The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors (33 page)

Buckley still had to wrap and label the other cheeses, the leftover spinach, and the asparagus. He shouted, “I need ten more minutes,” but Carmine didn’t answer. Buckley liked the song “Darklands,” but he couldn’t imagine why Carmine was listening to it. It was no secret that Carmine liked classic rock like Led Zeppelin and Jethro Tull. Buckley had worked for the Damicis long enough to know the tastes of everyone in the family. “There’s no album better than
Houses of the Holy
,” Carmine had told Buckley a month ago when Buckley was closing up.

“Do you like the Pixies?” Buckley had asked. Mia and her friends liked them. So did Buckley.

“Is that faggot music?”

Buckley had resumed sweeping.

Tonight, Carmine was listening to the Jesus and Mary Chain and Buckley was rushing so Carmine wouldn’t knock him in the back of the head with an open palm. Carmine had picked up his father’s habits of endearment. Buckley put the spinach away, checked the stove one more time, and flipped the light switch. Then he heard the pop. Not a loud pop, but a muffled pop like
one firework exploding far away. With his apron still in his hand, he ran into the dining room. There was a tall thin man, scruffy-faced, bedraggled, no more than twenty-five, thirty at most, pointing a handgun at the air where Carmine had presumably stood, and Carmine was dead and bloody on the floor with a hole in his new Louis Vuitton shirt, a hole just above where his heart would be. Buckley thought,
Treat the apparently dead first
. The music still played. The gunman, who wore leather driving gloves, turned to Buckley.

Buckley thought,
I am going to die. I am going to die
, and part of him thought,
Finally. Finally
. It had come to this: He would die in a restaurant on the Upper West Side of Manhattan at the age of thirty. He was ready.

The gunman said, “He raped my sister,” and unscrewing the silencer from the gun, set the pistol and the silencer on the bar beside the gold-tasseled menus. “Carmine raped my little sister.”

Buckley said, “The night deposit bag is beside the register.”

“I don’t want money.”

Buckley was a witness to a murder. He was going to die.

“My sister’s name is Margaret.”

Strange as it might sound, Buckley said, “That’s a pretty name.”

“She’s a pretty girl.” The killer with the sister named Margaret picked his gun and silencer up, and Buckley closed his eyes.

“I got no beef with you,” the shooter said.

Buckley opened his eyes.

The shooter secured the gun in the waist of his jeans, exposing his thin torso. With his trigger-happy hand, he stopped the cassette deck and slid the Jesus and Mary Chain tape into the back pocket of his jeans—from whence it had come. He shrugged as he picked up the night deposit bag:
That’s not why I’m here, but sure, I’ll take it
.

The shooter left the way he’d come in—through the front door.

• • •

Frank Damici shouted, “Why Carmine and not you?! You’re fucking worthless! A waste of life. A waste of breath, you fuck!” He slugged a shot of something dark and slammed the glass on the bar, and one of the detectives, an older man, said, “Frank, it’s not his fault.”

Another detective said, “This is a goddamn crime scene, Mark! Take it outside. Now!”

The restaurant was framed with yellow police tape, much in the same way that Carmine Damici’s body had been framed with white chalk on the floor of the restaurant, and Buckley was taken to the Twenty-fourth Precinct, where he was questioned by Detectives Jones and Smith (
really
, Jones and Smith). The two men whispered five feet from where Buckley sat at a table alone. Jones folded his arms. He said, “The guy’s a little slow.”

Smith said, “What is it they call it? Functionally retarded?”

“My wife teaches those kids. It’s
educated
mental retardates.”

“He’s slow.”

Jones patted Buckley’s back and then both detectives sat down, asking Buckley again if he wanted some coffee. No, he didn’t drink coffee, but he wouldn’t mind a candy bar. “Something with nougat.”

Smith said, “We can do that.” He got Buckley a Zero bar from the vending machine.

Jones and Smith asked the same questions over and over, including “Do you like your job?” “Is the candy bar all right?” “Do you like your boss, Frank Damici?” “How long have you worked for Frank?” “Where you from?” “What exactly did you see?” “What’d you hear?” “Tell us again what you were doing when you heard the shot.” “Take us through step by step.” “Can we get you a glass of water?” “So, you heard music and then a shot?” “What’s the Jesus and Mary Chain?”

Buckley’s answers to the police included the following: “I’ve worked for Frank and his family for eight years. Since 1981. Carmine and I were friends.” “I heard this music, this song by the
Jesus and Mary Chain, which was strange because Carmine likes classic rock, and then I heard the shot and when I ran into the restaurant, he was there on the floor, shot in the chest. When I opened the front door, I saw this person in a black overcoat running away. I was going to chase after him, but I knew I needed to call an ambulance.” “The candy bar was good.” “I didn’t know what to do. Did I do the right thing? Can I have a glass of water?”

“How do you know our shooter is a him?”

“I think it’s a him, but I don’t know. The shooter was tall.”

“How tall? What color was his hair?”

“Not like a giant or anything. It was dark. I don’t know the hair color.”

“So the shooter played the music? Is that some kind of punk rock stuff?”

“I don’t know.”

Buckley heard Jones whispering to Smith, “Carmine’s a known heroin user and small-time distributor.”

“Frank’s boy?” Smith shook his head. “Fucking unbelievable. You give your kids everything, you know.”

Jones said, “The shooter took the night’s deposit.”

“Why would a drug dealer play a tape and walk through the front door? It doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t.”

Carmine was not a junkie. He was a cokehead. Frank Damici didn’t know. He thought Carmine drank too much espresso. That’s all.

Carmine Damici’s funeral, an elaborate two-day affair, was held at St. Michael’s Cathedral. Buckley would have wished as much for his mother or Clementine, but then again, maybe not. Carmine, like the others, was dead, and dead is dead.

On Friday night, Buckley sat in a back pew for the prayer vigil, where Frank Damici eulogized his own son, and the Damici clan, five dozen or so, along with their friends and friends of friends, packed the cathedral. Frank said nice things about his son
Carmine, like “He was a good boy,” and then the crowd hushed, so the first person heard to cry out was Carmine’s mother, Christina Damici.

On Saturday morning, with the silver mesh trash cans spilling over onto the sidewalks, the sky gray, Buckley walked thirty-six blocks to Carmine’s funeral liturgy. He watched row after row rise and take Communion. He had to shift in his seat to let the good Catholic mourners pass, and he waited in the pew with the little kids who were not yet old enough for their First Communion, for the Body and Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ. A little girl in his pew, maybe five or six years old, went, “Psst, psst.” Buckley looked at her. She said, “Your hair looks funny.” He felt the top of his head, and sure enough, a tuft of his thick brown hair was sticking straight up. He smoothed it with his hand, and whispered back, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He didn’t understand the singing or the organ music, but it was nice in a dark way, much like that band the Jesus and Mary Chain. He thought the Reverend Whitehouse could’ve learned something about reverence from the Catholics. He wondered if the reverend had ever been to a Catholic Mass before.

He did not follow the body of Carmine Damici or the Damici family to the cemetery, because when Frank Damici saw him in the cathedral, he shouted from his pew at the front of the church, “It should’ve been you! It should’ve been you!” and the siblings of Carmine Damici had to physically restrain their father. Mrs. Christina Damici wept louder. Frank Damici was still shouting, “It should’ve been you.”

Buckley left the church. Even outside on the front steps, he could hear Frank Damici wailing: “It should’ve been you!”

Buckley didn’t think so. Not this time.

He walked home and finished packing.

The police questioned him once more. “More of a formality than anything else,” they explained. “For Frank. For the family.”

Jones said, “We talked to Frank. He said you couldn’t have done it. You’re not a killer. He did say …” But Buckley could imagine what else Frank Damici had said, and Jones didn’t finish the sentence. Rather, he smacked Buckley on the back and winked at Smith.

Two days after leaving the Twenty-fourth Precinct for the last time, Buckley called Rebecca Burke, even though he hardly knew her. He left a message on her answering machine: “This is Buckley Pitank. I wrote
The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors
. We met at Sue’s in Soho. I’m, uh …” he stuttered, and wished he hadn’t called. “I’m uh … leaving New York today. I’m going to Wanchese. You probably don’t know where that is. It’s in North Carolina.” The message was already too long. “If you’re ever there, I mean in Wanchese, not North Carolina. Wanchese is on the coast. It’s a fishing village. It’s supposed to be nice.” The answering machine beeped and shut off. He called back, “Just, if you’re ever there, in Wanchese, give me a call.”

Buckley hugged Mia goodbye in the stairwell. He said, “Take care of yourself,” knowing full well that she could never understand the gravity of those four words:
Take Care of Yourself
. He told Mia that she could have what ever she wanted from his apartment, and then Buckley R. Pitank left the Bronx, his home for eight years, with one red and black checkered suitcase.

Buckley took a bus from the Port Authority to Elizabeth City, North Carolina, and slept most of the way. He woke in a sticky, dry-mouthed fog here and there and thought about the song “Darklands.” He had been to those lands. He had walked there among the “river of disease” where heaven is too close to hell, and he was tired from the darkness. He couldn’t save Carmine. No one could, and he had no doubt that Carmine had raped that man’s sister. Carmine had probably done much worse in the eight years Buckley had known him. Buckley thought
, I lied to the police. I let a murderer go free. I saved a man’s life. My mother would be proud
.

At one point, as the bus headed south down I-95, an old
woman’s silver-haired head wobbled onto his shoulder, her temple heavy and furrowed. He didn’t care. Buckley fell back asleep. Fifty miles west of Elizabeth City, he woke again—this time to the sound of rain. At first just metallic pitter-patters, drip-drops, like a spring rain falling on an old tin roof. Clementine’s roof. But then a full-on tempest, and the old silver-haired woman, awake now, saying her Rosary, ran the tiny red beads through her wrinkled fingers. The wind blew the rain in sheets from the west, as if God stood on the ground hurling pellets at Buckley’s window.

The streets in Elizabeth City were flooded with a foot of water, and the bus seemed more like a boat to Buckley than an automobile on tires and road. He felt the rushing water beneath his feet through the rubber-covered floorboard, and he wondered for a moment if he’d die on a bus. His mother died with one foot on a boat. He didn’t want to die.
Revelation
: He did not want to die.

Despite the flood, Paddy John was there at the Elizabeth City bus depot, water pooling on and dripping off the rim of his canvas hat. He shook Buckley’s hand. Tide also reached for Buckley’s hand, but Buckley, overwhelmed from his long journey or maybe by seeing Tide all grown up, pulled Tide to him and gave him a hug. Tide smelled of bourbon.

Buckley released Tide, patting his back. “I never would’ve recognized you.”

The three men, sopping wet and quiet, walked in the dark evening across the parking lot to Paddy John’s pickup. Buckley sat between Paddy John and Tide. As they passed the green mileage sign on Route 158 indicating
WANCHESE 27 MI
., Buckley said, “I meant to tell you a long time ago: My mother never loved John Whitehouse. She loved you. She told me.” Buckley shifted in his seat. “I hope you knew that.”

Paddy John had hoped, but he hadn’t known. Not for sure. Not until now.

• • •

The thin man hid the night’s deposit under his bed and worried for weeks that he would be picked up for murder.

Then he joined the U.S. Marines.

He never counted the money, but landed in Saudi Arabia in a sandstorm, where he eventually saved two men from Iraqi border fire. He was awarded the Navy Cross Medal for saving Private John Winston and Corporal Adam Myers.

Upon the thin man’s safe return to New York, he gave the contents of the night deposit bag to his sister Margaret, who had just turned eighteen. Margaret had actually turned out all right despite being raped at sixteen. She was glad almost every day of her young life that someone had murdered Carmine Damici. She was starting college in the fall. She didn’t know that her brother had killed Carmine Damici, but then again, she never asked.

Her brother the thin man was a hero.

Rowan wanted to sit in his Adirondack chair on the Core Sound and read. He wanted to take his yacht, the
Rebecca
, out on the water and watch the seagulls and the pelicans swoop overhead. He wanted to drive his Alfa to Manteo Island and eat lunch on the waterfront. He wanted to make love to his beautiful blond Patty-Cake wife. He wanted to extricate himself from the anti-tobacco furor that grew daily so that he could do all the things he
wanted
to do.