Lightning Rod

Chapter 1

The pilot announced that he’d begun his descent into Houston International Airport. Bryan Getz stowed his tray-table and The Celestine Prophecy, the much-hyped new novel that he’d bought in the Indianapolis Airport at the start of this journey. He occupied an aisle seat in the first-class cabin. It was the day before Thanksgiving, 1993, and the plane was full. In the window seat a man pecked away on a laptop computer with enviable battery-power, ignoring the instruction to prepare for landing.

Bryan looked out the window, searching for ghosts. Why bother? They’ll find me soon enough. He sat back in his seat, gripped the armrests, closed his eyes, and tried to relax. The easy part of this journey was over.

The plane taxied to a stop, and the first-class passengers deplaned. The area in front of the gate was congested with people waiting to greet family and friends. Bryan worked his way through, thankful that Thelma, his mother, was nowhere to be seen. She honored my request to not meet me the airport; that’s a good start. He rolled his carry-on to the rental car counter and refused the upgrade to a bigger, less fuel-efficient vehicle. As soon as he started the car, the radio issued a Rush Limbaugh rant against the First Lady’s plot to cram socialized medicine down the throats of hard-working Americans. Bryan stabbed preset button number one; Rush still blathered. Bryan worked his way through the buttons; they were set to sports, religious, and country-western stations. Welcome to Texas. He turned off the radio.

Signs led him to the freeway, and he headed for downtown. The heavy traffic moved at a good clip. On the west side he exited the freeway and soon found himself in the haunts of his childhood. There sat Tanglewood High, now a middle school, according to the signage. He remembered the turns that brought him to the red-brick colonial in River Oaks that had been the worst home of his life, and that was saying something: the house he’d had to share with his step-father, Charlie Hickok.

He parked in a liquor store’s lot. Upon opening the door, he heard Christmas-carol Muzak. The carols were the hardest thing to endure at this time of year, the soundtrack of his personal horror movie, and the merchants now started the agony in October. He usually supplied his own music through noise-cancelling headphones whenever he ventured out, further confirming his alien status to observers and clerks who dealt with him, but he’d been so nervous about this trip that he’d failed to pack them. He grabbed the first whiskey he saw, a liter bottle of Jameson Irish, and paid the clerk. He took the time to stow the bottle in his suitcase, even though Holly, Jolly Christmas played in his head.

He started the car and pushed the seek button on the car’s radio until he found a rock-and-roll station. He got back on the freeway and sang along as he drove, eventually overriding the carol in his head, but, after traveling in the wrong direction for many exits, the waste of gasoline ate at him. He exited and reentered the freeway and returned to the Tanglewood area. He passed the site, now a gas station, where his grandparent’s house had stood. More bad memories floated through his brain, and he questioned his desire to repair the fractured relationship with his mother. 

For several months they’d been exchanging e-mails and phone calls, looking for ways to rebuild trust. He’d agreed to spend a dreaded holiday with her; in return she had agreed to pay a visit to his mansion in Indiana. My worst nightmare in exchange for hers. He took a deep breath. It’s time to face Thelma.

Her house, a brick tri-level, sat on a side street. Arborvitae flanked the picture window, front door, and the garage door. The driveway, two car-lengths long and wide, invited him in. When he opened the car’s trunk, the garage door opened.

Thelma stepped into the sunlight. On the cusp of sixty, she was still beautiful. Her hair, which she’d allowed to fade from blonde to white some years ago, was pulled away from a face remarkably unwrinkled for all her years in the sun. She had the high cheek bones, thin nose, full lips and prominent jaw of Jane Fonda. Five and a half feet tall. Fit from golf and swimming. As usual, she wore an outfit that set off her ample bosom. Her intense blue eyes had a way of catching you off guard with their directness.

Bryan shared that feature with her but otherwise resembled his father: brown hair, which Bryan wore long to hide his big ears, a beard to add to his weak chin, a rounded, crooked nose, a pale complexion, quick to burn, and a lean, nervous frame. Five feet nine inches tall in his bare feet.

You’re late, she said. Was there trouble with the flight? He smiled and opened his arms. She flashed the smile that could light up a room. They held onto the hug. She released first. Or was there trouble at the baggage carousel?

I had a carry-on.

Or the rental counter? I still don’t understand why I couldn’t pick you up.

Because I need an escape module! He drew a deep breath. I’m here now. How have you been?

I’m good! A little frazzled with all the preparation, but it’ll be worth it. Wait ‘til you see the turkey. Sixteen pounds! You’re off that vegetarian thing, right?

Yes, mom. I’m looking forward to the turkey.

You sure took your time getting here.

I’m sorry about that. You look great.

Well, thank you. You look good yourself. Why don’t you pull your car into the garage? I made room.

It’s fine here.

He walked with her into the kitchen. Hungry?

No. The meal on the flight was surprisingly good.

You flew first-class?

Yep.

Still living high off the hog, huh. I hope you’re saving some money, too. He let this pass without comment. Do you need to unpack? Hang anything up?

That can wait. She dropped her gaze to the kitchen countertop and rubbed at an invisible spot. He sensed trouble. Sixteen pounds, you said? That’s a lot of turkey for two people, isn’t it?

There’ll be leftovers for sure. But still she averted her eyes.

It’s just you and me, right, for the big day?

Well, no. I know I agreed to that, but, Bryan, your cousin Gladys... An image of sanctimoniousness sprang into his head. His anger flared. If she’s intent on setting me up for failure, she found the perfect foil. He lifted a shaking hand and rubbed his jaw. She regarded this warily. Now, listen, Bryan. I know this comes from left field, but when I heard that Gladys would spend Thanksgiving alone, well, how could I not invite her?

You agreed to a quiet celebration, just the two of us.

Please don’t blow this out of proportion.

Don’t her kids live nearby?

That’s a forbidden subject; you hear me? They don’t come to church anymore, and Gladys won’t say why.

He sensed more bad news. There’ll be three of us, then?

Well, no. There’ll be four. Bud from my dance group is coming, too.

He waited in vain for more. You’re playing matchmaker? Thelma laughed at that, the first time he’d heard her laugh in a long time. Then she turned away, and Bryan’s sense of foreboding grew. Bud is going to be more fuel for the fire. Bud doesn’t have a family he can visit?

She faced him, her eyes flared, her jaw set. I don’t have to clear my guest list with you! Then she bowed her head and rubbed her temple with her left hand. I’m sorry about that, Bryan. That was uncalled for.

And I’m sorry I used that tone of voice.

Oh, where’s my manners? Would you like something to drink?

What are you having?

I’d like a glass of white wine.

Me, too. She poured the wine through a contraption into the glasses. She asked if he had an aerator and seemed surprised that he didn’t. It’s amazing how much it improves the taste.

I guess I’ll have to get one. He accepted one glass and raised it. To getting reacquainted.

Yes. Respectfully. Quietly. She clinked his glass and sipped. Let’s get comfortable.

Instead of going into the family room right off the kitchen, she walked up the short hallway that led to the front door and turned into the living room, furnished with facing sofas separated by a coffee table and several easy chairs. No Christmas tree. A good omen. The open curtains beckoned. He walked to the window and read the sky. The day’s heat and humidity had seeded storm clouds. It won’t be long before they erupt. She joined him at the window.

See those thunderheads?

Oh, Bryan. You’re not a storm magnet. Your father was teasing you when he said that.

He looked at her in disbelief. I’ve had a lot of close calls.

Storms hit everywhere.  They don’t follow you around. She sighed and turned away from the window.

He did the same. A bookcase on the opposite wall had framed pictures on it. One immediately caught his eye: fourteen-year-old Bryan, his hair carefully barbered, his weak chin exposed, his unbroken nose, his scowl. Why did you drag that picture out for display?

It’s always on display, just not on the top shelf.

Next to his picture was one of Thelma. Taken the same day, she smiled beautifully, her radiant blue eyes looking into an imagined, rosy future. The third picture, even more outdated, showed four-year-old Bryan in his father’s lap, and Thelma sat next to them. All three gazed in different directions: Thelma directly into the lens, Fred slightly askance, and Bryan up at his mother. Still, a family cohesion was conveyed, and the subjects smiled.

Where’s Charlie’s picture?

Does he have to be the first thing we talk about?

No, definitely not. He smiled. She sighed and sat on the sofa.

Bryan eyed her as he walked to the sofa facing her. She gazed out the window as she sipped her wine, the effort to contain her anxiety apparent. There was much to say and more to be avoided. Fred had made holidays, especially Thanksgiving and Christmas, inflammatory subjects by refusing to celebrate them. Fighting with Thelma over them. After they divorced Bryan tried to live up to her expectations, but too much damage had been done. He resented the enormous effort that went into making them festive.

He scanned the shelves of the bookcase to confirm that she’d stowed the pictures of Charlie and the group shot of all three of them. Bryan well remembered the journey to the photographer’s studio. One of the first outings of the newly-cobbled-together family, Thelma had insisted that the photos would be taken. Charlie was eager to oblige. Their and the photographer’s amazing patience with Bryan’s insolence was a memory that plagued him. I’ve always hated that picture.

She smiled at him. I think it perfectly captures the petulant teen you were.

I thought we weren’t going to talk about Charlie yet. She tossed a coaster across the table and adjusted another one before setting her glass on it. Bryan took his first sip of wine. Did your counselor suggest putting out those pictures?

No. I thought of it myself.

He waited for more, but she gazed out the window. You’re still seeing her three times a week?

She turned towards him. Yes. Her name is Naomi, and I love her, so I’m warning you not to say anything bad about her.

Why would I do that?

You must think I’m weak to be in counseling.

I don’t think you’re weak.

Well, I struggled mightily with the idea of airing my dirty laundry with a stranger, but I knew I had to do something after you invited me to Indiana. Do you remember what I told you?

That you couldn’t set foot in that house.

I felt so bad after you left in February. The pride in your renovation...

Restoration, mom. I brought the manor back from ruin.

Yes, and you’re proud of it! I can hear that in your voice. And I thought, I should share that with you. We’ve missed so much of each other’s lives, and that needs to stop.

Yes! I agree.

I knew that I couldn’t go there without help, so I turned to Naomi. It took some weeks to get comfortable with her, but, I swear, Bryan, she can see straight into my soul.

Lucky you for finding her. He waited for her to continue. "What have you learned?

Well, that I have a tendency to be overbearing. I mean, I knew that. She chuckled and waved her hand. People tell me that all the time! But she got me to understand how other people are effected by that. We have worked on this for months. She picked up her glass. Do you know that song, Walk a Mile in My Shoes? I’ve been singing that for decades, but I never really understood what it was talking about until I started with Naomi. She took a sip of wine.

So, this empathy?

Oh, well, let’s just say I’m still coming to grips with it. She leaned forward and placed her glass in the middle of the coaster. How many years did you work on the manor?

He smiled at her shift in topics. Four, off and on. Full time the last two.

That’s certainly long enough.

He heard criticism and took a sip of wine to contain his resentment. I had a lot to learn, mom. I took a course in plastering.

Why? You could’ve hired someone. That would’ve been faster.

I had the time, and I wanted to do it. Do you remember the manor at all?

Of course. It’s brick and big and the rooms had too much furniture.

And upstairs? Thelma shrugged. Grandma Ruth put you in Fred’s old bedroom, and I was in the adjoining room. Do you remember them?

Heavens, no. That was thirty-five years ago, Bryan.

Those bedrooms faced east. I converted all those little bedrooms into a suite, with my bedroom, walk-in closet, bathroom, and office slash lounge. I was in a hurry to move in, so I had a crew drywall it, and I regretted that as soon as it was done. I mean, it was necessary. I was renting a run-down house from Uncle Earl. Do you remember him?

My, yes! That little scamp stared at my bosom whenever he looked at me.

Yeah, well, he asks about you all the time.

Oh, heavens. All these people I’ve forgotten about.

I’d like to host a dinner party featuring you.

I never agreed to that.

I never agreed to spend Thanksgiving with Gladys.

I’ve already explained that! It doesn’t compare to what you’re asking. Fred and I divorced thirty years ago. His family doesn’t want to see me.

Your visit would be the reason I’ve needed to host a party like grandma and grandpa used to throw. I don’t think that’s too much to ask now.

She took a deep breath. I haven’t said for sure that I’d come.

You most certainly did!

Oh, Bryan. I was so unhappy there. We’d just lost everything in that tornado, and I was coming to grips with the idea that my husband had abandoned me.

You thought dad had abandoned you?

Of course! Fred had been in Arabia for ten months. In the beginning, I got a letter almost every day, telling me all the hoops he was jumping through to get clearance for us to come. The letters tapered off and got shorter. Things were nearly settled; weeks later he’d write that some form didn’t get filed. Then he wrote that he had to go to a remote location, and I didn’t get a letter for three months. I thought, wow, it’s really remote. I wrote to him every day, and my letters became frantic with worry. His next letter didn’t acknowledge my worries; he just said there were more problems with the application. So, yes, I think I was justified in feeling abandoned.

And then the tornado hit. The memory filled him, as it often did as bad weather approached: a terrifying sense of impending doom; a deafening roar; Thelma throwing him over her shoulder and running out the door; he watched the house disintegrate; debris struck them; she kept running to the ditch along the road and jumped in; he felt the tug of the tornado as it passed overhead.

Stay with me here, Bryan. You were in the ditch again, weren’t you?

Yeah, guilty.

Well, I’ve talked about that experience with Naomi. She said that I was probably in shock, and that’s why I let other people make decisions for me.

What decisions?

Going to Indiana! I don’t know how Ruth found out about it, but the next thing I knew, we had tickets for a train to Boonsboro. I went through the motions the whole time I was there.

You did not. We were happy there. She shook her head violently. Grandpa and grandma went out of their way to be nice.

Nice to you. Ruth barely tolerated me, and she had a very sharp tongue. Vern was very helpful, though, in getting our visas. If he hadn’t contacted Indiana’s senators, I don’t know if we would’ve ever gotten to Saudi Arabia.

The rumble of thunder rolled through the room. Here it comes, mom. What kind of a storm shelter do you have in this house?

The utility room has no windows. That’s good enough. Listen, Bryan. There’s a few items I need to get from the store. Would you like to come along with me?

Now?

Of course now.

A car is the very worst place to take shelter in a storm.

It’s a five minute drive. I’ll be there and back before that storm hits.

No thanks, mom. I’ll stay put, if that’s okay with you.

Yes. You can use the time to get comfortable in my house.

They carried their glasses into the kitchen. She put her shopping list in her purse and went into the garage. Bryan followed and guided her around his rental car and into the street. As she pulled away, he studied the sky and felt the air. Half an hour before this storm hits, and it’s going to hit hard.

So he climbed down four stairs to the lowest level of the house, purchased after her divorce from number three. He opened the door to the room that housed the furnace, water heater, freezer, washer, dryer, and clothesline. Lacy bras and panties hanging on the line sparked his interest, but he remembered the mission and moved on. To storage shelves and stacked boxes marked with Thelma’s neat, blocked letters. On one was written: BRYAN. He’d told her to chuck it out years ago, but there it sat, topped by other boxes, buckled and forlorn. 

He decided the safest place would be under her sorting table: wooden, stout-looking. He shoved it against the wall and put boxes around the legs for more protection, leaving just enough room for two people to huddle together. Not very good, but it’d have to do.

Sweating, agitated, he assessed. The storm was nearly on top of him. He returned to the family room and looked out the sliding glass door at patio furniture, a glass-topped table and four substantial, metal chairs. He thought of their lethal potential if launched by a tornado, closed his eyes, and massaged his forehead. You are in a very bad place.

He drained his glass of wine and summoned a memory of his visit in February. He’d been on his way to Jamaica to warm up and chill out. Always in a good mood on his way there, that visit had gone without a hitch. Short and non-combative. Arousing enough good feeling to motivate more effort to reach out.

Before that Thelma had visited his house in California. How many years ago? Four? Could it be that long? He’d been flying high then. Everybody Online had made him a very wealthy man, and he wanted her to know it. He’d invited her for a week because he thought that a display of goodies and gadgets would distract them, but Thelma stayed only a weekend. They’d battled about the past. All the old wounds started to bleed.

Sensing a bolt of lightning about to strike, he cringed. It struck. He counted three seconds before the roar arrived. He eyed Thelma’s glass of wine, then squatted behind the kitchen peninsula, his back against a base cabinet. Calm down. Breathe. Felt as much as heard the garage-door opener kick on, followed by another bolt and roar of thunder. Willed himself to stand and walk into the garage. Thelma stepped out of her car.

That was nice of you to watch out for me, but hardly necessary. I told you I’d be back before the storm hit.

He cringed as another bolt struck. Just barely, but thunder swallowed the sound. A gust of wind announced the arrival of a downpour. He pushed the button to close the garage door. Once it was down he joined her at the rear of the car. Inside the trunk he saw reusable shopping bags tucked into the trunk organizer, neatly folded, forgotten. Her purchases were in three plastic bags, unnecessarily double-bagged as they were half-full at the most. Some teenaged bagger did that. Still, if she’d brought the bags into the store, the teen would’ve used them. Instead of wasting resources on plastic bags, why don’t you use these?

I don’t waste plastic bags. They’re my garbage bags. That’s one of the three Rs, isn’t it? Reuse? She fixed him with those eyes. He cringed for another bolt of lightning and thirsted for alcohol. In the kitchen, he placed the bags on the counter and took mindful breaths to beat back his fear while she put away her purchases.

Now, Bryan. I’ve thought of the perfect activity for this afternoon. Let’s go through that box of things I’ve been saving for you all these years.

I’ll toss it in the garbage.

No you won’t! Your report cards are in there. School pictures. Awards. Keepsakes.

Junk.

She turned towards the stairs. Going through that box might stimulate our discussion.

Okay, okay, I’ll get it! He moved quickly, embarrassed at the thought of having to explain his recent rearrangement.

Do you know where it is?

Yes. I’ll be right back.

But she followed him to the utility room and noticed the table. Would that really do any good?

That little ditch saved our lives. His box sat on the floor, relieved of its burden of other boxes. It was lighter than he expected. He carried it into the kitchen.

No, set the box on the table in the family room.

Could we stay away from the sliding glass door for a bit longer?

It’s raining, Bryan. It rains in Houston all the time. Just relax.

Yeah, right. But the brunt of the storm had passed. He could feel the change. Let’s put that off until later. Isn’t there some prep work we could do for tomorrow?

Well, yes, there is. You could set up the Cuisinart on the counter.

What about a knife and cutting board?

I want to use the machine, but first you’ve got to find it. I’m afraid it’s been pushed back to the rear.

Which cabinet?

She pointed. He opened the door and got down on his knees. Behind the pots and pans he saw the food processor. He moved things around, lifted it out, and noted a film of grime on the machine. There’s a box of attachments back there somewhere.

He set the machine on the counter. It’s been awhile since you’ve used this.

I guess I’ve been lacking a special occasion.

He wondered how to take this as he stuck his head into the cabinet. Houston’s her home town. Is she alienated from everyone? He found the box he wanted and moved the machine and the box of attachments next to the sink. I’ll start with the wash-up.

I can do that, mom.

No. You’re my guest.

She filled the sink with hot, soapy water and gave the