he wished it, that he would die, that his heart would stop beating, that the final low traces on the EEG would go flat, that he would just flicker out like a guttering candle in a pool of wax: that he would die and release them.
7
The seller of lightning rods arrived at Cathy’s roadhouse in Somersworth, New Hampshire, in the early afternoon of a blazing summer’s day less than a week after the Fourth of July in that year of 1973; and somewhere not so far away there were, perhaps, storms only waiting to be born in the warm elevator shafts of summer’s thermal updrafts.
He was a man with a big thirst, and he stopped at Cathy’s to slake it with a couple of beers, not to make a sale. But from force of long habit, he glanced up at the roof of the low, ranch-style building, and the unbroken line he saw standing against the blistering gunmetal sky caused him to reach back in for the scuffed suede bag that was his sample case.
Inside, Cathy’s was dark and cool and silent except for the muted rumble of the color TV on the wall. A few regulars were there, and behind the bar was the owner, keeping an eye on “As The World Turns” along with his patrons.
The seller of lightning rods lowered himself onto a bar stool and put his sample case on the stool to his left. The owner came over. “Hi, friend. What’ll it be?”
“A Bud,” the lightning rod salesman said. “And draw another for yourself, if you’re of a mind.”
“I’m always of a mind,” the owner said. He returned with two beers, took the salesman’s dollar, and left three dimes on the bar. “Bruce Carrick,” he said, and offered his hand.
The seller of lightning rods shook it. “Dohay is the name,” he said, “Andrew Dohay.” He drained off half his beer.
“Pleased to meet you,” Carrick said. He wandered off to serve a young woman with a hard face another Tequila Sunrise and eventually wandered back to Dohay. “From out of town?”
“I am,” Dohay admitted. “Salesman.” He glanced around. “Is it always this quiet?”
“No. It jumps on the weekends and I do a fair trade through the week. Private parties is where we make our dough—if we make it. I ain’t starving, but neither am I driving a Cadillac.” He pointed a pistol finger at Dohay’s glass. “Freshen that?”
“And another for yourself, Mr. Carrick.”
“Bruce.” He laughed. “You must want to sell me something.”
When Carrick returned with the beers the seller of lightning rods said: “I came in to lay the dust, not to sell anything. But now that you mention it ...” He hauled his sample case up onto the bar with a practiced jerk. Things jingled inside it.
“Oh, here it comes,” Carrick said, and laughed.
Two of the afternoon regulars, an old fellow with a wart on his right eyelid and a younger man in gray fatigues, wandered over to see what Dohay was selling. The hard-faced woman went on watching “As The World Turns.”
Dohay took out three rods, a long one with a brass ball at the tip, a shorter one, and one with porcelain conductors.
“What the hell ...” Carrick said.
“Lightning rods,” the old campaigner said, and cackled. “He wants to save this ginmill from God’s wrath, Brucie. You better listen to what he says.”
He laughed again, the man in the gray fatigues joined him, Carrick’s face darkened, and the lightning rod salesman knew that whatever chance he had had of making a sale had just flown away. He was a good salesman, good enough to recognize that this queer combination of personalities and circumstances sometimes got together and queered any chance of a deal even before he had a chance to swing into his pitch. He took it philosophically and went into his spiel anyway, mostly from force of habit:
“As I was getting out of my car, I just happened to notice that this fine establishment wasn’t equipped with lightning conductors—and that it’s constructed of wood. Now for a very small price—and easy credit terms if you should want them—I can guarantee that ...”
“That lightning’ll strike this place at four this afternoon,” the man in the gray fatigues said with a grin. The old campaigner cackled.
“Mister, no offense,” Carrick said, “but you see that?” He pointed to a golden nail on a small wooden plaque beside the TV near the glistening array of bottles. Spiked on the nail was a drift of papers. “All of