Local Girls

The evening was clear, without storm clouds or thunder or any sign of rain, but when Margot Molinaro looked out her kitchen window, she noticed that a glowing object the size of a billiard ball was traveling along the metal fence in her backyard, moving more and more swiftly as it gathered momentum, throwing off sparks that flew out in every direction. Margot barely had time to move away from the window before the thing leapt into her house uninvited, stinking like sulfur and stopping the hands on the clock above the sink. The electromagnetic field inside the house went berserk; wires popped within the walls and every fuse blew.

As Margot watched, shoeless and completely surprised, the ball of lightning moved about the room at only a few inches above the floor, slowly, almost thoughtfully, as though searching for something it couldn’t seem to find. The lightning drew nearer and nearer to Margot’s bare feet; she closed her eyes, expecting to be burned alive, but the glowing ball suddenly veered away, then picked up speed, and with a whoosh, it hit the refrigerator. The lightning collapsed in a sputtering gasp, like a pan of overcooked rice, falling onto the vinyl tiles, where it left a gaping blue-black mark which sizzled like melted tar.

This strange and luminous phenomenon, which was reported the following day in all the local papers, along with a photograph of Margot looking puzzled and pale, had done as much damage as a small, contained hurricane. Margot had never been a good housekeeper, but now her place was such a disaster that she sat down and cried in the dark, a true necessity as the electricity was no longer working. When she’d pulled herself together, and had washed her face with bottled water—the electromagnetic force had also rattled the pipes, allowing only rusty water to come out of the tap—Margot lit a candle and made a list of things she now must do:

Figure out why things such as this only happened to her, when every other house on the block was perfectly fine and everyone else in the neighborhood had experienced nothing more unusual than dusky twilight and the call of the warblers, who sang at the very same hour each day.

The following morning, Margot went down to the hardware store and bought a gallon of yellow paint and a box of self-adhesive tiles for the kitchen, then headed over to scan the message board beside the door in search of a half-decent handyman whose services she could afford. Probably the best she could do was Johnny Rickets, who was well known in the neighborhood for his shoddy welding and even worse wiring, but as she took Johnny’s card from the board, the owner of the hardware store approached. Like everyone else in town, Mike Sutton had heard about the ball of lightning, and he was eager to see its effects. He took Johnny’s card from Margot’s hand and ripped it in two.

Mike showed up the following morning at seven, while Margot was out in the backyard boiling water for coffee on the barbecue, since the electric stove was on the blink. When Mike saw the devastation in her house, he was truly impressed. He accepted the cup of Sanka Margot offered, then went to examine the black marks on the wall. “These were some abnormally powerful electrical currents. I’ll bet your radio doesn’t work.”

Mike knelt to study the floor. “Must have been a geomagnetic storm.” Although he had inherited the hardware business from his father, Mike was much more interested in science, and most especially in the stars. People in town would see him on the roof of the store on summer nights, so intent on his telescope he didn’t notice when anyone waved or called out his name.

Margot spent the next few days painting and tearing up her old kitchen floor. By then Mike had completed the rewiring and fixed the sink; he assured Margot the mess was far easier to repair than it had looked to be, and he’d send her the bill in the mail. He must have fiddled with the radio and the refrigerator as well, because they were operating perfectly now, as was the stove. All the rest of that week, Margot cursed her fate as she put down her new kitchen floor. Her cousin Franny often came over in the afternoons, to keep Margot company; she’d pull off the paper backing on the tiles and carefully hand them over to Margot, even though she should have been home in bed. Franny had had the worst luck in the world, and although Margot had had the second-worst luck, it was difficult to complain in Franny’s presence.

“I don’t know exactly. I haven’t gotten the bill yet.” Margot poured them both iced tea. She didn’t say a word when Franny took out a cigarette. They both knew that Franny’s prognosis was terminal; certainly, after all she’d been through, she had the right to enjoy the time she had left.

But before he could, Margot had to call him back. This time she awoke on an ordinary Tuesday to find that her yard was covered with an odd gossamer netting. When she opened her back door she saw that the wispy stuff was made out of thousands of webs, each a parachute of sorts for a small brown spider. Mike came over that afternoon; he sprayed the lawn and all the shrubbery with a power hose to wash the webs away, but he insisted the spiders were harmless.

Margot stood on her back porch to watch Mike collect the last of the webbing, which was drifting from the low branches of a willow tree; she had chills up and down her legs, even though the weather was fine. When Mike started loading up his truck, she followed him out to the street.

Did you get the bill yet?” Franny asked the following week. Margot was working in the garden and Franny was lying on the chaise, covered by a wool blanket even though the day was unusually warm. Franny wore a hat and gloves, and shivered whenever a cloud drifted over the sun.

Margot had on a sleeveless white shirt and a pair of old shorts; her hands and legs were patchy with dirt. She was still pretty, even without her makeup, but what good would that do her? She used to care about her appearance, she used to be wild with hope, but now she worried too much. So far she had found close to a dozen brown spiders in her perennial bed and the soil felt odd to the touch. She dusted herself off, then came to sit on the edge of the chaise, placing Franny’s feet in her lap. “Maybe there’s a blight on this house. Maybe it was built over an ancient graveyard.”

To see if there was any way to work against her fate, Margot went down to the basement and turned off the water pressure. She emptied the bins of ice in her freezer and called to cancel her usual delivery of spring water. All the same, she awoke one night with a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. There was a clatter above her, as if stones were being thrown at her windows and walls. Her heart began to race, as though she were under attack. It was a warm spring night and the crickets were calling. Margot peered out her bedroom window; the neighborhood was peaceful and dark, but her own lawn and walkway seemed oddly shiny and bright. When she looked more closely, she saw that her property was covered with hailstones the size of eggs. The hail had torn through her roof and collected in piles in the attic; by morning the melting hail had leaked through the ceilings, leaving inches of water on the floor.

Mike arrived while Margot was mopping up the living room. She had preserved one hailstone in the freezer, carefully packaged in plastic wrap, so no one would dare call her a liar. The hailstone weighed four ounces and had a dark blue center. Mike looked it over thoughtfully, and while he did, Margot took a step backward; she had a rattling feeling in her chest, almost as if the hailstones were still falling.

When he went up to patch the roof, Margot fetched the pot of split pea soup she had made earlier, and walked around the corner to Franny’s. Margot had brought over dinner for the past few nights, and now her cousin Gretel met her at the side door.

Gretel had spent the past year caring for her mother, but now a nurse had been hired to assist her in the evenings. Still, Gretel only left her mother to go outside and smoke a cigarette or to cry. She didn’t care about lightning or hail, and she cared even less about soup, but Margot kissed her anyway and took the soup inside. She ladled out a bowl for herself and one for Franny, then brought a tray into the darkened bedroom.

No one but the nurse would ever eat the split pea soup, but that didn’t matter. Sometimes things happened for which there was no rational explanation and the best anyone could do was record and remember.

They held hands until Franny fell asleep. By the time Margot walked home, the sky was already darkening. Dusk fell onto the asphalt like a curtain or a dream, then spread over hedges and lawns. All the same, as soon as Margot turned the corner she could see Mike up on her roof, and try as she might, she couldn’t think of a single reason not to run home.