It felt strange to be so rigid, to have sex like this, her arms cemented in a permanent ninety-degree angle. Jim Number Three continued to do all the work. Each time he entered her, she smelled the top of his head, and she imagined she could smell the smoke in his hair, imagined that he would climb a ladder to save her.
Spin
The first Saturday of April, at 3:00 p.m., the Flood Girls were scheduled to play their first game of the season, versus the Eunice Volunteer Dispatch.
When Rachel woke up that morning, it was still snowing. She peered out her window at the billowing curtains, thick as the kinds that hung in theaters, ruffling, changing direction. She knew it was ferociously cold.
The phone call came from Ginger Fitchett at eleven o’clock.
“Game is called,” said Ginger. “As you can tell, there is a blizzard outside, and as much as we hate those ladies from Eunice, we don’t want them to drive here. Nor do we want to take the field. I wouldn’t be able to see the batter’s box.”
Rachel thanked her, and thanked her higher power for sparing her from potential embarrassment. She bundled up in quilts, grateful she could spend the day with Laura Ingalls Wilder.
* * *
The next morning, the blizzard was gone. Rachel left her house shortly before noon, and it had already warmed to the midfifties. This was Quinn in April. Mercurial, stronger than you, full of surprises.
At her AA meeting, they celebrated Mr. Tyler’s sobriety birthday. Even though he insisted, Rachel could not bring herself to call her former biology teacher by his first name, even though they had grown familiar. He was the only old man with enough balls to yell at Rachel for blaming her mother for everything.
When they passed around his three-year coin, Rachel held it in her palm and remembered her first AA birthday. Athena had presented the coin to her at their home group, and had made a speech about how far Rachel had come, and how she had worked for it, really worked for it, and they both had cried. Her coin was passed around the room for everyone to hold, to bless. And then there was cake and ice cream, and immediately afterward, Athena had taken her to another meeting, her version of celebration.
After the AA meeting, Rachel stood outside the library with her old men, and they discussed the prospects of the Flood Girls. She still did not understand their allegiance to her team, but they predicted a winning season.
There was a reason for the softball talk. The Chief returned from his truck and presented Rachel with a box.
She could tell it had been wrapped by his wife. He handed it over, without a word.
Inside the box was a softball glove, brand-new, a pair of black batting gloves, and an actual softball, neon green. The old men lit more cigarettes. She knew they had all chipped in on this purchase, but just like in meetings, they let the Chief provide the explanations.
“I heard you’ve been having some problems,” he said.
“Bucky,” said Rachel.
“Of course,” said the Chief. “Every time you’re not using this bad boy, I want you to put that ball inside the glove, and wrap the whole thing tight with rubber bands. That’s how you break it in.”
“Okay,” said Rachel.
“Get in the truck,” commanded the Chief.
* * *
Rachel and the Chief tossed the ball back and forth across the outfield, the air crisp and the sky completely cloudless, deeply blue.
Sometimes the Chief switched it up and lobbed it straight up into the sky to simulate a pop fly, and she lurched forward and tripped, or stumbled backward and tripped, but she could never get to the ball in time.
“You’ve gotta watch the batter,” said the Chief. “If they are a lefty, the ball is coming to you. Before she even steps into the batter’s box, you gotta move up toward the infield if you know she’s a lightweight, and back the fuck up if you know she’s a slugger.”
“Thanks,” said Rachel. She was still lying in the muddy grass as he gave this advice, exhausted after her last dodge for a pop-up. That one ended with her in the splits, sliding across the field, the ball bouncing three feet in front of her. At least it rolled toward her glove.
The Chief knelt down beside her. “You’re doing all right, kid.”
Rachel ripped up a clump of wet grass and threw it at him. “I don’t want to be doing this at all.”
“Sounds familiar,” said the Chief. “Now we need to talk about putting the glove in front of your face.”
“Okay,” said Rachel.
“Stop with that kind of self-protection shit or I’m going to make you go to Al-Anon.”
“Okay,” said Rachel. Al-Anon was a threat that hung around her weekly meetings. The old men in AA did not care for Al-Anon. All of the men in Quinn went to AA, and the women went to Al-Anon. The women’s meeting was double in size, and Black Mabel’s father called them the Cookie-Baking Bitches.
“I need to ask you a question,” said Rachel, the knees of her sweatpants soaking wet and caked with mud. This was definitely the time for humility. “I guess it’s more like I’m asking for permission.”
“Shoot,” said the Chief.
“I’m ready to have sex,” she said. She expected the Chief to stand up and walk away from her, or stammer and remind her that this sort of talk was the reason she needed a female sponsor. He did neither. He wiped the ball off on his work shirt and glared toward the third-base line. “I wanted to be honest with you.”
She pushed herself up and held her palm out for the ball. The Chief moved farther away. They resumed their game of catch, shouting at each other. Her arm was getting better, and she could hit second base, and that was where the Chief stood, in the scuffs in the dirt where the bag would be secured.
The Chief fired a ball so hard at her that she caught it out of fear, as it was headed directly for her lady parts. The Chief was not a subtle man.
“I’m not going to give you permission,” he shouted. “But I’ll leave this one up to you. Pray on it.”
“Deal.” Rachel tried to throw the ball as hard as she could, but her hands were so slick that it slipped from her grasp and arced toward the first-base line. She jogged over to retrieve it.
“Hey,” said the Chief. “You got a good spin on that one.”
The Blizzard
The weather held, and Jake watched Rachel practice. It was after school on a Thursday, the April afternoons held light just a little longer with every day that passed. Jake brought his sketchbook, and drew Rachel in ball gowns, wedding dresses, and a black leather cat suit. She had no idea she was posing; he studied her as she practiced in the infield with her old men. Rachel called them the seven dwarfs, and Jake did not understand this, as they weren’t particularly diminutive. Rachel was just really tall. Today, the eighth dwarf was Bucky—at least his name belonged with Dopey, Grumpy, et cetera.
The old men were determined to get Rachel in shape, break her of bad habits, although she had no habits to speak of, as softball was a new thing. The old men took to the field, and Rachel swung the bat again and again, sweating through her black shirt. The Chief had been pitching to her for a half hour, at least. She missed almost all the pitches, and the old men were bored, and gossiped and smoked, just waiting for action. Bucky crouched down behind the plate, and his long skinny legs poked out in severe angles, and Jake thought he looked like a grasshopper.
Outside the fence, Shyanne ran around the track, as if she ran fast enough and far enough, she could leave Quinn behind. She was a dot—the track was so far away, a dot that ran the quarter mile again and again. All he could see was hair and legs, and he approved. He looked down at his sketchbook, and Rachel’s silhouette could easily be Shyanne, both blond and tall, the only two in Quinn. He began to draw clothes for Shyanne, sportswear. Rachel claimed to be Snow White among the seven dwarfs, but she and Shyanne resembled Sleeping Beauty.
He continued to sketch, waiting to hear the crack of the bat but only hearing the thud of the ball landing in Bucky’s glove. Rachel swore at every
missed pitch.
Then he heard thunder in the bleachers, as Shyanne ran up the wooden rows, carrying a water bottle. She collapsed next to Jake, grateful for the shade.
Even sweaty, Shyanne was stunning. She had incredible legs, and always wore athletic shorts, even in winter. She would be a senior next year, and Jake an eighth grader, but they barely knew each other. Like Ginger, Shyanne was aloof, and it was not snobbery, just resignation.
“You have supermodel legs,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, and guzzled water. Jake examined her closely for flaws. Her face was pretty enough, her nose a bit wide, like most of the Swedes who had immigrated to Quinn. Full lips, eyes spaced just slightly too far apart. Her hair, however, needed some help. Despite the workout, her bangs remained crimped and sprayed, the hair spray collecting in the roots in little clumps.
“I think you should start wearing heels,” he said.
“What’s your name again?”
“Jake. I keep the book for the softball teams.” He stared at her chest, and the absence of breasts made him deliriously happy. She needed to be sent to Milan right now, and live in a tiny, filthy apartment with fifteen other girls who looked just like her.
“Were you just looking at my chest?” She covered her breasts with a forearm, and scowled.
“I think you should be a model,” he said. “And I want to help you.”
“That’s gross,” she said. “They all have eating disorders.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I just can’t help myself.” He closed his sketchbook, just in case she glimpsed his obsessions.
“Well, I know you’re not flirting with me, so I’m okay with it. Enough with the model stuff, though.”
“Can I fix your hair sometime?” Jake wanted to reach over and break up the shelf of bangs so very badly.
“Now you’re freaking me out,” she said. “Why are you even talking to me?”
“You sat down,” pointed out Jake. “And you’re the only person here.”
“I used to date Number Fourteen,” she said. “I know all about what happened with your psychotic friend.”
“I’m not psychotic,” he said. “I just think you need to know that heels would make your legs even more beautiful. You’ve only got a couple of years, you know. Models have a short shelf life. Like bananas.”
“Stop,” she said, but chewed on her lip, considering all of this. “I can’t wear heels. I’m a jock.”
“I hate that word,” said Jake. He knew how mercurial teenage girls were, and he could not wait to travel in their pack. Up and down, vacillating between good girl and bad girl, depending on the number of wine coolers.
“Too bad,” said Shyanne. “I’m a jock. I’m just a dumb jock getting harassed by a pushy gay kid. Go away.”
“I was here first,” pointed out Jake. “I just want to be your friend.”
Shyanne burst into tears. She was definitely a teenage girl. Jake reached over to comfort her in a clumsy hug, careful not to crush her bangs.
The Chief ordered Rachel into right field, and six of the seven dwarfs lined up to bat. Bucky continued to crouch, knees near his ears. Jake watched Rachel trot out, deep into the green. She must be exhausted, he thought, but she wanted this. The Chief had taught her about ready position, and Jake watched as Rachel moved into the stance, waiting for the dwarfs to make contact. The Chief began to pitch to the owner of the grocery store, and Jake thought about bananas once more. In Quinn, the produce was shipped from far, far away. Like Rachel, most of the fruits and vegetables of his hometown were exotic, could not take root in the soil that froze solid for most of the year.
Shyanne calmed down, watching the action on the field. Rachel ran for a ball, determined as always, alone in the outfield. A cloud of dust spun around the far side of the track, a white van that did not belong there.
“Fucker,” said Shyanne. “He’s going to ruin the lanes.”
As the van rounded the corner and got closer, Jake could see it was the dogcatcher. Gene Runkle was drunk as always, but at least the curbs around the track kept him from crashing. Jake squinted and could see a brown spot galloping in front of the white van. Jake could not help but root for the dog. Gene stopped and stumbled out, his hand holding a paper bag of dog biscuits. He called for the dog, and Jake watched Gene create a line of dog treats, a trail that led to the back of the white van. The dog was happy about this, tail wagging as he sauntered up to Gene, gobbled up the bait, too fast for capture. By the time Gene made an overture to open the back of the van, the dog had eaten all the biscuits and sped off once more. He slammed the van door and resumed the chase, the worst dogcatcher in the world.
* * *
It snowed a foot overnight, and the snow was still falling as Jake pretended to get ready for school. It was Friday, but there were no classes, just conferences with parents. Krystal had not met with Jake’s teachers since the fourth grade. She always worked during the day. She let Jake forge her signature, and they were both grateful. His grades were just to the north of passable, but Krystal stopped caring altogether after Bert came along. She barely graduated from high school herself, and believed in practical, vocational education. He let his mother believe he would follow her path and go to nursing school, encouraged this lie by bringing home a small set of scrubs from the thrift store. He was horrified by the tiny clown heads that polka-dotted the material, but wore the uniform happily every Sunday night. Bert sought refuge at the Dirty Shame, and Jake watched General Hospital with his mother. Krystal videotaped the entire week, and pointed out errors in the medicine practiced in Port Charles, criticized the nursing staff for not wearing sensible shoes. Of course, this all stopped when Bert found God, and they lost cable.
In Quinn, there was no broadcast reception, no ABC, CBS, or NBC. Even with the tallest of antennas, the mountains prevented this. As Jake left his trailer house with his book bag, he stepped out into another blizzard. Quinn had six months of winter, and six months of fire season. Despite the amount of snowfall, the lightning sparked wildfires from May until November. The town of Quinn had been burned twice before, and would not be fooled again. The snow was welcomed.
He took the usual road out of the trailer court, just in case Bert was watching. He would double back in an hour, and Bert would not see him enter Rachel’s back door. Jake stepped in the tracks from the snowplow, already filling again. He continued into town, past the movie theater, finally showing Home Alone, even though it had been released in November, five months ago. Jake continued on, past the Booze and Bait, closed as usual. Behind the counter of the hardware store, he could see terrible Della smacking her gum, and did not wave.
Buley had no clothes for him today, but that was fine. He was here for a different reason.
“AA books?” Buley was not rattled by his request, just called for Rocky. “I’m glad Bert’s getting help. It’s been a long time coming.”
“They aren’t for Bert,” said Jake. “They’re for me.”
“Interesting,” said Buley. “You are much too vain to be an alcoholic.”
Jake followed Rocky to the rear of the store. For some reason, Buley kept all the self-help books with the hunting clothes. Perhaps she was trying to send a message. Jake bought a big blue book written for drunks, and several paperbacks written for the people who loved them. He didn’t love Rachel, not yet anyway, but he wanted to understand her.
* * *
The sky was a pearly white color, and the snow kept coming. Feet of it; this was an honest-to-God blizzard, not unusual for Montana in April. Jake entered Rachel’s back door, and the winds pushed the snow across her yard in great dunes that rose all the way to the top of the privacy fence. Her back door was almost frozen shut, but Jake managed to yank it open. Inside her house, he pulled the space heater into his sewing corner.
He had made progress. Five of the shirts were completely done, and hidden deep inside his bedroom closet. He worked on these shirts only when Rachel was gone. When she
was home, he sewed things for her house, and clothing for himself.
Jake did not turn on the stereo, tried to remain as quiet as possible, just in case Bert was spying. When he heard footsteps on the porch, the sound of boots stomping to dislodge the snow, he dove behind the couch.
Black Mabel entered without knocking. Jake stood up from behind the couch, and she swung a snow shovel at him.
“It’s just me,” he protested, holding up his hands in surrender.
“Oh,” she said, eyes tiny and darting. Jake could tell she was more stoned than usual, and offered no explanation as he returned to the sewing machine. It would only confuse her.
“I’m here to shovel off the roof.” Black Mabel was dressed like an arctic explorer, her familiar black trench coat straining to contain the thick layers of down underneath, goggles dangling from her neck.
“Okay,” Jake said, and tapped at the foot pedal as the needle began to whir.
“I don’t want the roof to collapse. There’s four feet of snow up there.”
“You don’t have to explain to me,” said Jake. “I’ve been watching you do it for years.”
“I made a promise,” said Black Mabel.
“Be careful,” said Jake, knowing that she was reckless. He kept sewing and lost himself in the fifth T-shirt. He listened to the shriek of the wind and the thumps and scrapes of Black Mabel. She had made a promise to Frank, and apparently it stretched through the years, extended to his daughter.
He made an extra grilled cheese sandwich, and waved out the back door until he caught her attention. He didn’t want to shout her name, just in case Bert was listening. She cleared half the roof, had paused to catch her breath against the impotent chimney. She stared at him until he returned with a plate, pointed at her sandwich.
* * *
The Flood Girls Page 16