6:00 Lightning Strike

A Short Story

The Storm (1880)

Johnny and I almost got married that summer when the thunderstorms arrived in June and continued every Tuesday evening through August. I was nineteen—still a kid, really—and used to sneak out my bedroom window in the evenings and meet him at the pond with my strawberry bikini under my denim overalls and cotton henley. Come to think of it, I don’t know why I wore the bikini. We never made it into the water, just held hands in moonlight and kissed in that timid, frenetic way that you don’t grow out of until your twenties. I suppose I wore the bikini because I hoped that one day, I’d be brave enough to be one of those girls who step out of their clothes like they’re doing it on purpose.

Pat’s Pond. That’s what it was called. It used to be full of frogs until the heatwaves became constants. But it would be ten more years before time took that particular love away. During that summer, it was still lush and humid and sticky and green.

I took my discount sneakers off and dunked my feet in the water. His feet stayed in their shoes. Every part of him stayed out of the water, really. Yet, he called me timid. Funny.

Come to think of it, when we talked during those nights, it was never about real things or future things. I’d tell him about passions of mine and he’d say he liked my green eyes. And I let him kiss me after he said that because then it felt sweet and loving. And now… I’m not so sure.

I had paintings in my room, maps on the walls, pins stabbed in every place I’d ever dreamed of setting foot in. His family had been born in Tacit County, grown up in Tacit County, and died in Tacit County. His last name made up half of the cemetery, and he used to drive me out to a small house on Wells St with cherry trees in the front yard and ask me if I’d ever seen a more beautiful place to live. And, well, back then, I was a kid and still believed that I could have endings and beginnings all at the same time. So when he asked me if I’d marry him that summer, I said yes without a second thought. And I covered my map with pages from bridal magazines and spoke with my mother about wedding colors and flowers and three-tier red velvet with buttercream frosting.

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You won’t believe me, but it didn’t end gradually. It was sudden, a 6:00 PM lightning strike. On Tuesday, August 11, it came down in the field right outside my window, brilliant white and illuminating my bedroom like headlights on the highway. The thunder that came after was an earthquake, rattling the beams and sending a few bridal magazine pages fluttering to the ground. I scrambled to put them back on the wall, but then I stopped.

My map was under there. I’d nearly forgotten it. Where one magazine page had been was a part of Poland. In another spot, Cambodia appeared. In a third, New York City. The pages fell from my fingers and buried themselves in my carpet.

One by one, I pulled them all down. Chiffon, place settings, decor, lace veils, diamond tiaras—all of it reduced to a crumpled pile at my feet. In its place…the world. The whole world.

In a daze, I stumbled from the house and walked to Pat’s Pond. The rain dribbled on the surface of the water, tickling my brain and raising the hairs on my arms. I removed my clothes, stripped down to my underwear, and jumped into the water. Algae wrapped around my ankle like clammy fingers, and I surfaced in a panic, gasping for air, eyes stinging. Here, inside the water, the air was thick with an unforgiving smell, and the frogs hummed together in chorus. Pushing forward in the water, I swam toward the center of the pond, ignoring the wet foliage that clung to me desperately. Once I’d reached the middle, I flipped onto my back, floating among the lily pads and staring at the black sky above. Rain fell down and kissed the folds and curves in my face and neck.

White shattered through the sky a few miles away, startling me and filling me with fear. I was in water. I was in water…in a thunderstorm. On cue, thunder bellowed, and I swam back to the dock. I scrambled onto the flaking wood, shivering and hugging my knees to my chest. Something inside of me broke, a sliver in my chest that unleashed a torrent of hurt. I wept there in my underwear. I wept beneath the rain by Pat’s Pond.

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Johnny’s house was a classic two-story colonial, with blue shutters and a hanging porch. It was one of the first homes in Tacit County, with that sort of humble wealth characteristic of small historic buildings. I could see Johnny’s outline in the center dormer window, hidden behind gauzy curtains from his great-grandmother’s trousseau.

Three raps on the brass door knocker. I stood there on the stoop, feet squelching in my sneakers, pond scum in my stringy, dripping hair. Luckily, it was Johnny who opened the door. I don’t know what I would’ve done if it were his mother or father. He saw my bog witch appearance and quickly joined me on the porch, shutting the door behind him.

Bea…?

I pulled away when he reached for me. But I looked at him. I really looked at him. And I saw sixty-four years of babies and anniversaries and homemade sour cherry pudding.

The thing is, Johnny, I never wanted to live in Tacit County.

I think I grew up all at once that day. One lightning strike, and my biggest ending was over by 10:45. I heard a few years ago that Johnny got married, bought the cherry tree house, started a family.

Me? I got a ticket for the Greyhound bus, got off at the furthest stop it would let me.