Lightning Rod

Spencer could not help his reaction when he opened the door. He knew it was rude and was immediately regretful, but the shocked look was already out there.

The man on his doorstep just smiled. Probably used to it. “I’m Mr. Coulomb,” he said. “The electrician.”

“Sure,” said Spencer. “Come in.”

Mr. Coulomb crossed the threshold, hand extended for the introductory handshake. His movements were quick and jerky. His legs brushed against each other, producing a dry crackling sound, like sheets pulled fresh from the dryer. When he shook Spencer’s hand, a tiny, stinging spark passed between them.

Spencer’s hand jerked back as if he’d been burned with a cigarette lighter. His head filled with visions of a vast cornfield, an enormous black oak tree as its centerpiece.

A hot blue flash bleached the vision. Spencer blinked.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little jumpy today.”

“Had a bad time of it?” Mr. Coulomb said. His smile was large and unusually bright. His teeth seemed lit from the inside.

“There’s no power in the kitchen,” Spencer said. “I have a big dinner planned for tonight. Steaks. It was the worst possible time.”

“It’s always the worst possible time,” Mr. Coulomb said. Coulomb. Was that French? His accent was flat, maybe Canadian, his voice was vaguely familiar for some reason, making Spencer think of a chalkboard with wavy lines and formulas written on it.

Math class? Why was Mr. Coulomb making him think of math class? Maybe it was his appearance. Yes, that was it. The thick white hair exploding out from his head, thick eyebrows. He didn’t have the mustache, but otherwise he looked a lot like Einstein. Albert Einstein with his finger stuck in a light socket.

But that should make me think of science class, not math class.

“Right,” Spencer agreed, stepping ahead of Mr. Coulomb to show the way. “It’s through here.”

“When was the house built, Mr. Spencer?”

“1969, I believe. But the electrical was redone in 1995.”

Mr. Coulomb nodded, running his finger along the wall, tracing an invisible line about three inches above his head. Spencer noticed for the first time that Mr. Coulomb did not have any tools. No tool belt, no tool box. How did he expect to fix anything with no tools?

His finger stopped. “There,” he said. “Break in the wire. Age. Dry rot in the insulation, maybe. Or rats.”

“Rats,” Spencer said.

Mr. Coulomb smiled knowingly. “Rats,” he said. “They chew on the wires, you know. They like the taste of it.”

Spencer nodded. Rats like the way wires taste?

Maybe it was one of those things only electricians know, gained through years of professional experience.

Mr. Coulomb stroked his fingertips across the spot on the wall. He leaned in, closed his eyes. His face was less than two feet away from it. His nostrils flared.

He was sniffing the place where he claimed the wires were broken. Like a scenting animal.

“Do you think you can fix it?”

Mr. Coulomb nodded. “Know I can fix it. Don’t take the job unless I’m sure.”

“How can you be sure from just a phone call?” Spencer asked. He immediately wished he hadn’t. Something in Mr. Coulomb’s face told Spencer he didn’t like being second-guessed.

The man shrugged, sending up a shower of tiny sparks. They shook out of his clothes, drifted up or fell immediately to the carpet, disappearing against the chaotic pattern.

“I always know,” he said.

Spencer stared. Had he really just seen sparks jump out of this man’s clothes?

“Guess you build up a lot of static, working around electricity all day,” Spencer said. Mr. Coulomb laughed. “Been all charged up like this since I was young,” he said. He turned to face Spencer, his right hand still stroking the same spot on the wall. His arm was at an awkward angle, fingertips moving back and forth. “Tell you a funny story?”

“Sure,” Spencer said. Did I really see sparks fly out of his clothes? Really saw that. Know I did.

“Once upon a time,” the man said, “there was a boy who had a very special talent. God shined a light down on him when he was only four years old, playing in a field behind his house.”

Spencer closed his eyes and saw the corn again. The spidery oak, branches fanning out toward heaven. His left eye twitched. He’d had the twitch for a long time. It came and went.

“It’s the way God talks to people sometimes,” Mr. Coulomb said. “Through the big things. Floods, earthquakes, tornados.”

“Lightning strikes,” Spencer said. The spidery oak had been ripped nearly in half by the radiant electrical energy, Spencer standing only ten feet away.

“Yes,” Mr. Coulomb said. “And lightning strikes. Some people draw that light to them, Mr. Spencer. The light of God.” Did I tell him my name?

Mr. Coulomb took two very slow, very deliberate steps toward Spencer. Spencer didn’t budge. Anger tugged at him. The twitch in his eye, already irritating, spiked the anger. “The light of God,” Spencer said. “Never heard it called that before.”

Mr. Coulomb closed the distance, smiling, standing near enough for Spencer to smell ozone on his breath.

“How many times, Mr. Spencer?” he asked. “How many times has God reached out for you? How many times has God spoken to you?”

Eight, Spencer wanted to say. Eight times. The words were dead lumps in his throat. Who was this man, knowing so much about him? Asking personal questions? Challenging him?

“You’re not the electrician,” Spencer said.

Mr. Coulomb’s grin was hostile. “Eight times you have been visited,” he said. “And still you do not rise to the mission.”

“I don’t know what this is,” Spencer said, “but if you’re not going to fix my electricity –“

Coulomb snapped his fingers. A small yellow globe of light formed at the point of collision. “You could do that yourself,” he said. “You choose not to.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You went to the circus when you were ten,” Mr. Coulomb said. “You were fascinated by Lectercutio the lightning eater. He could draw electrical energy from a Jacob's ladder into his mouth. Into his pores. Into his being.”

“I never went to the circus when I was a kid,” Spencer said. He did not remember going to the circus, but it felt like a lie anyway.

“Six months later lightning struck you from a clear blue sky while you sat on the front lawn playing with Tonka trucks,” Mr. Coulomb said. “Melted the trucks.”

“Get out of my house,” Spencer said. His voice had no weight, no force at all. Memories clicked into place. Dreams. Images.

None of these things really happened. Not one.

But if that were true, how did this man – a stranger - know about them?

Spencer asked him.

“It’s my job to know,” Mr. Coulomb replied. “Just as it is yours. But you seem unwilling to uphold your commitment, Mr. Spencer. To keep your promise.”

“I never made any promise,” Spencer said. “Get out of my house.” Mr. Coulomb smiled. “Our house,” he said. “Our house, Mr. Spencer. Until you rise to the mission. Until you commit to your purpose.”

Eight times. Three of those times, Spencer realized, he’d been standing in the same spot. Lightning never strikes twice in the same place? Who told you that? Who told you lightning bolts can’t come after you? Who told you lightning can’t chase you, laddering across the sky on spindle-legs of bright fire? That if you tried to hide from it, tried to run, the lightning would take the shape of a person and come after you again?

Who told you that?

“What do you want?” Spencer asked.

“I want you to keep your promise, Mr. Spencer.” Mr. Coulomb grinned. Sparks lit up his teeth.

“You can’t make me,” Spencer said. “You can’t.”

But that felt like a lie, too.

The doorbell rang, startling Mathers out of a sound sleep. An hour early? This was a first. He trudged to the door, tripping over a chair leg in the gloom. Damned lights. Hell of a time for the power to start acting up.

Mathers opened the door to the strangest man he had ever seen. He immediately thought: Ben Franklin, flying the kite in a lightning storm.

The man smiled. The movement of his lips across his teeth brought a flat crackling sound, like laundry pulled hot from the dryer.

He held his hand out to Mathers.

“I’m Rod Spencer,” he said. “The electrician.”