To prove it, and to prove there were no hard feelings, he ordered another beer. But this time he did not match it with one for Carrick.
The old campaigner slid onto the stool beside him.
‘About ten years ago there was a fella got hit by lightning out on the golf course,’ he said.
‘Killed him just as dead as shit. Now, there’s a man could have used a lightning rod right up on his head, am I right?’ He cackled, sending out a lot of stale beer-breath into Dohay’s face. Dohay smiled dutifully. ‘All the coins in his pockets were fused together. That’s what I heard. Lightning’s a funny thing. Sure is. Now, I remember one time…
A funny thing, Dohay thought, letting the old man’s words flow harmlessly over him, nodding in the right places out of instinct. A funny thing, all right, because it doesn’t care who or what it hits. Or when.
He finished his beer and went out, carrying his satchelful of insurance against the wrath of God – maybe the only kind ever invented – with him. The heat struck him like a hammerblow, but still he paused for a moment in the mostly deserted parking lot, looking up at the unbroken line of roof-ridge. $19.95, $29.95 tops, and the man couldn’t afford the outlay. He’d save seventy bucks on his combined insurance the first year, but he couldn’t afford the outlay – and you couldn’t tell him different with those clowns standing around yukking it up.
Maybe some day he would be sorry.
The seller of lightning rods got into his Buick, cranked up the air conditioning, and drove away west toward Concord and Berlin, his sample case on the seat beside him, running ahead of whatever storms might be whistling up the wind behind.
8.
In early 1974 Walt Hazlett passed his bar exams. He and Sarah threw a party for all of his friends, her friends, and their mutual friends – more than forty people in all. The beer flowed like water, and after it was over Walt said they could count themselves damn lucky not to have been evicted. When the last of the guests were seen out (at three in the morning), Walt had come back from the door to find Sarah in the bedroom, naked except for her shoes and the diamond chip earrings he had gone into hock to give her for her
birthday. They had made love not once but twice before falling into sodden slumber from which they awoke at nearly noon, with paralyzing hangovers. About six weeks later Sarah discovered that she was pregnant. Neither of them ever doubted that conception had occurred on the night of the big party.
In Washington, Richard Nixon was being pressed slowly into a corner, wrapped in a snarl of magnetic tapes. In Georgia, a peanut farmer, ex-Navy man and current governor named James Earl Carter had begun talking with a number of close friends about running for the job Mr. Nixon would soon be vacating.
In Room 619 of the Eastern Maine Medical Center, Johnny Smith still slept. He had begun to pull into a fetal shape.
Dr. Strawns, the doctor who had talked to Herb and Vera and Sarah in the conference room on the day following the accident, had died of burns in late 1973. His house had caught fire on the day. after Christmas. The Bangor fire department had determined that the fire had been caused by a faulty set of Christmas tree ornaments. Two new doctors, Weizak and Brown, interested themselves in Johnny’s case.
Four days before Nixon resigned, Herb Smith fell into the foundation of a house he was building in Gray, landed on a wheelbarrow, and broke his leg. The bone was a long time healing, and it never really felt good again. He limped, and on wet days he began to use a cane. Vera prayed for him, and insisted that he wrap a cloth that had been personally blessed by the Reverend Freddy Coltsmore of Bessemer, Alabama, around the leg each night when he went to bed. The price of the Blessed Coltsmore Cloth (as Herb called it) was $35. It did no good that he was aware of.