Laverna looked out at the Flood Girls, at Della trying to catch her breath, at the gay kid on second base, at the princess in right field. She swore silently.
Singer
Buley Savage Connor owned the thrift store, and she also owned Rocky Bailey. It was unclear what a sixty-year-old, morbidly obese woman would do with Rocky, but she kept him. He lived in her house, and despite the thirty-year age difference, and the gap in mental facility, it worked. Jake did not know his uncle Rocky very well, but knew that Buley kept him busy.
“My darling boy,” said Buley. “We’ve been waiting for you.” Buley rarely rose from the giant, overstuffed chair that loomed next to the front door, her lap and shoulders covered in white cats, climbing all over her massive frame. She had one in her armpit as Jake entered the store. Buley’s hair was as thin as her body was thick. What remained stood up in white curlicues around the circumference of her head, a crown of white tufts.
“As always,” said Jake. He stomped his feet, dislodging the snow from his moon boots. He leaned down to kiss the back of her hand. Her arm emerged from her enormous silken gown, the meat underneath her forearm sagging, her fingers puffy but immaculately clean. This was their ritual, his tribute to her grandiosity. She behaved like a queen, a real queen, not bossy like Laverna, but innately royal and kind.
“Reverend Foote continues to poach Catholics, and you continue to reap the rewards.” Buley pointed to a velvet pouch on the counter. Jake squealed with delight. “Go ahead, my boy. I left them there for you.”
Jake snatched the pouch and stood before Buley, holding court. She smiled as he untied the tasseled rope, slid the rosaries out with a shaking hand. He held them up to the low light of the lamps that surrounded Buley, five lamps in all, perched on low tables and crowding the cash register. Buley did not believe in overhead lighting. Jake dangled the rosaries from one hand, and Buley raised her reading glasses and peered through them like a magnifying glass: pearly pink beads and a crucifix of careworn gold, mahogany beads and a crucifix carved from a green stone. Worn in spots from the oil from many hands, the weight of thousands of prayers spoken, and hopefully heard.
“They take my breath away,” proclaimed Jake.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” said Buley. She reached around the cat, revealing more of her fleshy white arm as she pointed to the velveteen ottoman where she stored things for Jake. The ottoman had once been white but had yellowed over the years; the embroidered peacocks and the delicate brass hinges remained vivid. The legs were long lost, and it took on a new life as an upholstered box, Jake’s favorite box in the world.
Jake sat on the edge of the thick rug underneath Buley’s throne, placed the box between her puffy ankles and her silver slippers, covered in tiny bells. This was another ritual. He opened the box, and removed each item, and held it up for Buley to see. Even though Jake shopped at the thrift store weekly, Buley pretended to forget the things she directed Rocky to pull from the boxes and garbage bags of donated clothing left at the back door.
“A corduroy vest, the color of tangerines,” pronounced Buley, as wide-eyed Jake held it before her. They examined the dark blue stitching, and the cerulean lining, in perfect condition. He carefully folded it, and lay it across his lap.
“That is from the seventies. Seems strange to claim it as vintage, but it has charm for days.” Jake held up a T-shirt, purple, emblazoned with a slightly peeling iron-on decal, a glittering pink witch surrounded by lime-green frogs.
The final item made him gasp, which caused the cat to un-wedge itself, and leap to the top of a cedar curio cabinet. Buley chuckled, and Jake stood up excitedly and held the pants up to his own waist. “Authentic sailor pants, black wool, cut tight through the hips. Just the way I prefer my sailors, although I’ve never seen the ocean.” Jake traced the pants with one finger, the material blooming out into bell bottoms, the front a cunning display of giant black buttons and heavily stitched eyelets.
“Perfection!” Jake spun in a circle, the pants swinging out before him.
“I’ve never heard of a sailor in your size,” said Buley. “Maybe they had a battleship just for midgets.”
“These are breathtaking,” said Jake.
“I knew you would like them,” said Buley. “I probably have a sailor hat around here somewhere. Your uncle Rocky isn’t here, so you’ll have to look for yourself. I gave him the day off. His knee is still bothering him.”
“I’ll take it all,” said Jake.
“Of course you will,” said Buley.
“I’m going to keep shopping,” said Jake.
“I encourage that,” said Buley.
The store was silent today. Usually, Buley would be yelling at Rocky, who never responded, just winked at Jake and muttered the same word: Women. And then his uncle would sigh contentedly, return to pushing a broom, folding Levi’s, wiping paperbacks down with a wet rag.
The thrift store smelled like reheated casseroles and disintegrating paperbacks. Jake hated Quinn, because nothing ever changed. But inside the thrift store, he never failed to find something new among the old and used. The things the people of this town were willing to part with were always more interesting than the people themselves.
Jake walked past the stacks of blue jeans, and the musty-smelling rack of Western-style shirts. Jake coveted the pearl buttons, but the sweat stains were disgusting.
He avoided the bottom shelf at the back of the third aisle. When he had discovered the piles of Frank’s clothes, he nearly cried. He could not even look at them now. Rachel had no idea how much time he had spent picking out those suits, but Buley did. Rocky placed Frank’s Forest Service uniforms on the same shelf, consolidating one man’s entire wardrobe.
Jake dug through the paperbacks, even though he had passed over most of the titles before. He removed a Harlequin romance that took place entirely on a lifeboat. That was interesting. He considered buying another Agatha Christie novel, but he had made that mistake before. He shoved the Agatha Christie book back in place when he heard the front door open and the stomping of snow boots.
Diane Savage Connor, Buley’s daughter, removed her coat and hung it beside the door. This was the first time Jake had seen Diane in the store. Buley held out her hand for Diane to kiss, but Diane rolled her eyes and kissed her mother on the forehead.
“Diane,” Buley announced, and crossed one giant leg, the bells on her slippers ringing out through the store. “Tell me all about your latest conquest.”
Diane ignored this. “Is he here?” Jake watched Diane crane her neck, peering over the enormous aisles.
“Yes,” said Buley. “When are you going to settle down?” Diane absentmindedly stroked the white cat, who stretched out, luxuriating at her touch. “You are much too vivacious to end up a spinster.”
“I’m only thirty-six,” said Diane. “I’m exploring every opportunity.”
“If that’s what you want to call it,” said Buley. “We had another word, in my day.”
Diane ignored this as well. “Where is he?”
Buley pointed to him, and Jake stood up among the boxes of paperbacks. Diane was upon him instantly, fast as always. He could not fathom what she wanted; he barely knew her, had always worshipped her from afar. Jake couldn’t help but look up from his scorebook when she burst into motion at shortstop, a blur of finely muscled limbs and glossy black hair. At school, Jake blushed when she stopped him in the hallway, even though she wasn’t one of his teachers. She made a point to compliment his outfits, the only person in town who did so.
“Come with me,” she said, on the move as always. “I’m sorry, but I only have fifteen minutes.” Jake followed her through the store, past the woodstove, and into the back rooms where customers were not allowed. Here was where Rocky sorted the donations, and where Buley kept her hot plate. A tiny bathroom was exposed, with no walls for modesty. He watched the carefully woven braid swing across Diane’s back, and she was not wearing her demure school clothes. Today she wore tight
pink slacks and a black angora sweater set.
“Are you going on a date?” He was slightly out of breath. She moved so fast.
She turned around and smiled. “Of course,” she said. She stopped at a small green box, latched like a suitcase. “Here we are.”
“Yes,” said Jake, still amazed that she had sought him out for some mysterious reason. Trigonometry and statistics were still years away.
“I didn’t want to give you this at school,” she said, speaking rapidly, crouching down and flicking at the latches. “I know how cruel the other kids can be, and besides, this little fucker is heavy.”
“I’m not very strong,” admitted Jake.
“Eat your vegetables,” said Diane. The latches sprung, she lifted the cover. It was a sewing machine, an older model, the color of liver.
“Holy crap,” Jake said, and covered his mouth with one hand.
“This was mine,” said Diane. “Everything I wore to high school I sewed myself. It was my way of rebelling against my mother.” She reached under the machine and popped out a smart little drawer. Inside, small instruments and apertures gleamed. “I even made my own prom dress,” said Diane, “but I won’t tell you what year it was, because a lady never reveals her age.”
“I love you,” said Jake.
“That’s inappropriate,” Diane said, and shoved away a cat, who sniffed around her legs. “I will tell you that the dress was awful. Green silk chiffon. You have no idea how hard it is to sew chiffon. I want you to have this.”
“I’m freaking out right now,” said Jake.
“Relax,” said Diane. “I see you in the hallways, and I see your outfits, and I can tell you’ve got flair, kid.” She checked her watch.
“Flair,” repeated Jake. He let the word hang there. It seemed like a profanity in this town.
“This is a Singer from 1952. It’s got a zigzagger, which probably means nothing to you.” She rushed through the introductions, unlatching a green and orange box hidden inside the lid. Diane pointed at things, and Jake struggled to keep up. “Here’s the foot pedal, and all your needles, and most important, instructions.”
“Instructions,” said Jake. Diane held up a miniature hardcover, water-stained but still legible: Sew You Want to Learn to Sew by Erma Thomas.
“Yes, I know it’s a terrible title,” said Diane. “Puns for idiot housewives.” She checked her watch again. “How are your math skills?”
“Right now, my class is dividing fractions,” said Jake. “I’ve been writing letters to Audrey Hepburn.”
Diane raised an eyebrow, and replaced the lid on the machine. She crossed her arms, and addressed him impatiently. Apparently, math was no joke to Diane Savage Connor. “I believe in hard work, Jake. That applies to math and that applies to sewing. And dating, which is why I must bid you farewell. Call me if you have any questions.” She was walking now, and Jake followed her to the front of the store. She continued to speak to him over her shoulder. “My mother has all sorts of fabric and I’ve told her to keep a look out for thread and embellishments.” Jake shuddered, his body covered in goose bumps. Embellishments.
Diane kissed her mother again, and was buttoning her coat before Jake could stop her. The goose bumps were replaced by a heat in his cheeks as he realized the truth of the matter.
“I can’t have a sewing machine in my house,” said Jake. “Bert would kill me.”
Diane paused, her hand on the doorknob. “We know your situation, Jake.” She exited into the cold air, calling out to him as she left. “Make sure to thank my mother.”
“I always do,” said Jake sadly.
Buley reached for his sleeve. “Don’t you worry, dear. I promise to keep the machine safe until you find a place for it.”
“Okay,” said Jake. She squeezed his hand and slowly rose, cats leaping to find another plush resting place. Buley and her bells tinkled as she made her way behind the counter, and began to ring up his purchases. As usual, she made up her own prices. Buley would never know the true worth.
* * *
Jake crossed the railroad tracks and turned toward the river. Parallel to the tracks, there was only one paved road, and it led to the newer cemetery in town. Thoughtfully, the snowplow driver had kept this road clear, and Jake passed the cedar mill on his right, built on the river. The days of transporting shingles by barge were long gone.
The cemetery spread out over acreage at the end of the road. When Jake was in grade school, the location had been a controversial topic around town. Rightfully, future mourners did not want their services interrupted by the thunder of trains passing, or the ringing of the bells at the crossing. They did not get their way. Across the tracks, Jake could see the Dirty Shame.
Frank’s plot was the newest, and Jake had no trouble finding it, despite the snow.
There had been no service. Jake had asked his mother about any plans, and knew she wouldn’t lie to him. Frank had been buried with no fanfare, his plot paid for by the Forest Service.
The snowbanks were still deeply furrowed from the excavators. The headstone was simple, just like the man beneath it. It was becoming dusk, and the temperature was dropping.
Jake stood there, his breath visible in the rapidly cooling air. He wanted to talk out loud, tell Frank about his daughter, about Bert converting, about the sewing machine.
Instead, he reached out and patted the headstone, and made his way back home before it grew too cold. Frank would want him to take care of Rachel, he knew that much. Just like the feral cats, Frank’s daughter was a desperate creature.
Jake had heard the stories, and he hoped that some truth had been left out, over the nine years of retelling. She had once been an outcast, and Jake decided to take it upon himself to show her that she was not alone, that she was not the only one.
The Regulars
Rachel grew accustomed to her new morning routine. Every weekday began with a washcloth bath, followed by coffee and chain-smoking, and then rote praying she hoped would take root one day. She trudged out to her truck, and left it to warm, drank another cup of coffee, smoked another cigarette. By then, the windshield had defrosted, and she could see well enough to drive to work.
At the bar, she started every shift by pulling the chain on the neon signs. The Dirty Shame was open every day, at precisely 8:00 a.m. The men from her meeting appeared shortly after, drank coffee, smoked, and kept a close watch on their new recruit. She had fallen in with a gang of taciturn men older than her father, and after one meeting, they knew more about her than her father ever had.
Rachel assumed that the patrons of the bar would remember her past, would treat her with disdain. But drunks knew better than that. She had control over the thing they wanted most.
Gene Runkle showed up at eight thirty every morning. He was the dogcatcher in Quinn but was terrible at it, probably because he spent every single day drinking. The only thing he ever caught was gossip. He looked the same as he did when Rachel was a child. Rachel stopped by in the mornings to badger her mother for lunch money, and Gene Runkle was always drinking his first or second beer. Fifteen years later, he did not have the red nose and cheeks of an alcoholic. Gene Runkle was a gray man. His face and limbs were the color of shirts and sheets laundered for years, in a barely functional washing machine. His hair wasn’t silver. He had a full head of it, and it was the kind of blond that had given up and faded, leached of color, yellow in some lights, the hue of old wood.
At nine o’clock in walked Mrs. Matthis, who had once been the judge’s wife. Her first name was Erlene, but Rachel addressed her formally, as did everyone else in town. The judge died ten years prior, pneumonia that he just couldn’t shake, a bad rasp that turned into a death rattle. After he died, Mrs. Matthis immediately took to drinking, as if she had always been waiting for the opportunity, determinedly, a little desperate, vodka and tomato juice every half an hour. She always kept her composure, and left before the lunch crowd. Mrs. Matthis sat far away from Gene Runkle—she did not engag
e in his rumormongering. Every day, Mrs. Matthis worked a book of crossword puzzles, sold at the Sinclair, new at the end of every month. She never asked for help with answers but was obviously not certain, for she used a pencil and brought her own pink eraser and pencil sharpener. She left the curls of shavings in neat piles around her purse. When Mrs. Matthis sharpened her pencils, it sounded like the scratchy chirp of crickets. Mrs. Matthis was the puffy kind of drunk, swollen hands and face, cheeks chapped red, pink hands clutching at the pencil so hard her joints turned white. Despite this, she erased carefully, almost daintily. The crossword puzzle books were cheap and the paper tore easily. She erased often, and Rachel suspected the boxes were filled with gibberish. Mrs. Matthis’s mind was obviously pickled, and there was no way she could recall the largest of the great lakes, or the famous college football coach from Alabama.
Winsome Shankley walked into the Dirty Shame for his red beer at ten o’clock. She knew him from high school, the bad boy, the kid with money and the only new car in the parking lot. His parents moved to Quinn from California, determined to keep Winsome out of trouble. He owned the Booze and Bait, a bait shop and liquor store, and he kept dilettante hours, just afternoons, and sometimes, not at all. He was still cute enough, with the same floppy brown hair and the same sad eyes. He was handsome, because he didn’t look like a local. He had originated from a completely different gene pool. Not that Winsome didn’t do his best to share his DNA with the women in Quinn, and the surrounding county.
This was her morning routine. Today was Thursday, and at ten o’clock she poured Winsome’s beer, and waited. Winsome was already half-lit when he walked through the door. She could tell he was drunk because he was grinding his teeth, something he unconsciously did after his fourth or fifth drink. Every drunk had a tell like a bad poker player.
The Flood Girls Page 11