Lightning in a Bottle

“Tom,” the old matriarch bellowed, addressing the boy clad in tattered clothes sitting in the chair in front of her. The candlelight cast shadows upon the creases of her face as if they were writhing black rivers. “Thomas, can you hear me?” The boy did not answer.

It was often difficult for the Directress to know whether the rebellious boy had truly missed her calling outs or he was using his hearing loss as an excuse to focus on his usual and curious tinkering with household objects. However, in this case, the Directress guessed from the dumbstruck look on Tom’s face that he had indeed understood the message.

“I-“ Tom muttered, “hadda father?”

“Yes,” the Directress nodded. “It was always a possibility, of course, that you were lost rather than abandoned. Perhaps you wandered off at a wrong train station then stowed yourself away on the back of a carriage. Regardless, the confirming letters arrived by courier a few days ago.”

The Directress produced from her desk a crumpled parcel.

“Your physical descriptions match, and of course, your name. You were too young to be able to babble anything except ‘Tom,’ but I think in this case it makes the matter rather certain. And of course - look.”

The matriarch reached into the parcel and pulled out a creased black and grey photograph. It was of a man with a great white beard to whom Tom bore a striking resemblance. The boy’s jaw dropped.

“Dare I say,” the often stern matriarch’s face betrayed a cautious smile. “It is settled.”

With his mouth still agape, Tom reached out for the photograph. The matriarch handed over the picture and the boy glared at the face of his father who he had imagined many a time.

“I…“ Tom stuttered. “I never got to met hem,”

“Thomas, I am indeed very sorry. But you should know that it was your father’s dying wish to look for you one last time, and he would have been very glad that his boy is alive and well, especially during a time of war like this. And before he passed, your father left you with something.”

The Directress presented Tom with a black leather-bound notebook. The matte cover glowed serenely against the wavering candlelight.

“He wished for you to fill this with your dreams. I know that you have great many thoughts and interests. This will be the perfect place to document your little experiments.”

Tom took the notebook in his unsteady hands. He struggled to form words.

“Drems -” he managed to say. “Its true, ma’am. I’ve had many wishes for maself… of what I will become once I depaht from this orphanage. I believe we live during exciting times, fantastic relly, with railroad tracks and telegraph lines sprawling all across this nation. There are always ideas in my hed, of machines and gadgets and chemistry. But…” Tom’s fingers clutched the notebook. His eyes wandered to the ground.

“I have no schooling. I didn’t mind working for the railroads, nor do I mind sending telegraphs, but I wonder if I can truly do gret things, or anything of significance at all, relly. Ya have been nice to me, and I wasn’t sad to call this place home… But there are so many people who are more learned than me, wealthier than me, and who are of sound body… and not hahd of hearing.”

The Directress took a moment to consider Tom’s words.

“Do you know that the Union’s very president, Mr. Lincoln himself, was rarely educated?”

Tom looked up at the matriarch. There was a small glint in his eyes. “I… did not know that.”

“If a man can rise to lead our nation through a Civil War with nothing but his own learning and hard work, then why shouldn’t an orphan, even one who is hard of hearing, be able to leave his own mark on this world? Besides, your father left you with more than just this notebook.”

“What else did he leave?”

“Well, if the letters are to be believed…” the Directress made a show of rummaging through some of the papers. “He left twenty-thousand dollars to your name. You simply ought to find your family who now reside in Michigan.”

Tom looked as if he was struck by lightning. “I’m sorry ma’am, I couldn’t hear ya well. You said two-thousand dollars? That’s more than an entire year’s worth of work for meh!”

“Twenty,” the Directress annunciated the word. “Twenty. Thousand. U.S. Dollars.”

Time stopped.

The sound of raindrops bombarding the orphanage’s rooftop suddenly became audible. Tom hadn’t noticed it before because of the talking. It must have been quite a storm if he was able to hear the rainfall. His hearing was getting worse by the year, and Tom could never hear fainter sounds like the chirping of birds at dawn or the rustling of trees anymore. Only the thunderous roars of steam locomotives marking the great march of modern industry left a mark on him and excited his soul.

Lightning and thunder cracked through the air outside, officializing the storm. Tom looked down at the notebook on his lap.

“Why-“ he blurted. “Why, I might make something out of myself after all!” Tom sprang out of his chair and hugged the Directress, much to her surprise. The boy had never shown affection like this before. She embraced him in return. “Thank ya, ma’am. Thank ya for finding my family.”

“Very best of luck to you, Tom.”

Tom broke away, and headed excitedly toward the door. “I need to go for a walk,” he said. “I need to take some time to think about this all!”

“It’s pouring outside!”

“I gotta coat!”

And Tom was off. He clutched the notebook and a pencil beneath his coat and ran through the downpour and puddles as he yelled and burst out in screams of joy concealed by cracks of lightning and thunder until he reached an empty train station where he had often worked selling newspapers and candy. He found a dry bench beneath an awning by which he stood and gathered his breath. Tom took off his wet coat and took a seat. Kerosene lamps dimly lit up parts of the building. He drew a big breath.

Tom tilted his head to the sky, and smiled.

Another bolt of lightning streaked across the heavens and illuminated the whole station for a moment. The flash dwarfed the kerosene lamps. What awesome power. Tom thought about Benjamin Franklin with his kite, reaching out to the sky to harness such a fearsome force. What a fascinating concept, and how unfathomably brave it was to try to understand much less control lightning. And yet, scientists of the modern era had somehow trapped that same awe-inspiring power in metal wires to send telegraphs across the country.

Why couldn’t they harness that same force to light up the night? Illuminate the station or the whole town as brightly as that lightning, not just for an instance but for an entire evening? Capture that lightning and stuff it into a bottle where it couldn’t escape?

Tom opened the leather-bound notebook, and drew his first diagram. A glass bottle, translucent and clear, filled with the awesome force of lightning. Running through a wire just like it does for a telegraph. A small bulb of light.

Then it suddenly struck him that this notebook was from his late father. He could never lose it, so he’d better mark it. Besides, he knew his real name now. A grin came to his face. This would be his very first time writing his full, true name as it was meant to be. So on the last page, he wrote:

If found, kindly return to the care of

Thomas Alva Edison

1863