He knocked one more time. Beside him was a laundry basket and an iron with a carefully wrapped cord weighing down the contents.
She answered the door, her eyes puffy and glazed. Jake thought that she seemed kind of drunk, but the word around town was that Rachel Flood was clean and sober.
“Sorry for bothering you,” he said. “I can come back at another time.” He reached down for his basket.
“No way, kid.” She studied him closely, and he tugged nervously at his ascot. “I was meditating. It’s something I try to do every day.” He smelled the incense, heard the tinkle of new age music.
“My friend Misty and I tried astral projection once,” admitted Jake.
“What are you doing here?”
“The astral projection didn’t work,” said Jake. “Believe me, I’d rather be in Morocco.”
“Your mom and Bert must be gone,” said Rachel. He nodded, and was grateful that she smiled. He was used to being an imposition. “Come on in.”
He lifted the basket with a little grunt and staggered into her living room. He stared around at the mess. “Have you thought about carpet colors?”
“Do they know you’re over here?”
“Bert doesn’t like to see me iron,” he said.
“He doesn’t like it when you help your mom out?” Rachel blew out the stick of incense she had been burning. Jake wondered if the witchcraft rumors were true.
“Ha,” said Jake. “My mom never irons anything. This is my iron. I got it for Christmas.”
“Is that what you asked for?”
“Of course,” he said. “I made a list. My mom got me everything except for The World Is Full of Married Men. Bert put his foot down.”
“Jackie Collins?”
“The only one I haven’t read yet. Do you have a copy?”
“No,” said Rachel. “I don’t own any books.”
He decided not to hold that against her. “We have school pictures on Monday,” said Jake. “I would like to wear something that isn’t wrinkled.”
“I understand,” said Rachel.
“Can I iron here?” Jake nudged the basket forward with his leg. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not. Are you sure it’s okay with your mother?”
“Bert proposed to her last night, so she’s kind of preoccupied with that.” That was true—Jake had watched the whole thing play out over last night’s Tater Tot casserole. Bert no longer wanted to live in sin, and Krystal swooned at the cheap ring, the cliché of a June wedding. “It was gross.”
“Do you like Bert?”
“No,” he said, examining the kitchen. Frank had never let him inside, so Jake had always wondered what it would be like, and apparently it was chaos and ugly countertops.
“Me neither,” she said, and stopped herself. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” She suddenly clapped her hands together. “I’ve got something to show you!”
She pulled Jake down the hallway and shoved him inside the bathroom. It reeked of fresh latex paint. She had chosen a bright yellow and a pale green, which in the poor lighting of the bathroom mirror, made his face look ashen. He kept this to himself. “It’s fantastic! I’m a fan of color.” Lucky Santangelo’s bathrooms were usually smoked glass and stainless steel, and there was always an enormous marble bathtub with Jacuzzi jets. Lucky’s bathtub would never fall through the floor of a trailer house.
“I’m so glad you approve,” she said. These were not the colors of a thief or a murderess; these were colors from an outdated issue of Good Housekeeping. He would help her.
He eased his way past, as she followed him into the living room. “Where’s your ironing board?”
“Actually,” she said. “I don’t have one.”
He looked her up and down, at her sweatpants and Blondie T-shirt. “I guess I’m not surprised. I’ll be right back.”
Jake luxuriated in his empty house and gathered his new purchases from under his bed. He grabbed his beloved ironing board and tucked it under his arm. It was vintage, and he had bought it at a yard sale. It was the kind that was designed to sit on countertops. He assumed that this was so women could cook and iron at the same time. Jackie Collins would not approve.
Rachel’s countertops were in terrible condition, but once again, he refrained from comment. Originally, they were a pearly white, shot through with gray veins; Jake’s own trailer house had the same version of ersatz marble. But Rachel’s were deeply stained with concentric circles of rust in different sizes. Frank must have left wet cast-iron pans on the countertops for months at a time. Jake eased the box of T-shirts and sewing notions from a paper bag, unfolded the board, and plugged the iron into the socket below the window. He folded his arms and stared at her as the iron hissed and began to warm.
“I lied,” she said. “When I lie, I have to promptly admit it.” Jake raised an eyebrow. “I forgot that I have some books. Well, it was a half truth. I don’t own them, they came from the library.”
“And?”
“You wouldn’t like them,” she said. “Laura Ingalls Wilder.”
“You’re right,” he declared, and removed a dress shirt from the basket. He unbuttoned it, snapped it open with a quick flick of his wrist. He draped it over the ironing board.
“I loved those books when I was your age,” she said.
“I’m an advanced reader,” he said. “I don’t like to read about people roughing it. I live in Quinn. I see it all the time. I prefer to read about people who aren’t dirty. I like a clean and complex protagonist.”
“Jackie Collins isn’t exactly great literature, kid.”
“Lucky Santangelo is a classic character,” he said. “I don’t remember Half Pint and Pa fighting the Mafia or flying around the world in a private jet.”
“No,” she admitted. “I was thinking that you might like John Steinbeck or Edgar Allan Poe.”
“You thought wrong,” he said, and began to iron. He smoothed down the collar and made quick work of it. It stuck out, flattened, in a wicked little point.
“Cannery Row,” she said. “There’s sex in it. And it’s very political. I think you’d like it.”
“I’m not allowed to read about politics,” he said. “Bert’s rule.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” she said. “I’ll find you the book you’ve been wanting, if you promise to read Steinbeck.”
“That’s blackmail,” he said. “I learned about blackmail from Jackie Collins.” He started on a pair of madras pants. “Therefore, I approve.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “Your high school English teacher will thank me one day.”
“I’m asking to be sent to boarding school,” he said. “It’s on this year’s Christmas list.”
“That’s nine months away,” said Rachel.
“I don’t believe in public school,” he said. “Lucky Santangelo went to school in Switzerland.”
“I don’t think your mom can afford that,” said Rachel.
Jake ignored this. “How did you make it through public school?”
“I didn’t know there were any other choices,” she said. “Although my mom always threatened to send me to live with the Mennonites.”
He shuddered, and carefully placed the pants on the least-stained part of the countertop. He unfolded a pair of blue jeans.
“It’s my only pair,” he assured her.
“You iron your blue jeans?”
“Of course I do,” said Jake. “Can I do your laundry?”
You Will Know the Person When You See Them
Bucky made three trips to his truck on the morning of Saint Patrick’s Day, returning to Rachel’s living room with a sewing machine and a miniature desk. She had decided upon the corner where the fireplace had been, and where the bricks remained. Upon this platform, Bucky placed a tall lamp, the fringed shade mounted on an adjustable arm. Jake insisted on doing her laundry, then proceeded to help her paint the hallway, and organize her bedroom closet until it contained eve
rything she owned. Sorted by color, of course. She loved the help, and let his propulsion carry her.
She moved a metal folding chair behind the desk and hung a framed photograph of David Bowie just above the lamp. It once sat on her nightstand, but there was no room in this new house. Shocked that Jake knew nothing about David Bowie, she played cassettes for him the rest of the afternoon while they worked.
Rachel checked her watch, and it was quarter to eight. Bucky had left half an hour earlier, and she had lost all track of time creating the sewing corner. Jake promised to make curtains for her house, and although Rachel still feared Bert, she needed window treatments.
Jake could manage to sneak away without notice. Bert was usually gone with the reverend, and Krystal was too wrapped up in daydreams about the wedding.
Rachel left the front door unlocked, and navigated the berms of snow as she drove to work.
Saint Patrick’s Day. The Dirty Shame was slammed with teachers who would probably call in sick the next day, and unemployed regulars who wouldn’t need to. Rachel refused to make green beer, despite her mother’s demands.
The holiday fell on a Sunday. Laverna and Red Mabel arrived at nine in the morning, scouting out what Rachel had done. They heckled her from their table in the corner. Rachel could tell they were already drunk.
Laverna was full of criticism and pain medication. She nodded off in the corner, in between heckling, dressed in an ancient, shapeless green sweater and slacks the color of split pea soup. Red Mabel plucked the cigarettes from Laverna’s mouth when her eyes closed and her head slumped forward. Rachel knew that Red Mabel helped her mother dress in the morning. The thought made her uncomfortable.
The bar was lined with eight Crock-Pots, all different makes and models, that Ronda filled with corned beef and cabbage the day before. Extension cords piled in loops behind the bar, and Rachel was extra diligent not to get tangled up and spill any drinks. She refused to serve any of the food. It smelled like an outhouse. Instead, there was a tall stack of Styrofoam plates and napkins, and a new box of plastic forks and knives. The patrons would have to serve themselves for once.
Martha Man Hands and Black Mabel played Yahtzee beside the jukebox, as far away from Laverna and Red Mabel as possible.
The Chief came in and sat right near the taps, and read the newspaper.
“I didn’t know Quinn had so many Irish,” said Rachel as she poured him a cup of coffee.
“I know the census data,” said the Chief. “Mostly Swedes and Polacks here.”
She settled the coffee in front of him, and witnessed her mother kicking Red Mabel under the table. Red Mabel’s mouth was full of cabbage, but she shouted Rachel’s name anyway.
Rachel dried her hands on the bar rag, and walked over to them.
“I went by your house this morning,” said Laverna. “I wanted to see what you’ve been up to.”
“Did you go inside?”
“Of course not,” said Laverna. “I’m not rude like that.”
“Yes, you are,” said Rachel.
“I wanted to get you a housewarming present,” said Laverna. “And a thank-you for doing your part to help out.”
Rachel stared at her mother, assuming this was a trap of some kind.
“She’s really high,” explained Red Mabel.
“Your yard is a swamp,” said Laverna.
“Apparently,” said Rachel. The clatter of the dice in the plastic cup from the Yahtzee game was unnerving.
“The guys at the county owe me a favor,” said Laverna. “I don’t want to get into the hows or whys.”
“You should have sued those motherfuckers,” declared Red Mabel.
“Anyway,” said Laverna. “I got you a truckful of topsoil. They’re gonna drop it off in your driveway.”
“Excellent,” said Rachel. She was unsure how to feel—this offer was like a kitten you pick up out of cuteness, until it hooks claws into your forearm.
“The dump truck won’t fit through your gate,” said Laverna. “So you’d better get some help.”
“And a wheelbarrow,” said Red Mabel.
“Thank you,” said Rachel. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” said Laverna. “Like I said, it was the least they could do.” Rachel was leery of gifts from her mother, despite how hard she had been working. Laverna and Red Mabel held grudges for years, gifts for themselves, she supposed.
“Bring me a beer,” said Red Mabel. “I brought my own food coloring.”
And she had. She produced a tiny plastic bottle with a pointed green tip.
Just then, Black Mabel yelled “Yahtzee!” Red Mabel’s hands clenched into fists.
“You’re not the bouncer,” said Laverna. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that.”
Rachel touched Black Mabel lightly on the shoulder as she placed fresh pints in front of them. Their table was littered with dollar bills. She did not understand why Martha and Black Mabel would gamble at Yahtzee, but people in this town would bet on just about anything.
Rachel walked back to the bar, wiped down the counter, and stopped in front of the Chief.
“You’re not wearing green,” she said.
“Anybody pinches me, I’ll punch them in the fucking face.”
Athena had told her that she would know the person when she saw them, and the Chief’s surly words made it seem fated.
“I’ve been thinking,” she began.
The Chief looked up from his coffee cup. “About what?”
Rachel lowered her voice. “I need a sponsor.”
“Okay,” he said. “But men aren’t allowed to sponsor ladies.”
“I don’t want to sleep with you,” said Rachel. “And I know you don’t want to sleep with me. Are you willing?” She twisted the rag in her hands.
“I don’t think I really have a choice,” said the Chief. “Aren’t any ladies in recovery in this town”—he looked around the bar, at the two Mabels, at Martha—“yet.”
“I’ve already been through the steps,” said Rachel. “I worked really hard. I just keep coming back to the eighth.”
“Well,” said the Chief. “I’m not allowed to tell you no. So I guess I’m gonna have to help you out.”
“Thank you,” said Rachel. “Athena said I’m the easiest sponsee she’s ever had.”
“That’s good,” said the Chief. “But you haven’t worked with me. I treat my sponsees like I do the new recruits at the station.”
“I’m not going to shave my head,” said Rachel.
“You’ll do what I tell you,” said the Chief, and for the first time ever, he winked at her. She blushed. “I’m honored you chose me,” he said.
Rachel leaned across the bar and shook his hand.
Across the room, Black Mabel started to cackle.
Rachel turned around to see a cop. He was a beefy creature with a dangling set of handcuffs twirling around his finger. The other hand was touching his revolver, strapped to his belt.
“Mabel Garrison,” he said.
Black Mabel shook her head and stood up from the table. She rolled her eyes and shuffled willingly toward the police officer, holding out her arms.
“You’re under arrest,” he declared as he clicked the handcuffs into place. “Again.”
The silver miners cheered, as they always did at the misfortune of others.
“I’m not even gonna ask what for,” said Black Mabel as she was marched through the bar, the beefy creature close behind.
Martha Man Hands grabbed all the bills from the table, and stuffed them in her shirt.
The Scrimmage
The last week of March were days when the cloud cover lifted, and the sun was so pale and ineffectual that it did nothing to warm the gusty winds that blew sideways and rang Laverna’s large collection of wind chimes. She leaned down to sip at a cup of coffee, and watched from the kitchen window as the chimes clattered against one another, producing a cacophony of sound. She could tell it was a cold wi
nd. The river was dotted with white caps.
When the knock at the door came, Laverna didn’t hear it at first, over the clanging symphony on her back deck.
“Fuck,” she said, when the knocking resumed again.
“Come in,” she said, and she watched the doorknob turn and the Sinclairs enter, followed by Reverend Foote. “Take off your shoes,” she said.
“You,” Laverna said to the taller Sinclair. “Fill up my coffee cup.” The taller Sinclair did what she was told, and Laverna pointed at the couch with her bright white casts, as she settled in the recliner, the TV tray stacked with phone books, a heightened perch for her coffee cup and straw.
“What do you want?” Laverna glared at the couch, at the row of redheads.
Reverend Foote spoke, quite loudly, landing on his consonants like they fell from a great height. This was a sermon, but Laverna knew a sales pitch, even one wrapped in Jesus.
“Sister Joy and Sister Jeanette speak very highly of you and asked this morning if our church could be of service. They are two of my favorite parishioners, so of course I came over to see if there is anything you might need.”
“Who the hell are Joy and Jeanette?” Laverna watched Reverend Foote blanch. “You’ve got nuns up there?”
“I’m Joy,” said the taller, white-knuckling the droopy sleeve of her sweater.
“Jeanette,” said the shorter, refusing to meet Laverna’s eyes.
“Of course,” said Laverna. “I’m really fucked-up on pills.” She made a show of laughing, knowing these names would slip her mind the minute they left.
“The sisters tell me that they play on your softball team,” said Reverend Foote. “If we had enough able-bodied women, perhaps we would field a team of our own!” He pressed his hands together, eyes lit up. “I played second base in high school, and I delighted in the camaraderie.”
The Flood Girls Page 13