“Fuck,” Winsome said, and rubbed his eyes as he staggered before her. Gene Runkle kicked a stool toward him, and Mrs. Matthis bent over her crossword, her tongue poking out as she concentrated.
“Fuck is right,” said Gene Runkle.
“I saw your mom outside,” said Winsome to Rachel. “She’s peeking through the window right now.”
Rachel turned her head, and sure enough, saw the flash, the white of the casts. She expected Laverna to barge through the door, but nothing happened. Her mother was a terrible spy, had always left the espionage to Red Mabel.
“I bagged some broad from Ellis last night,” said Winsome. “When I woke up, she was gone. So was my stereo.”
“Lesson learned,” said Rachel. “Shop local.”
“She wasn’t even that cute,” said Winsome. “And I can’t file a police report. I don’t know her name, and I can’t remember what she looks like.”
“All those Ellis girls look the same,” Rachel said, and poured Winsome a beer and a tomato juice. The girls in Ellis had mean mouths and clumpy mascara, big Swedish noses and extensive scrunchie collections. Flannel shirts tied in knots right below their breasts, tight jeans so new and stiff they resembled deep vein thrombosis. The girls in Ellis all wanted to be blond, but none had discovered toner, and as a result, they were easily distinguishable by the orange in their ravaged hair, corralled by the scrunchies manufactured by the hundreds in their home economics class.
He slid a five-dollar bill across the bar.
As if she could smell the money from outside, Laverna decided to make her entrance.
“Winsome!” Her mother stood in the doorway, the snow swirling around her feet and onto the floor. Red Mabel held the door for her. The casts made Rachel think of the zombie dance from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” Laverna’s hands hung out in front of her, as if she were permanently waiting for her nails to dry.
“Fuck,” said Winsome, once more.
Laverna and Red Mabel took the stools on either side of Winsome. Her mother sniffed at the air. “Jesus, Rachel. It smells like a high school girl in here.”
“I put potpourri on every table,” said Rachel. “Ambience.” She was proud of the little dishes, filled with pine needles and cinnamon sticks and dried lavender.
“It looks like witchcraft,” declared Laverna. “Give me a cigarette.”
Red Mabel stuck a lit cigarette in her mother’s mouth, her beefy arm knocking against Winsome’s beer. It sloshed over the brim. Rachel grabbed his pint glass and wiped underneath it.
Laverna was squinting. Smoke drifted directly into her eyes.
“Where’s that war whoop?”
“Ronda doesn’t come in for another hour,” said Rachel. “You know that. Can I get you ladies some coffee?”
“We were just stopping by,” said Laverna. “I’m still on vacation.”
“Sure,” said Rachel.
“Your mama has never taken a vacation in all the years I’ve known her,” said Red Mabel. “She’s earned it.”
“Spying isn’t much of a vacation,” said Rachel. Winsome hunched and cowered over his beer, as if Red Mabel was going to smack him at any minute.
“Don’t worry,” said Laverna. “We’ve got other places to be.” She stood up stiffly—the cigarette still perched in place. She gave Rachel a long, hard look. “I’ll be stopping by, from time to time. Nice to see you, Winsome. Hands off my daughter.”
“Okay,” said Winsome.
Laverna and Red Mabel slunk out the door, and Rachel exhaled. She poured herself another cup of coffee, and listened to Winsome grinding his teeth.
When she got home, it was already dark.
Bucky’s truck was not in her driveway, neither was the special truck the Chief drove.
She was nervous when she stepped inside her house. The living room carpet had been pulled, and the floor was a patchwork of old and new lumber. Bucky had fixed the soft spots. Her thoughts drifted to what color of carpet she should choose, until she remembered the bathroom.
Tears came when she saw the bathtub, exactly where a bathtub should be. The fixtures gleamed, and a leftover Christmas bow was scotch-taped to the new faucet. A bottle of cheap bubble bath rested on the seat of the toilet. Krystal had somehow succeeded in hiding this expense from Bert.
Rachel said a prayer of gratitude and stripped off her clothes.
She sunk into the hot water and considered her life, shampooed her hair two times. She drained the tub and filled it again, sat in the water for another twenty minutes, until it became lukewarm.
There was still work to be done in the bathroom—molding, a new shower curtain, a vanity, new tile. But that would happen eventually. Time takes time, as Athena was fond of saying.
On the front porch, she smoked a cigarette. Her hair began to freeze in little chunks.
She could hear the engines of four-wheelers on the street outside, dads pulling their children behind them, sleds tied on lengths of rope. This was how you survived the winter in Quinn, thought Rachel. Sometimes you had to let other people pull you.
Fireman’s Ball, 1980
Laverna wore her new dress, and proudly. She felt foxy for a thirty-six year old. Love had caused her to gain fifteen pounds, in all the right places. The dress clung to her; she ordered it from the JCPenney’s catalog, and it was the color of nectarines. She navigated the throngs in the fire hall, one hand clutching the hem of the rayon wrap dress. The volunteer firemen plugged in fans that year, and the room was gusty, in addition to the usual drafts from the barrels of fire. She stomped across the cement in spike-heeled sandals, swiped from her daughter’s closet. She didn’t know why she cared about making such an entrance. Laverna Flood had a man.
Red Mabel waved at her, and Laverna groaned when she noticed that Gene Runkle nuzzled at her best friend’s neck. She was sure Red Mabel dated him out of spite, jealous that Laverna’s attentions had been diverted by a younger man. At the bar, Gene Runkle had confessed that Red Mabel was a cold fish, and only allowed affection when others were watching.
Laverna pumped the keg and filled her plastic cup, as Red Mabel pushed away Gene. She grabbed Laverna with one hand, and steered her against the wall, and began describing her mink traps in excruciating detail.
“There’s no mink in Quinn,” said Laverna. “I asked around.”
“Bullshit,” said Red Mabel. “I know these woods better than anybody else.” Red Mabel pointed across the room. Ginger Fitchett wore her mink, and Laverna watched as a fireman helped ease it from her shoulders. Ginger was a free woman, shedding her husband like another coat. Laverna knew her daughter was involved somehow; the divorce lawyers in the county should pay for Rachel’s college. Underneath, Ginger was wearing a rayon wrap dress.
“Goddammit,” said Laverna. Ginger’s dress looked nothing like Laverna’s—it was clearly not from JCPenney, and it was bright white. It was probably a real Diane von Furstenberg. Laverna had lived in Quinn long enough to grow bored with jealousy, competition. There was nothing she wanted. The women in this town needed something to do with their time. The men of Quinn had once been a sport, but Rachel had changed the rules, and the game wasn’t fun anymore.
Laverna spent enough time worrying about her daughter. She no longer had the energy to break a sixteen year-old vegetarian anarchist with a reputation around town, a reputation that changed depending on the particular bar patron: Rachel worshipped the devil. Rachel slept with an entire punk rock band. Rachel broke up six marriages. As long as the patrons paid for their booze, Laverna would pretend to be interested. Being Rachel’s mother was another full-time job, and Laverna had resigned as soon as she got a man. Laverna was in love for the very first time in her life. Frank had been something, someone, to possess. She stopped watching her figure, watching the clock on the wall of the Dirty Shame. Laverna Flood had surrendered.
Billy Petersen was new in town, a cousin to all of the Petersens of Quinn. Somehow, they had relations in Georgia, and one cam
e looking for work. Billy was bearded, dirty, and a little desperate in the eyes. Like every logger, he was covered in sawdust and his hands were filthy with sap. She had met him at the bar, of course. Laverna flirted with him because he did not look like the other Petersens. He did not look like an Applehaus, or a Pierce, or a Russell, or a Fitchett. He was his own singular creation, twenty-four years old, and cocky. He was the only man in Quinn who wore a necklace, puka shells. He liked red beer, and Laverna served him until he had to be carried out the door by the other members of his logging company.
He came back the next night, sober, still covered in sawdust.
“Well, hello there,” she said, and immediately slid a red beer in front of him. He winked, and downed it in one gulp.
“Been thinking about you,” said Billy.
Laverna was currently reading the only book on astrology the public library owned, and she had been careful to keep it hidden from view of her daughter, the possible devil worshipper.
“What’s your sign?”
“Virgo,” he said. She studied him carefully.
“You’re pretty unkempt for a Virgo.”
“I’m on the Leo cusp.” He had a crooked little smile.
“Do you have any plans on volunteering for the fire department?”
“No, ma’am. I’m scared of fires.”
“Good,” said Laverna. “I don’t date them.” She leaned in closer. “Tell me, Billy. Where the hell did you learn how to use a chain saw in Georgia?”
“Horror movies,” he said, and winked again. He moved in a month later, much to Red Mabel’s chagrin. He brought his beloved Husqvarna chain saw and an extra pair of boots. He had nine yellowed T-shirts, three pairs of jeans, suspenders printed with cartoon drawings of marijuana plants, disintegrating socks, and a copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull. He wore no underwear, claimed that all men from the South did the same. She warned him constantly about getting too attached, of making promises he could not keep.
“Be careful with me,” she said, so often that it finally became a joke between them. Laverna Flood was unbreakable, but in this case needed to be held with both hands.
He loved to fish, and Laverna would accompany him, pretend she did not know how to bait a hook. She was only interested in snaring Billy. Laverna’s freezer grew full of his dowry. Laverna wrapped his gifts in freezer paper, found a marker and scrawled the date, his name, and a heart, because she couldn’t help herself.
Tonight, Billy was in Ellis. There was no logging in the winter, and Billy had spent the entire month of February apprenticing at a butcher shop. Laverna looked around the fire hall, at the usual suspects and their boring lives. Judge Matthis held court on the running board of a fire truck, surrounded by sycophants; his snobby wife wiped the dust from the truck with a lace handkerchief before she sat down. Buley Savage Connor danced with her husband underneath a curtain of dangling crepe paper. Laverna admired her fearlessness as she moved her hands as if they held tiny cymbals, her lithe body and rolling hips captivating the crowd. Buley was exotic, had somehow mastered the fine art of belly dancing, the only mystery in another predictably oppressive winter.
Red Mabel continued talking about mink. Laverna pretended to be interested, until she noticed the red marks on her neck.
“Holy shit,” said Laverna. “You have hickeys!”
“I do not,” said Red Mabel.
“Nicely done,” said Laverna. Red Mabel was furious, and attacked Gene Runkle, and punched him in the throat, leaving a mark of her own. Although Laverna had been at the ball for only twenty minutes, she was ready to leave. Red Mabel needed to be escorted from the premises, as there were outstanding warrants, and the judge was fewer than ten feet away.
Laverna yanked at her friend’s hair and nodded at the judge. She held on to Red Mabel’s flannel shirt as she bolted for the door, Laverna sliding across the cement on her daughter’s spiked heels.
Laverna drove them both to her house, knowing there was a bottle of Black Velvet hidden under the seat of her truck. It was the only safe place to keep liquor—Rachel did not have keys to the car.
Billy’s truck was parked outside, and Red Mabel started swearing. She hated to be the third wheel. “Go,” she said. “I’ll just drink in your car.” Red Mabel snatched the bottle from Laverna’s hands. Laverna hardly noticed, so delighted that Billy had returned.
Billy and Rachel were in her bed, the music so loud they did not even notice her.
Laverna grabbed Rachel by the hair, and pulled her backward.
She thought that Rachel had slipped out of her grasp, but then realized that she held a chunk of hair in her hand. Rachel had fallen off the bed and onto the floor, and was laughing at Laverna, clearly wasted, until Red Mabel appeared and shut her up with a slap to the face. Billy lay there, stricken; Red Mabel took advantage of his shock and jumped over Rachel to punch him square in the jaw.
Rachel sat up and fished around on the nightstand for a pack of cigarettes, and regarded her mother and Red Mabel with foggy eyes, clearly stoned on something. Red Mabel snatched the ashtray and shattered it against the wall. Rachel didn’t even flinch. Billy tried to cover himself, but Laverna was suddenly upon him, punching him, yanking at the covers, screaming at the top of her lungs.
The music blared, as Billy kicked through the empty beer cans, trying to find his clothes.
Laverna was screaming in the corner of the room, launching whatever she could grab and throw at Billy. Pillows, a lamp, picture frames, and finally when the stereo was ripped from the outlet, there was silence. That was when Laverna threw the copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull at him, and it clipped him right above the eyebrow, instantly drawing blood.
Billy was dressed now, and he dodged Laverna’s fists as he ran out the bedroom door.
Outside, they heard him start up his truck and roar away.
Laverna stopped screaming, and then she was sobbing. She kicked her daughter in the leg as hard as she could. Rachel made no attempt to cover herself, just stared back at them, her limbs red with carpet burn.
“Get out of my house,” Laverna said, and pointed to the door. “I never want to see you again.”
At that, Red Mabel pulled Laverna into the bathroom. They shut the door, and she cried, and they both listened to the sounds of Rachel slamming drawers, the sounds of her leaving.
Wrinkles
In the flip-top ottoman, Jake found a stack of baby-blue T-shirts.
“Don’t know where they came from, dear,” Buley said, and the cat on her lap was just as quizzical. White and tan, and skinny as could be, Jake thought the cat had been one of Frank’s.
The T-shirts ranged in size from small to double XL, and they were in immaculate condition, fourteen of them, still carefully folded around cardboard and wrapped in cellophane.
“I think they’re a sign,” he said, and sat on the rug in front of Buley and examined them closely, designs taking shape in his head.
“ROCKY!” Buley was the kind of woman who yelled so much that it barely even changed her face. He appeared from one of the rows and deposited a bulging manila envelope into his nephew’s hands. Jake shook the contents into his lap: iron-on numbers, thirty or so.
“Vintage,” said Buley. “But I’m pretty sure the stick-’em still works.”
“They look brand-new,” said Jake. “Are you sure?”
“Of course, dear.” The cat yawned and nuzzled into Buley’s armpit. “There are some other things you are going to need, of course.” Jake’s head continued to swirl with ideas, and he removed his sketchpad, began to make a list. Once more, Buley called for Rocky, and he appeared silently, this time bearing the cordless phone, without being asked. Jake paid no attention to her conversation.
“Bucky will drive you,” announced Buley, and Rocky was there again, to take the phone.
“Where?”
“Ellis,” said Buley. “I suspect you’re going to need some supplies.”
* * *
Bucky wa
ited outside the thrift store, honked twice. Jake thanked Buley and counted the cash in his pockets as he climbed into Bucky’s truck. Thankfully, Bucky had on the heater. The March wind stung, and the small truck trembled in the gusts.
Bucky did not need instructions. As they left Quinn, he chattered away, about the upcoming softball season and his new ride-on lawn mower. Jake feigned interest, but he waited for Bucky to pause, blabbing nervously, most likely because of his passenger.
The truck rounded the curve of the river, and the highway was freshly sanded. At last, Bucky stopped the softball talk, and concentrated on the icy road.
“I saw you next door,” said Jake. “Working on Frank’s house.”
“Yep,” said Bucky.
“Isn’t that weird? I mean, does your family care that you’re hanging out with Rachel?”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, kid.”
“I don’t,” said Jake. “I’m pretty sure she never served time. I’ve read enough books to know what prison does to pretty women.”
At this, Bucky smiled wryly. “Yeah. I’ve seen some movies.”
In Ellis, Jake consulted with the owner of the fabric store before making his purchases, careful to heed her suggestions, even though he found her fashion to be deplorable. He ignored her crooked wig and sleeveless blouse made from layers of doilies. Her shirt was an arts-and-crafts disaster, but she was extremely helpful, enchanted by his twenty-dollar bill. Bucky said nothing as Jake piled the counter with spools of glittering thread, a bolt of satiny fabric. Jake suspected Bucky held his tongue, embarrassed at these purchases. In the truck, he had admitted to Jake that he needed the money, and Jake figured that Buley had paid him well.
* * *
Jake carefully knocked on Rachel’s front door. He was cautious, as there was no telling what a thieving murderess would do. He clung to the rumors, because Rachel Flood was the closest thing to Lucky Santangelo; his neighbor could exist in the universe of Jackie Collins. He knew that she was not a killer but believed she was probably a thief and a slut, and he had changed his outfit three times until he was satisfied. He finally chose black slacks and a silk black shirt, a golden ascot that matched his hair. His outfit was dashing and international. It was early evening, and even though her truck was parked outside, he assumed she would be gone, on a date with a married man.
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