Lightning Strikes

  At lunch hour, I left the building and had tea and a sandwich at a nearby cafe by myself. On my way back to the school, I saw a man about my father's age carrying his four- or five-year-old daughter as he and his wife crossed the street. They looked like tourists, both wearing cameras around their necks. The wife stopped to check a map to point out a direction. While they waited, their little girl had her arms wrapped about her father's neck, her cheek against his. She looked contented and safe.

  The man I'd grown up thinking was my father never held me. I couldn't even recall him carrying me, even like a sack of potatoes, I thought. Of course, Mama had, and I did remember many, many times when Roy held my hand, but a little girl's relationship with her father was so special. Only briefly glancing at this little girl's contented face, I knew that in her putaway heart of hearts, she had faith that her daddy could drive away demons, could smash nightmares with a growl, could lift her above any danger, keep her out of any fire or flood and help her defeat any pain. She'd wrap his power around herself like some suit of armor and never be afraid of the dark.

  Perhaps the most delicious moments of her life would come much later when she was a young lady searching for a man to love her as much as her daddy did. Even when she found such a person, she would turn to her father to feel secure in her decision and when she looked at him, she would see that he saw her forever and ever as his little girl. Not a mountain of days, not a million ticks of the clock, not a string of birthdays could change it, and even if she would get him to say that she was no longer a baby, she would see a smile behind that agreement that said, "However, always be my baby."

  I want a daddy, too, even if it's just for an hour, I concluded and decided then and there that I would go to my father's house on Sunday. Before I went home, I stopped at a phone booth and called his house. His wife answered and said he wasn't at home yet.

  "May I take a message for him?" she asked.

  "Yes. Tell him Rain Arnold called and I will come to tea on Sunday."

  "Rain Arnold?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Okay," she said with a little laugh in her voice. "We'll see you on Sunday."

  My heart was pounding again. Did I make some terrible mistake? He obviously had not mentioned me to her.

  Had he expected never to hear from me or see me again? Was I disappointing him?

  As soon as I got home, I sat in my little room because I still had some time to myself and wrote a letter to Grandma Hudson.

  Dear Grandmother...

  I began smiling to myself at how she would react to my addressing her so.

  I have an important thing to tell you and ask your advice about. With a friend at school, I located my real father, using the little information my mother had given me about him. He did become an English professor specializing in Shakespeare. He's married and has two children, a daughter and a son. I spent some time spying on him. I couldn't help it. I wanted to see him, to learn more about him. I actually attended one of his lectures and to make a long story short, I've been discovered.

  We had tea together and I told him who I really am. He was shocked of course, and for now, like my real mother, he wants me to keep it all secret. He has invited me to his home, nevertheless, and I have decided to go.

  Am I making a terrible mistake? Should 1 permit him to make a decision about revealing me to his wife? Should I just walk away and try to forget him? What do you think my mother would say if she found out about all this? Of course, I don't want to upset you, but I don't have anyone 1 can trust here or anyone wise enough to give me advice.

  Please think about it all and let me know what you advise me to do.

  I miss you and look forward to your coming here as you promised. I hope you're doing what the doctors tell you to do and you're not so stubborn as to prolong your recovery and make a trip to England impossible.

  Please give my love to Jake.

  PS. Of course, your sister knows nothing of any of this, but I can't help wondering how long it will be before Victoria tells her something more.

  Love, Rain

  I sealed the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and then hid it in my drama text to express mail the next day when I went to school.

  Afterward, when I entered the kitchen to help with dinner, Mrs. Chester told me Mary Margaret wouldn't be working today.

  "The poor girl's sick to her stomach and had to rush home. Got one of them flu bugs, I think," she told me. "So we got plenty to do. Mr. Endfield has invited a business associate and his wife to dinner tonight. I'm makin' poached salmon. Set the table for four," she ordered and I went to work.

  With Mary Margaret absent, Boggs hovered over us even more. He made me nervous with his intimidating looks, inspecting every aspect of the dinner preparation to the point where he practically measured the spaces between pieces of silverware.

  "When you bring out that food, don't let your fingers touch any of it. I don't want to see you servin' them with your hands in their fish," he warned me.

  "If you're so worried about it, why don't you serve the dinner yourself?" I shot back at him.

  Mrs. Chester was so surprised at my remark and tone of voice, she gasped and brought her hand to the bottom of her throat, holding her breath as if she expected Boggs to explode like a stick of dynamite.

  "Just do yer job," he muttered, his face red with fury.

  "I'm trying to," I muttered, "and will if you leave me be." He sucked in some air, blowing his shoulders up, bit down on his lower lip, and left the kitchen.

  "Oh, dearie, you've gone and done it now. That man holds a grudge?'

  "So do I," I said, but I couldn't help being afraid. I had nightmares about him coming into my room and smothering me to death with a pillow.

  After they had all arrived in the dining room and I entered, my Great-aunt Leonora introduced me to their guests, the Dorsets. Mr. Dorset was a banker. He was a man well into his sixties with thinning gray hair. His cheeks were robust and slightly crimson. They grew more and more so as he drank more wine. His wife was a fragile woman, bird-like with diminutive facial features and short, poorly dyed brown hair that was the color of rust with traces of gray at the roots and even along some strands.

  "This is our an pair from America who is going to become a famous actress someday," my Great-aunt Leonora said. "Her name is Rain."

  "Rain?" Mr. Dorset asked. "Where did you get that name?" he asked me with a wide grin.

  "My mother gave it to me when I was born," I replied.

  For a moment no one spoke, Mrs. Dorset looking as if her mouth had locked open, her little pink sliver of a tongue curled up, and then Mr. Dorset nodded and said, "Indeed."

  The table was as silent as a funeral parlor, which made the sound of the dishes and silverware seem so loud. Great-uncle Richard watched me finish serving. I felt his gaze so close that I couldn't wait to return to the kitchen.

  Boggs was standing right there. I nearly ran into him. He seemed to grow larger and wider in front of me, his eyes like two small drills at my forehead.

  "Your insolent ways will get you tossed out on the street," he threatened.

  Then he turned and left the kitchen.

  Mrs. Chester glanced at me and then looked away, afraid to be drawn too close to an impending disaster. I completed my work without any further comment. No one addressed me in the dining loom and I avoided Great-uncle Richard's eyes, not looking his way once. As soon as they all rose and left the dining room to go to the sitting room, I began to clear the table. With Mary Margaret not there, I had to help wash dishes, the pots and pans and put them all away.

  "They all seemed to enjoy your dinner, Mrs. Chester," I said, noting the way the plates had been scraped clean.

  She nodded.

  "Will Mary Margaret be here tomorrow?" I asked.

  "I hope so," she said. She kept looking at the door fearfully.

  "You could probably get a job anywhere you wanted," I said. "With your talents in the kitchen, another family wou
ld feel very lucky."

  She shook her head and turned to me.

  "Without a recommendation, I'd be workin' in some hovel of a place and not make half as much. I do my work. I know my place and I get along," she said. "You oughta think about that."

  "Maybe. The trouble is, Mrs. Chester, I don't know where my place is."

  She looked at me very curiously, almost as if she was being sympathetic, and then she absorbed herself in her work and didn't say another word.

  As I put away the last piece of silverware, Boggs came into the kitchen.

  "Mr. Endfield wants a word with you," he said. "In his office. Now."

  "Sent to the principal," I told Mrs. Chester, but she didn't understand. "I guess I'll be tossed out on the street."

  I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and marched past Boggs. Whatever happens, happens, I thought. I'm tired of fighting with them all.

  My Great-uncle Richard was seated behind his desk, his chair turned so he could gaze out the window. He was puffing on a cigar, the smoke twirling toward the ceiling where a ceiling fan seized it and spread it evenly throughout the room.

  "You wanted to see me?" I asked.

  He turned quickly and sat forward.

  "Please close the door," he said.

  I did so and he indicated the leather chair in front of his desk. I went to it and sat. He flicked his ash and then put the cigar down and clasped his hands over his stomach.

  "When Leonora first told me she wanted to take you in, I wasn't wholly in favor of it," he began. "Our house runs like a Swiss timepiece, efficiently, successfully. It's a relief to know I don't have to worry about the domestic side of our lives. I have enough to do professionally and Leonora is not as strong as she was when she first came to England. That's why I'm glad we have Mr. Boggs."

  "I'll leave tomorrow," I said.

  He paused, blinked rapidly a moment and then shook his head.

  "That's exactly why I wanted to see you. There you go speaking out of turn. Who told you I wanted you to leave?"

  "I just thought..."

  "You're probably right. I should want you to leave. You practically insulted my guest tonight with your sassy manner."

  "Sassy?"

  "You have good sense and poise when you're on the stage. Why can't you have it when you're off?"

  "I am who I am," I said, tears burning at my eyes. I didn't know myself what that meant, except I liked the sound of it. After all, how many times a day could I be made to feel inferior?

  "Nonsense," he replied. "You're nobody yet."

  Now it was time for me to raise my eyebrows. Did he know it all? Had Victoria written that letter of spite?

  "You're in the process of becoming someone, as are most young women your age, but you don't have any real identity yet. However, you still have the opportunity to shape yourself, your personality, your entire being.

  "I'm not surprised at the way you behave and how you speak to people, especially older people. All the Americans I know have that same smugness, arrogance."

  "Arrogance? Us? It seems to me it's the other way around. You think you've invented the wheel here, calling us the Colonies. America is the greatest country in the world."

  He stared at me a moment and then he laughed.

  "All right, all right. Let's not debate who has the best society and who has contributed the most to civilization. The fact is I called you here not to dispose of you and your services, but to offer to help you," he said in a much softer tone of voice.

  "Help me?" I was surprised. "How?"

  "You need, for the lack of another term, more refinement. I, like my wife, think you can become someone, but you've got to smooth out those rough edges. I understand you've had a hard time up until now and you have done remarkably well considering all that, but you've got to go a little further in other ways and I can help you with that, I think."

  "I don't understand what you want to do," I said shaking my head. "How can you help me?"

  "I'll teach you manners, give you the benefit of my upbringing, but you have to be cooperative and for now, for reasons I think best left unstated, I'd like it to remain something only known to you and me." "Teach me manners?"

  "How to conduct yourself in polite society. In short, behavioral etiquette."

  "I know how to behave."

  "Not for the world you're going to be in. Making a good impression is half the battle. Well?"

  "I guess," I said, shrugging. I still didn't exactly understand what he was proposing.

  "No, the proper thing to say is 'Thank you very much. I appreciate your willingness to work with me.' Now then," he continued, sitting back, "you might have noticed we have a guest cottage behind the house. It's not used for very much these days, but it's well kept."

  "Yes," I said nearly breathless. Hadn't Boggs ever told him about finding me outside the cottage window?

  "We'll make it our special classroom for a while. I have a few changes to make in it and then advise you when we'll begin," he declared.

  I stared at him. Classroom? What was he talking about? "You still don't seem too appreciative of my offer," he said.

  "I'm afraid I still don't understand it. What will we do exactly?"

  "I will create social situations for you and explain how you should act, behave, what you should expect. As a student of the theater, you'll have no problem with a little pretending, I assure you," he said. "They'll be nothing all that difficult, but-I know it will be of great benefit to you."

  "Why do you want to do anything more for me? You said yourself you weren't all that happy about my coming here in the first place."

  He looked down for a long moment and then raised his eyes slowly, the look on his face much less formal, much warmer.

  "I don't talk about her anymore. It's too painful for Leonora, but we had a daughter who died when she was a little girl. Of course, I think about her often and I regret that I was never able to give her the things I dreamed of giving her, least of which is the benefit of my worldly and social knowledge.

  "Had she lived, she might have been a talented young lady such as yourself. I can see her about your age in my mind. There is so much I would have wanted to tell her, show her. I have been frustrated, cheated by her untimely passing.

  "What I might have given her, I can give to you. In all modesty, any girl would be quite flattered and appreciative, I expect." He took a deep breath and looked at me. "In short, I'm willing to be more of a father than an employer. Well?" he asked quickly.

  "Thank you," I said, moved by his speech, but still a little frightened after what I had seen between him and Mary Margaret. Did he expect I would put on little girl's clothes and suck on a lollipop, too?

  "Good." He picked up his cigar. "I'll let you know when everything is as I want it to be at the cottage. Until then, please keep those sassy horses in their stables."

  He nodded and turned his chair as a way of saying "You can go now."

  I got up slowly, paused at the doorway to look back at him staring out his window, and then left, my heart thumping like a parade drum all the way back to my little room.

  Great-uncle Richard made no more mention of the cottage to me that week. I began to wonder if I hadn't imagined it all or if he had changed his mind. Mary Margaret returned to work the next day, but she looked pale and sickly to me. When I asked her how she was, she said, "Fine," quickly and left it at that. Any more questions seemed to make her paler, more frightened. She looked like she would burst into tears if I dared pursue her.

  I suppose it was quite different between Randall and me at school: he looked like he would burst into tears every time he tried to talk to me. Some of my anger and reaction to him was caused by my own indecision concerning my father. If it weren't for Randall's insistent search for him, I wouldn't be faced with this emotional and psychological crisis, I thought. I blamed him and yet thanked him in my mind. He kept away, just off to the side, just behind me in the halls, waiting for a look or a word of forgivenes
s.

  Finally, on Saturday morning, I decided I would forgive him and I would tell him about my father's invitation to high tea on Sunday. After breakfast chores, I decided I would surprise him and suggest we do something together that afternoon. Actually, all I wanted to do was take a nice walk in Kensington Gardens and talk. We could buy some sandwiches and something to drink and sit on a bench. It was a beautiful day with few clouds and lots of blue sky. There was a warmer breeze, too. I did love the fresh, clean smell that followed precipitation here.

  Buoyed by the weather and my own willingness to be forgiving, I practically skipped along the streets. I knew Randall slept late on Saturday and would surely be just rising.

  "They make us get up so early for class," he always complained. Sleeping late on the weekends was his way of getting revenge on the school.

  The dormitory was very quiet, not a soul in sight. My own footsteps were the loudest noise, echoing off the walls and in the corridors. I conjured up Randall's look of surprise when I appeared in his room. I was looking forward to settling myself in the crook of his arm, my head on his shoulder, and just talking about my feelings, the events of the past week, and my fears, of course. It was hard talking to no one but yourself. After a while you grew tired of the sound of your own voice. Your head turned into an echo chamber and you knew every answer to every question before it was even asked.

  Loneliness is a solitary bird lost in a northern wind flapping its wings desperately in search of its flock, its call to the other birds falling to earth. How cold and gray the world would look even on days without any clouds.

  It was time to stop being such a lone bird, I thought. My anger had become a heavy chain around my ankles, slowing me down, keeping me from soaring alongside someone I needed.

  I paused at Randall's door and listened. It was deadly quiet. For a moment I was afraid he had gotten up and left. It was that fear that stopped me from knocking. If I had, I might have been able to remain ignorant. Sometimes, ignorance can be bliss.

  I reached for the knob and turned it, happy he had left his door unlocked. I opened it quickly and stepped into his room, hoping to find him curled up in his bed, still asleep. I'd wake him with a kiss of forgiveness and he would smile with happiness in his eyes.