[23]
Time to fly, 1987
Before Becca takes an Amtrak one way from Chapel Hill to Penn Station, by way of Greensboro, Charlottesville, and Washington, D.C., she writes a letter to Buckley Pitank.
Dear Mr. Pitank,
Thank you for your book! I’ve been struck twice. I didn’t know (until your book) there were other survivors out there like me. I’m sorry your mom died. I really am.
Sincerely,
Becca Burke
It’s short, to the point. She doesn’t tell him that she once believed the lightning gave her special powers: the watch hands, the fireflies, the halos. She had a wild imagination as a child. Believing the dead walked the earth. Believing she saw Grandma Edna and Bo after they died. Believing she saved that fish.
The past is gone.
Her mother teaches poetry to old people now. Her father lives on Cedar Island. He takes photographs. The Yeatesville picture of her standing beside the watermelon truck is on display at the Belle Tara Gallery in downtown Chapel Hill. She doesn’t want to see it. It reminds her of that trip to the beach—when she still had hope. Her father’s photographs have been widely and enthusiastically critiqued. He claims to only “dabble” in photography. He’s a liar.
It strikes Becca as strange that someone who seems heartless can take an emotionally compelling picture.
Her latest painting received an honorable mention at the Carrboro County Fair. No one cares.
Carrie no longer speaks to Becca.
The tone has changed. The colors are brighter. The windows are open. The curtains are red. The rain has ceased. The landscape altered.
Becca’s life is no longer a still life—a bowl of fruit, static and boring, making turkey and bologna sandwiches for her mother, spraying Pledge, rubbing at the furniture that won’t come clean, licking dust from her fingertips—but it’s a life, still.
Many of the train’s passengers disembark in Baltimore. Becca hopes to make friends at the School of Visual Arts. Her dad has arranged for a loft in the Village. Her possessions are already there. She’s excited. She’s sad. She’s leaving Whiskers behind. Mary said, “He’s not a city dog.”
“But he’s my dog.”
“He won’t be happy.”
Becca wants him to be happy.
She’s not happy.
There is a reason that Carrie no longer speaks to Becca. It has to do with lies. Becca is all too familiar not only with death but with liars. Her father lied. Kevin lied. Carrie’s boyfriend, Mike, lied.
Carrie was in Texas visiting her grandmother.
Becca telephoned Mike. She needed an ear.
They met on the lawn of Coker Arboretum just shy of midnight. “How can I get Kevin to like me again?”
“You can’t.” Mike yanked a patch of grass from the ground, dropping the blades on his jeans. “Plus, you can do a lot better than him. You’re so pretty.”
“I thought we were meant to be—you know, like with you and Carrie.”
Mike was blond, like Kevin, but with a wider nose and his face pocked with acne. He dropped a few blades of grass on Becca’s calf.
Mike said, “I like you.”
“I like you too. You make Carrie happy.”
“No, I really like you.” Mike leaned in, attempting to kiss Becca, the blades of grass on his jeans spilling to the dirt.
“What are you doing?”
He climbed on top of Becca.
“Stop it!” She pushed him off—which wasn’t easy.
“We could do it. Carrie won’t find out. What’s the harm?”
Becca ran from the arboretum.
That same night, Mike called Carrie in Texas: “Becca hit on me. I guess she’s so upset about this Kevin thing, she’ll try and do anybody.”
Carrie planned to marry Mike.
Carrie knew Becca’s history with and feelings about sex.
Becca and Carrie Drinkwater, best friends since third grade, no longer.
On her way to New York, The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors open on her lap, Becca reads that victims often suffer sleeplessness, listlessness, and pain in different regions, depending on where the lightning entered the body. Becca thinks, I have every one of these symptoms. Even my soul hurts.
Before she left Chapel Hill, Buckley Pitank responded to Becca’s letter. She keeps the letter nearby, rereading it now:
August 1, 1987
Dear Ms. Burke,
Thank you for buying my book. Thank you also for your condolences. I am glad to know that you feel less alone as a result of my book. That was one of my goals when I started the project. I wanted people to know they weren’t alone. I also hope that The Handbook will help prevent future lightning deaths. As you’ve read, most lightning deaths are preventable. Please do your part.
Thank you again for your interest and personal story.
Sincerely,
Buckley R. Pitank
Becca muses on “Do your part.” Buckley R. Pitank sounds like Smokey the Bear.
The loft is on the southwest corner of Washington Square Park. There are high ceilings and exposed brick. It’s more than she needs. The four windows that face the park are thick-paned, long, and full of light before noon. She takes morning classes and paints late into the night. She doesn’t know what she’s doing at four in the morning, her hands permanently stained, a palette of browns and reds slopped onto another layer of paint not fully dry, but she can’t stop. Before dawn, she remembers Grandma Edna asking, “Can I keep it? Can I keep the sketch?” It had meant so much to Becca. Going to the kitchen for coffee, she sees Grandma Edna leaning against the counter, those long freckled arms crossed, smiling at Becca. Becca rubs her eyes, and Grandma Edna is gone.
Paintings that aren’t good enough (and none of them is good enough) are mishandled and chucked into the unused pantry. She thinks the second-year professor Christopher Lord is talented and cute. Some of his paintings have been on display in the main hall. His eyes remind her of Kevin Richfield’s.