Lightning Strikes (Hudson 2)

I fell asleep dreaming this dream, but in the morning, the cold reality of where I was popped my fantasy like a soap bubble. Boggs thundered by my room as usual and I got up to wash, dress and help with breakfast. I knew I was moving about like a zombie, doing everything mechanically. Mrs. Chester and Mary Margaret both looked at me with curiosity.

Mary Margaret nervously folded and unfolded napkins for a moment before hurrying out. Now it was time for my suspicious little mind to lift my

scrutinizing eyes and search the shadows through which Mary Margaret moved each and every day. I made a mental note to talk with her the first chance we had for some privacy. She needed someone to talk to more than I did, I thought.

I didn't eat much of a breakfast after my chores. Desp

ite what I had thought was a good night's sleep, I still moved like someone carrying pails loaded with rocks on her shoulders. Yesterday's rain left a cool breeze behind and there were still dark, brooding clouds hovering around the city. I did take an umbrella this time, but it didn't rain at all before I reached the school.

Randall was waiting for me in the lobby and jumped up the moment I appeared.

"I tried to call you last night," he said, "but that grinch who runs the house answered the phone and said they don't take phone calls for you. I should contact you on your own time, whatever that meant. What happened? Why did you come bursting into my vocal lesson and where did you go?"

"I don't want to discuss it, Randall, other than to say you had no right to tell Leslie and Catherine about me. They think it's amusing and to tell you the truth, I'm very disappointed in you," I added.

"I just thought you needed female advice," he explained. "If anyone here could understand what happened to you, I thought it would be those two."

"You should have asked me first," I said, unrelenting. He nodded.

"I'm sorry. I'll make sure they don't go blabbing it about the school."

"As my mama used to tell us, once the bell's rung, you don't unring it. I've got to get to class."

"Wait. Do you want to meet for lunch? We can talk some more and decide what to do," he suggested.

"Whatever I do from now on, Randall, should be something I've decided on my own. This isn't some little drama we can play out together."

"But..."

"Let me have some private time," I said. "I really need to be by myself for a while."

"Okay," he said reluctantly. "I'm sorry."

"You know," I said thinking a bit, "I bet I have the record for receiving apologies from people who should be kind and loving to me. My mother should have named me Sorry. Then, I could always reply, I'm sorry, too, and it would make some sense."

I hurried away from him, up the stairs and to my drama-speech class. Before class began, Leslie and Catherine tried to talk to me about it all again, and I told them in clear terms to mind their own business. Neither was offended, no matter how sharply I spoke. I began to wonder if anything would offend them.

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?