“Where I’m from, quitters get scalped,” said Red Mabel. In response, Ronda moved her chair away from Red Mabel, silent as always.
“You were born in Pasadena,” pointed out Laverna, sighing. “I’m going to be blunt,” she said, although this was hardly necessary. Laverna was always blunt. “Rachel has never played a sport in her life. She’s in right field for a reason.”
Rachel smiled, not realizing that her mother was insulting her. Behind Rachel, lesbian Elvis put another miner in a headlock, took her down to the floor. This was common when there was cheating, at cribbage or in relationships. Laverna ignored it and continued. “And we have another problem. Ellis is fielding a new team this year,” said Laverna. “High school girls.”
“Athletic little bitches,” said Red Mabel.
“Exactly,” said Laverna. “So that makes an even eight teams in the league.”
“We should send Winsome Shankley over there to fuck them until they’re crippled,” offered Red Mabel, met with toasts and cheers from Martha and Ginger.
“Enough,” said Laverna, and the cheering stopped. “They are teenagers, and that is disgusting.” She leaned forward and whispered to her team. “I made a deal with the Ellis cops. If those goddamn little princesses get caught with beer, they’re out. I’ve already arranged a kegger in the woods.”
The cheering began again. Red Mabel stood and helped their coach sip more whiskey through the pink straw.
“The tournament is in Missoula this year,” said Laverna. “We just need to win half of our games. I have faith.”
Rachel raised her hand. “Have we made it to the tournament before?”
“Shut up,” said Laverna as Tish returned with another round of drinks, including a fresh can of Diet Coke. “We’ve got a good team,” said Laverna. “Minus a few question marks.” Red Mabel pointed at Della, who blushed, and Rachel, who ignored her. Rachel watched as the headlock in the back degenerated into some sort of crabwalk leg wrestling. The cribbage boards had been abandoned. “I’m certain that you veterans will help whip these girls into shape.”
“You got it, Coach,” said Diane Savage Connor, always the team cheerleader.
Laverna scowled. “First practice is in a week. Get your gloves out of the closet, girls. This year, let’s try not to embarrass ourselves.” Laverna’s version of a pep talk elicited cheers from the usual suspects. Her entire outfield remained quiet.
The other teams in the league had uniforms. The other teams in the league had burly batters and outfielders who darted for balls like they were lottery tickets falling from the sky. The other teams practiced four times per week. The Flood Girls had Laverna, and this year, she had already been shot and hijacked by the return of her daughter. Nothing worse could happen.
Her positive thinking was interrupted by the silver miners, as usual. Elvis and her crew yanked another miner by the feet, pulled her past the Flood Girls. Laverna checked to make sure the woman was conscious. The miner sliding across the floor had a baby face, and a shaved head that struck the legs of several empty chairs. Drinks sloshed out of cups. Laverna called for napkins as the baby-faced miner was pulled out through the entrance. The open door blasted away the gloomy haze inside the Dirty Shame, and the team squinted and shielded their eyes as the sun reflected off the snowy banks piled on the street. The Flood Girls watched her feet slide through the dirty slush on the sidewalk, followed by the last of the miners, making her way outside. The door shut by itself, extinguished the light of another winter day in Quinn.
* * *
Laverna could not acclimate to the casts. She knocked things over with her permanently outstretched arms, coffee mugs, ashtrays, wall clocks. Red Mabel always cleaned up the mess.
The worst part was the sleeping. She was still in considerable pain, even though the doctor promised that it would get better, day by day. Like most men, he was a liar. Laverna was now sleeping on her side, one pillow under the cast on her left arm, and three extra painkillers just to make that tolerable. She found herself waking every other hour, stuck there, partially mummified, and she would peer at the bare left wall until she could sleep again. She decided to get a piece of art, a seascape or something, so at least she’d have something to stare at.
The second worst part was the itching inside of her casts. She begged Red Mabel to burrow around, stick objects inside, combs, a fireplace poker, a toothbrush, anything.
Tabby or Ginger came at lunchtime to feed her. Red Mabel was always busy at lunchtime. Laverna doubted it was anything nefarious, just that Red Mabel was exhausted from caretaking. Laverna endured the chatty Tabby saying complimentary things about Rachel, while spooning tomato soup into Laverna’s mouth, and stabbing cut-up pieces of grilled cheese sandwich with a fork. Ginger was slightly better. She always brought real food from a restaurant, and while she fed Laverna she talked about business and filled her in on the gossip she pocketed at the Sinclair.
Laverna had a plan. She needed Black Mabel, and Ginger agreed to find her. Ginger had survived cancer and tried all of the experimental therapies. There were rumors in Quinn that Ginger continued to grow marijuana in her greenhouse.
That evening, Laverna heard the distinctive rumble of Black Mabel’s Subaru Brat. She did her very best to come to a sitting position on the couch, and this act took so long that Black Mabel was already in the door by the time Laverna accomplished it.
“Jesus Christ,” said Black Mabel. “It’s roasting in here.”
“I need drugs,” said Laverna.
“Okay,” Black Mabel said, and unzipped her long leather jacket. Many pockets were hand-sewn into the lining, and Laverna knew they contained Black Mabel’s stashes. Laverna was nearly salivating.
“I need something to help me sleep, and I need something to get rid of this itching.”
Black Mabel considered this. “I don’t have anything to help with the itching. All my pills make people itch even more.”
“I don’t care,” said Laverna. “Just give me something that will knock me out. And light me a cigarette.”
Black Mabel stuck a lit cigarette in Laverna’s mouth and began to unzip pockets. She pulled out Baggies and Baggies of pills, and laid them out across the coffee table. She began to move the Baggies around, in some strange order, like it was a shell game. Finally, she held up a Baggie that contained seven small green pills.
“This oughta do the trick,” said Black Mabel. “Truckers love them when they’re trying to come down off of speed.”
“Fabulous,” said Laverna. “There’s a twenty on the kitchen table.”
Black Mabel came back with the money. She ashed Laverna’s cigarette. “I hope they help. You look like shit.”
“I need another favor,” said Laverna. “You’ve got to put one in my mouth, and get me some water.”
“It’s only seven o’clock,” said Black Mabel. “Are you sure you want to go to sleep right now?”
“Goddammit,” said Laverna. “What the hell kind of drug dealer are you? Give me two.”
Black Mabel did not protest. Laverna swallowed the pills she placed on her outstretched tongue.
“Do you want me to come back later and check on you?”
“No,” said Laverna. “I want you to leave.”
An hour later, she lay in bed, incapacitated, too drugged and dreamy for sleep.
When Red Mabel showed up, she cursed Black Mabel for drugging her friend. Laverna could barely talk, just muttered about the pills.
“Do you itch anymore?”
“No,” said Laverna. “I can’t feel anything.”
“That’s good,” said Red Mabel.
“I can’t stop the thinking.”
“That’s not good,” said Red Mabel. “What is it?”
“Rachel,” said Laverna.
“Of course,” Red Mabel said, and sat down on the bed, held Laverna’s hand.
Laverna had no more words. She lay there and thought of the year her life burned down.
Snow
White
Jake was on the roof again. Rachel drank coffee and spied on him through her kitchen window. He wore a pair of thickly padded snowmobile overalls, black and neon green. She knew he did not snowmobile. He wore a black fake fur coat that was much too big for him, and a black wool cap with fake fur on the brim. Even the beads in his hands were black. He stopped briefly at each bead as he pulled the chain through his fingers. His pauses were too short to be prayers, and he didn’t seem the religious type. He stopped when the light caught the small silver cross at the end, and dangled from his hand. She was transfixed, and could watch this for hours. She did not need cable television. Rachel knew for certain that he had left the rosary on her doorknob.
Fourteen years ago, she had spied on the house she now owned, watching and waiting for her father, who never seemed to be at home. Rachel had come full circle, but her path had been circuitous and reckless, unlike Krystal’s: she had never moved from the same trailer. Krystal lived in the trailer with her brother, Rocky, and just like everyone else, he was in love with Rachel. Unlike everyone else, he was bashful about it. They were orphans, or maybe their parents had abandoned them in Quinn like kittens in a cardboard box. The trailer was unsupervised by real adults—Krystal and Rocky were simple, like children, living on macaroni and cheese mixed with tuna fish, and Rachel slept on their couch and learned to love their casserole. Laverna was just grateful to have Rachel out of the house.
Jake opened his Walkman and flipped over the cassette. Perhaps the love of music was genetic. Rachel and Krystal had taken a road trip to Seattle in September of 1977 to see Fleetwood Mac, and they were both in love with Lindsey Buckingham. Rachel was twelve going on eighteen, and Krystal was eighteen going on twelve. Krystal proved this by getting high on cocaine and having sex with a stranger in their hotel room. To be fair, he was a glamorous stranger, an actual roadie for the band, although he was only responsible for wiping down Mick Fleetwood’s cymbals.
Krystal found out she was pregnant, and that’s when the fun stopped. Rocky took care of Krystal and the baby. Rachel returned intermittently, to give Rocky cash for beer, and she pretended to be interested in the baby while Rocky went to the gas station. Krystal was just another young mother in Quinn, unwashed hair, fat and poor in clothes from the thrift store. Rachel watched out the window to avoid looking at Krystal, focused on any sign of life in her father’s trailer. It was a relief when Rocky would finally return with a twelve-pack.
The trailer remained the same, and the boy took to the roof to escape it.
She continued to spy, drinking cup after cup of coffee, until the boy had to flip the cassette again. Rachel looked at her watch and cursed. The coffee was an attempt to propel herself to an AA meeting, the first one she would attend in Quinn. She had chosen an outfit and fixed her hair and makeup hours ago, then forgot about her nerves while she spied on the boy. All she had to do was grab her coat and purse, and drive.
Before the truck warmed, she smoked the last cigarette in her pack. She had forgotten how small her hometown was, and out of habit, had scheduled twenty minutes of travel time. In Quinn, twenty minutes would get you to the next county. She had time to buy more cigarettes.
The gas station was empty, and the cashier was her new teammate. Rachel attempted small talk with left field, and the woman was terrified. In her truck, Rachel turned up the heat, cracked her window, and lit up. Once again, Rachel had become a smoker.
Athena had turned to food after she sobered up. Athena had stuffed herself to create a buffer for protection from any outside threats. Rachel tried to find serenity, was told to pray until it found her. In Quinn, she said her prayers out of routine, and they did not make her feel stronger, just confused and angry, overwhelmed. The claustrophobia, the actual weight of all that snow, had caused doubt to grow around her edges. Like black mold.
She needed a meeting desperately. She smoked another cigarette as she fishtailed out of the gas station parking lot, rewound a Depeche Mode song as she drove. She heard only half of it; the library was a two-minute drive.
Inside, as she passed the librarian, Rachel turned her face away. That was Peggy Davis, and she had been the sole librarian in Quinn, the only employee since it had been built in 1954.
Rachel rushed past, through the stacks and the aisles and the rows of microfiche machines. She walked so fast that the pages of Redbook magazines ruffled in her wake.
Once she entered the room, Rachel’s plans to pretend to be someone else were dashed. She knew every single one of these old men: Mr. Tyler, her former biology teacher. Mr. Fisher, the conductor of her high school marching band. John Fitchett, Ginger’s former brother-in-law, who had always driven the snowplow in Quinn, which made him more invaluable than the mayor. Pat Garrison, Black Mabel’s father. PJ Garrison, Black Mabel’s older brother. Larry Giefer, the owner of the grocery store. And the Chief of the Quinn Volunteer Fire Department, who did not seem to possess a real name. He identified himself as the Chief, and just like in the fire hall, he did not fuck around.
Seven old men, and her. She felt like Snow White. She stared at the seven dwarfs around her; they weren’t particularly short, just wizened and gnarled from years of hard drinking. She poured herself some coffee, sat down on a metal folding chair, and checked her watch.
John arranged the books carefully, passed a small wicker basket to Pat Garrison, who put in a dollar for the Seventh Tradition. When the basket was passed to Rachel, she dropped in a five-dollar bill. That was approximately the number of meetings she had chickened out of since returning to Quinn. John cleared his throat, and began. “Hello, my name is John, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hello, John,” said all of the men.
“I guess I’m chairing the meeting tonight.”
“Damn right,” uttered the Chief.
Larry read “How It Works,” and Pat read “The Promises.”
John looked right at her when he announced the topic. “This morning, I read out of the big book, like I always do, and I couldn’t get any peace out of the damn thing. I just kept thinking about the fucking snow.” The men laughed at this. “The snow pays my bills, I guess. I’ve been really depressed since my daughter left. She was only here for two days, but she managed to bring up every single shitty thing I ever did to her. She hasn’t seen me drunk for eight years. I guess she needed to poke the bear, or something. But I’ve been depressed ever since. So, this morning, I called my sponsor.” John winked at the Chief, who nodded. “He reminded me that my past is just a reference book, like here at the library. I can put it on a shelf and leave it there. I only take it down to open for a fellow drunk when I need to share my experience. I don’t have to live in that shit. Thanks.”
“Thanks, John,” said all the men in the room. Rachel tried to avoid small meetings, because it meant that everybody had to share, or share several times. She discovered that Mr. Tyler’s first name was Jack, and Mr. Fisher’s first name was Jerry. She learned that two of the men in the room had served time in prison for felonies, and one had been committed to the state institution. Rachel knew this meeting would make her feel better, and wished she hadn’t been so damn scared. She listened as each man shared how they dealt with their past, and looked at her watch. There were still twenty minutes left. She would have to speak.
“Hi. My name is Rachel, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hello, Rachel.” She had feared there would be an edge to their chorus, but there was not.
“Thanks for the topic, you asshole.” The men laughed, and Rachel knew that she had officially broken the ice, earned her chair in the room. “I’m back in Quinn because of my past. I’ve been sober for over a year, and I’ve worked all the steps, but I haven’t found peace. I certainly haven’t found joy. So, I’m back.” The men nodded their heads, and the Chief stared at her curiously. He did not seem like a man who had ever involved himself in town gossip. “You all knew me as a little girl, and then a teenager. I still get sad when I think about what I di
d to this town. I think about all the wives of the men I slept with, think about their children. I think about my mother, and Red Mabel.” Larry Giefer grimaced as Rachel mentioned the name.
“After I left, things got even worse. I went to college, and I should have been discovering who I really was, and who I wanted to be. Instead, I discovered that I could black out if I drank enough. It was the cure to the pain, I guess. I set my sights on being the prettiest girl at every punk rock show. If not the prettiest, the wildest. I thought I was hot shit. Tried to be my own parent, and sucked at it. But I kept going.” Rachel stopped, took a sip of her cold coffee, looked Larry Giefer directly in the eye. “And then I wasn’t the prettiest girl at the punk rock shows anymore. People stopped writing graffiti about me. I thought I had all these friends. All I had was a bad reputation and a bunch of venereal diseases. I failed out of school, and took a bunch of shitty jobs, and kept drinking. Nobody could tolerate my bullshit, so I drank by myself. And I kept drinking. I didn’t want to clean up the mess I made, so I kept drinking. I was scared. And finally, I ended up in these rooms.” Rachel paused and made eye contact with the Chief. “I came back here to make things right with this town. It took me until now to realize that I need to make things right with myself. Thanks.”
“Thanks, Rachel.”
She used the ladies’ room after the meeting and regarded her reflection in the mirror. She combed her fingers through her hair and applied lip gloss.
Outside the library, the men were smoking, as eddies of dustlike snow swirled in the street.
Mr. Tyler had a cigarette waiting for her. Even though she had a pack in her purse, she accepted it gratefully, leaned in as he cupped his hand around the flame. He did not seem surprised to see her. Rachel wondered if she had given off a future-alcoholic vibe in biology class—she had refused to dissect things but would tear herself apart later in life.
The Flood Girls Page 9