook. She was a sixth-grader now.

Colin flicked her in the back of the neck before dropping onto the lawn. Forever flicking her in the back of the neck and knocking the back of her knee with his knee so that she wobbled on the bleachers during chorus, he called her “Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.” He shot rubber bands at her when Mrs. Creighton, the chorus teacher, wasn’t looking, and he pretended to dislike Becca because he thought that was how boys got girls to like them. Basically, like many little boys, he was clueless.

She grabbed the back of her neck. “That hurt!”

“No it didn’t.” Grabbing Becca’s sketchbook and rolling onto his back, he stretched one hand toward Becca.

“Don’t do it.”

“What?” With two fingers, he poked her in the waist.

“I’m not ticklish. I told you.”

He mimicked, “I’m not ticklish. I told you,” and rolled onto his stomach. “Are you going to the homecoming dance?”

“Maybe.” Sometimes she went to Richmond with her dad when he had meetings with Atkins and Thames. Hardly teaching anymore, he said he was successful now. Becca couldn’t tell a difference.

“Keep still,” Colin said. “I’ll draw you.” He wanted to make her look the way she looked to him—bright, explosive, inviting, alluring—but he couldn’t, so out of frustration he drew a snot-nosed monster.

Becca posed, squinting in the sunlight at the magnolias that blurred. The sun blazed in the viburnum and japonica, and she’d forgotten her sunglasses. This morning she’d applied two layers of pink lip gloss and her mom’s blue eye shadow. She had this feeling that Colin was going to make a move and kiss her. He might ask, “Will you go with me?” and she might say yes because even though he was no Kevin Richfield, he genuinely liked her drawings and paintings. He said the right things, knowing what she meant, what she thought, what she felt when she made art; saying
things like “The texture here is perfect,” “You used the right shade of yellow. It makes it soft,” “This is wonderful. It’s my favorite painting because it’s like you pieced yourself inside it.” She probably would “go with him.” She’d kiss him too—if he tried. They’d hold hands and walk the main hall at school. A boy who knew and loved art, even if he was weird—and Colin was weird—was good enough for her.

He passed back her sketchbook. “You like it?”

“No!”

“What’s the matter, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm?”

“You’re not funny.” She got up, clutching the sketchbook to her chest.

“I was just kidding.”

“You drew an ugly monster! Is that what you think I am?”