The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors (2 page)

The revivalists lingered before driving away to their respective sinful spouses and neighbors—those who hadn’t met Reverend
Whitehouse. They drove with their windows down, the dry Arkansas heat kissing their faces, calling to one another, “You should come for coffee tomorrow,” feeling this kindred spirit that would dwindle as quickly as it came. Mont Blanc was not a friendly town.

Buckley caught the Reverend Whitehouse after the service; or rather the reverend caught Buckley. “What are you doing over there? Come out here, son.” Buckley thought about making a run for it. Instead, he slunk from behind the tree, both hands deep in his pockets. “I said come here.” Reverend Whitehouse was a lanky man in a black suit. He had long arms and a nose bumpy like a summer squash.

The reverend pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his forehead. “You want to make some money?”

It was rare that a grown man took an interest in Buckley. In fact, it had never happened.

“I asked you a question.”

Buckley shrugged.

“Do you or don’t you? This ain’t a trick question. Can’t you speak?”

“I can speak.”

“So what’ll it be? Do you want to make some money?” The reverend blotted his forehead again, leaving a beige stain on the folded kerchief.

“Yeah, I want to.”

“Smart boy.”

Buckley wanted a lot of things, but at the top of his list was for his mother to be happy. It seemed to him that she was always sad. She was a good mom—never a mean word crossed her lips—but like Buckley, she seldom smiled. She was fat, and it was hard for Buckley when they went places to hear people snicker and know she heard it too.

The first night Buckley met the reverend, he tromped along in scuffed cowboy boots beside the towering man over to a Chevy pickup. He could hear people inside the tent and wondered if
they were the reverend’s wife and children. The reverend stuffed a bunch of slick folded garbage bags into Buckley’s hands. “Start over there. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Buckley, sir.”

“All right, Buck.” He handed Buckley a flashlight. Looking down at a grease-smeared popcorn container, the reverend said, “Good Christians don’t litter. They know that I, the Lord’s servant, have more important things to do than pick up their garbage.” The reverend looked to Mrs. Catawall’s big house. “The nice lady who owns this land don’t abide trash in any form.”

“Yes, sir.” Buckley fumbled with the trash bags and the light, leaving all but one bag on the ground beside the truck’s tire so he could find them in the dark.

The reverend shook his head. “I do God’s work. What do you do? Are you in school?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When I was a boy, I missed a lot of school. I spent October and November pulling tobacco, and then it was hard to catch up. Education can spoil a boy.”

“Yes, sir, but our teacher says that …”

The reverend held up his hand. “Don’t back-talk me. I’m hiring you to work. Let’s get to it.”

“Yes, sir.”

In truth, Buckley’s teacher didn’t say much to him. It was actually Buckley’s mother who told him, “Education makes a man. Ignorant people don’t count for much.” Buckley’s teacher wrote math problems and vocabulary words on the chalkboard. She collected papers, most of which she never marked, and sat at her desk filing her nails.

Buckley couldn’t even fill the first garbage bag, finding two deflated balloons, thirty or so cigarette butts (some stained with lipstick), and a few hard candy wrappers. He said, “This is all I can find.”

“Keep looking.”

For good measure, Buckley threw some twigs and dead brush in the bag. He didn’t want to disappoint the reverend.

“Let’s get out of here,” the reverend said.

Buckley picked up the leftover garbage bags, wondering if despite his light trash haul this man was going to pay him as he’d said he would. Then again, it didn’t really matter. He hadn’t had anything better to do. It was August. There was no school. Still, his mom had taught him that
you judge a man by his word
, and the man had sure enough mentioned money.

“I’ll give you a lift home,” the reverend said.

“That’s all right. I don’t live far.” Buckley hiked up his pants. They were from a secondhand shop his grandmother frequented. She bought everything two sizes too big, thinking the clothes would last longer, not caring that Buckley looked like a clown.

“Get in.” The Reverend Whitehouse climbed into the pickup, and Buckley, who did as he was told, followed suit. “So how old are you?”

“Eight, sir. I don’t live far. I can walk.”

“Nonsense.”

Buckley pulled the door shut. He did not want the reverend to come to his house. Even if he was getting paid, he didn’t want the reverend to see his mother. Somehow seeing her gave strangers an advantage over him. He wondered if the empty blue and orange boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese were still stacked in a pyramid on the kitchen table, a testament to her obesity. His grandmother had said last night, “I’ve had enough of this, Abby,” and then his mother had boiled another pot of water on the old gas stove with the timer that no longer timed, and his grandmother swiped the box, adding it to her pyramid. Buckley couldn’t help but think his Grandmother Winter liked his mom fat. Even if she said different, it gave her an advantage.

“You can drop me here.”

“Is that your house?”

“It’s not far.”

“Nonsense, son. I’ll drive you home.” The Reverend Whitehouse tousled Buckley’s coarse locks. His hair was dark like his mother’s.

“Please just drop me here.”

Reverend Whitehouse pulled the truck over in front of a white cinder-block house—Mrs. Smith’s house, not Buckley’s. His house was a pea green cinder block. Mrs. Smith was on the front porch, smoking a cigarette. “Is that you, Buckley?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sweating, he turned to the reverend. “Thanks.”

“No, son. Thank you. Hope you and yours can make it next Saturday.” The reverend reached under the seat for his wallet. He pulled out one crisp dollar bill, then another, popping each one like the money was precious to him, like it had to be displayed. “It’d be good to see you there,” he said, laying each bill out on the passenger’s seat side by side, like a game of solitaire. “You take that, all right?”

Did this man expect him
not
to take the money, to offer it back to God? Was this some kind of test? “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” Buckley crammed the bills into his pants pocket and ran from the truck. He saw the light from the truck illuminating the black road, his baggy shadow, the diamonds in the road, the trees far up ahead, his own house. He ran as fast as he could. Breathless, with his two dollars tucked away, he pulled open the screen door. He might buy a new GI Joe. He might buy a whole slew of balsa-wood planes and crash them. He liked the sound of the cracking wood, and when they didn’t break, which was rare, he smashed them with his palm or his cowboy boot.
Man down. There’s a man down
.

“What’s with you?” his grandmother asked.

His mother sat in front of the TV. “You missed
Hogan’s Heroes
. There’s ice cream.”

Buckley loved ice cream, but if he had to choose between his mother and ice cream, he’d never eat another spoonful. No contest. He’d decided that long ago, back when he first started weighing
how much he loved his mother against everything else in the world. She came first. He went to the cupboard for a bowl.

She said, “It’s after ten,” and then Buckley heard a knock at the screen door, his mother struggling to rise from the tattered recliner, the twang of springs, his grandmother saying, “Oh, we didn’t know Buckley got a ride home this evening.” Buckley, frozen in the kitchen with an empty brown bowl in his hand, knew the reverend was at his door, and he knew this gave the man an advantage.

Becca’s mother was drinking more than ever, smoking skinny brown cigarettes, forgetting whole conversations. Her dad stayed late in the garage. He had a passion for cars—which was one of the best things about him. Becca liked the heat from the engines on her knees and the wind tangling her hair. Everybody said her dad looked like Cary Grant. Even her mom. Her dad said Becca’s mother was from Podunk so she was lucky to have landed him. He had heritage and good taste.

They fought a lot. According to her dad, he was being “screwed.” Her mom was “a sot,” and he nightly complained about a man, Mark Cusemeo, whom Becca didn’t know. This man was “getting tenure” and he was a “moron from Plano, Texas.” Becca knew what the word
moron
meant, but she didn’t know about tenure or why her dad wanted it.

Becca’s father was a Burke: Rowan Augustus Burke. Having ties and roots, Rowan didn’t like anything nouveau. He counted Dr. Cusemeo “nouveau academic.” Becca knew a little French, including
nouveau
is “new” because her babysitter Millie taught her. She knew too that her grandmother had “family” money. It was spent now, but her dad said that wealth was about attitude: a man’s social standing, his home, his history. Mark Cusemeo, according to Rowan, had no history. Becca guessed her dad liked old British cars because they weren’t nouveau.

Becca’s mother disagreed with Rowan about Mark Cusemeo.
She said that Rowan spent too much time “chasing skirts” when he should be schmoozing the department chair. Becca knew what chasing a skirt meant, like Fonzie on
Happy Days
, but pretended not to know. It was better that way.

Today her dad drove Becca to Bobbie’s department store to buy a new watch. She picked a Winnie-the-Pooh watch with flowers for hands. She also selected a brown and beige dog from the shelves of stuffed animals. Then she saw Colin Atwell and turned away. She knew him from first grade, where, on a double dare, he’d eaten glue on his hot dog. Then she heard that he was put in a special class. For glue eaters, social misfits, she supposed. Colin still had crazy blond hair, like he’d stuck his finger in a light socket.

“Hi, Rebecca,” he said.

She looked at her shoes. He ate glue! Who knew what else he ate?

He grabbed the stuffed dog from her arms—“You still have a lot of freckles”—and tossed it in the air like a football.

“Who’s your little boyfriend?” her dad asked.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

Colin said, “I’m nobody’s boyfriend.” He held the stuffed dog out for Becca to see. “The nose is ripped. Get a different one.”

“I don’t want a different one.” She reached for the dog.

“He’s right,” her dad said. “Pick a different one.”

“I want him!” She grabbed the dog from Colin. “Mom can fix him.”

“Get a different one,” her dad said. “The paw is ripped too. There’s stuffing coming out.”

Becca said, “But if I don’t buy him, who will? I want him.” She held the stuffed dog to her chest.

Colin said, “You’re spoiled.”

“No, I’m not.” She looked around, wondering why Colin seemed to be alone. “Where’s your mom?”

Colin yanked the dog from Becca, throwing it to the retail
carpeting. “You’re stupid!” With his knockoff Nikes, he stomped the stuffed dog. Becca picked the animal up.
What is wrong with that boy?
She and her dad watched Colin Atwell run away, tumbling into a rack of clothes and sending blouse hangers clacking to the floor.

Brushing off the dog, Becca said, “We have to get this stuffed animal.”

Rowan said, “Your little friend is odd.”

“He’s not my friend.”

“You said that before. That’s good.” Inspecting the stuffed dog, he said, “Sure, we can get him.”

Becca was happy. Later, she’d recall this day as one of her fondest childhood memories.

Carrie Drinkwater rang the Burkes’ doorbell at seven-thirty in the morning. She had straggly blond hair and a grape Kool-Aid smile. She wore cutoff Levi’s and a San Francisco 49ers T-shirt with a faded tomato stain. She’d been going from house to house since sunrise, looking for kids her own age. Like Becca, she was lonely, dependent on her imagination for company.

Standing on the front stoop in her pajamas, Becca said, “Do you want some Frosted Flakes?”

Carrie didn’t particularly like cold breakfast cereal, but said sure. At the table, she explained, “We moved here a month ago.” Milk dripped down her chin.

“Have you met anybody?”

“Colin Atwell.”

Becca said, “I hate Colin Atwell.” Then, trying to impress Carrie, she said, “My neighbor Bob has a cheating whore wife. That’s what my mom calls her.”

“Your mom said that to her face?”

“Not to her face.”

“Do whores get money?”

“I think so. But sluts don’t.”

“I can’t believe you said you hate Colin Atwell. His mom ran away with a Harley-Davidson biker.” Changing the subject, she said, “I moved here from Florida.”

Becca said, “She couldn’t have run away.”
Grown-ups don’t run away
.

“It’s true. Colin’s dad told my dad. They work together, and when we went to their house for this barbecue, there were pictures of her everywhere. Colin’s dad thinks she’s going to come back, but she’s been gone for two years, so my dad said she isn’t coming back. Anyway, my dad said I have to be nice to Colin, and when I asked Colin if his mom really ran away from home, he said yes. He was sad.”

“I’ll get dressed.” Becca left her cornflakes on the table. She felt guilty. If she’d known about Colin’s mom, she never would’ve asked him “Where’s your mom?” How could she have known? She didn’t think adults did such things. “Come on,” she said to Carrie, who followed her upstairs. As an afterthought, Becca said, “Hey, I got struck by lightning.”