The Flood Girls

by Richard Fifield

Above him, Jake could hear Black Mabel continue to shovel. He kept sewing, occasionally stopping to watch out the window as giant drifts came cascading down, until they piled so high that the window was blocked from snow from the roof. He had no fear that Black Mabel would slip and fall. Black Mabel was a capable woman, and if she fell, she would only land safely in the enormous banks of snow.

  Mr. Sunshine

  Laverna’s casts were removed in the third week of April. She was able to smoke her own cigarettes whenever she wanted to, and enjoy baths by herself. She loved Red Mabel, but she enjoyed having the house to herself. She no longer had to bite her tongue as Red Mabel bathed her; the humiliation of being naked and cradled near her best friend’s armpits was exacerbated by the smell—Red Mabel needed a bath of her own.

  There was one visitor who she tolerated; Jim Number Three continued to stop by in the afternoons and read to her. They were three-quarters of the way through Roots, and Red Mabel had taken to calling him Kunta Kinte behind his back.

  Laverna bought the property on the river in 1983. She couldn’t live in the house that she once shared with Rachel. Everywhere she went, she saw another reminder of her asshole daughter.

  At the time, there were no neighbors. It was a half acre surrounded by aspen trees on one side, and a weeping willow on the other. Behind the house was the river—usually muddy brown, but on good days, green like an old bottle.

  She took out a loan to buy a brand-new trailer house, and to place it on a permanent foundation. In Quinn, that made it a real house. Nobody could drive it away ever again.

  She made the last payment four months ago, and despite the fact that it was January, she and Red Mabel had celebrated by drinking bottles of champagne and running around the yard topless.

  The house was set far enough back that she had no fear of floods. The riverbank was mighty but sloped gradually. The first year she lived there, she spent a hundred dollars on crocus and paperwhite bulbs, threw them off the back deck scattershot, and now the crocuses came up in March, and then the paperwhites in May. Between those flowers and the buttercups and forget-me-nots that grew there naturally, she considered herself a master gardener.

  Red Mabel mowed Laverna’s lawn, and fixed everything that needed fixing, and cleaned the gutters. She even hung the lights at Christmas.

  Laverna was taken care of, and knew she would never marry again. Jim Number Three was a plaything, a diversion. Laverna wanted to live her life like a desperado, unencumbered and free to shoot back whenever necessary.

  This was why it pained her to call the Chief.

  His wife answered. Laverna knew her peripherally, from the grocery store or the post office or city council meetings. The Chief’s wife occasionally attended the Fireman’s Ball, but she always left early.

  She seemed scared, however, when Laverna identified herself.

  “He’s not here,” she said. “Do you want me to give him a message? Is there something wrong with your chimney?”

  “I would call 911 if I had a chimney fire,” said Laverna. “Just tell him to come see me when he has a chance.”

  “At the bar?”

  “At my house,” said Laverna. She scratched at her strange pale arms. They had grown a scraggly fur during her convalescence.

  “Oh,” said his wife.

  “It’s not what you think,” explained Laverna. “This is about my daughter.”

  “I love Rachel to death,” said his wife.

  “Are you kidding me?” Laverna was suddenly angry; she hated not knowing things.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind,” said Laverna. “Just send him this way.”

  He arrived a few hours later, in his special red pickup truck, emblazoned with QVFD on the door. He carried jars of something.

  She met him at the door.

  “Apple butter,” he said, and handed her the jars. “From the missus.”

  “Is it like applesauce?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Is it like jelly?”

  “No.”

  “Then what the hell is it?”

  “You wanted to talk to me?”

  “Sorry,” said Laverna. “Come in.”

  She ushered him out to the back deck. The river was running high, and giant pieces of bark and fallen trees rushed past, and closer to the bank, swirls of dead leaves spun in fast eddies. Today, the river was muddy, the color of the apple butter.

  Instinctively, Laverna grabbed two beers from the refrigerator but then put them back and brought out Bubble Up instead. He would have to drink from the can.

  She handed him the soda and sat down on a wooden deck chair. He lit a cigarette, and she pushed an ashtray toward him. They watched osprey swoop down at the water and then return to their bald perches across the water.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here,” she said.

  “Nope.” The Chief was the only man in Quinn who Laverna could not intimidate.

  “How do you know?”

  “There’s only one thing you and I have in common, Laverna.”

  “How is she doing?”

  “Why don’t you find out for yourself?” The Chief refused to make eye contact, and continued to stare out at the river.

  “I’ve got nothing to say to her,” said Laverna. “I just need a body in the right field.”

  The Chief puffed on his cigarette and finally turned to look her square in the eye. “What exactly do you want from me?”

  “She’s scared of the ball. She covers her face with her glove and she won’t swing at anything.”

  “Rachel isn’t scared of the ball, Laverna. She’s scared of you.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “If she does nothing, she can’t screw it up.” The Chief removed his ball cap. “She does nothing, because she doesn’t want to make a mistake.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” Laverna looked out at the riverbank. A month ago, the crocuses had appeared, blue flowers pushed up through inches of whiteness and revealed themselves, polka-dotted the entire snowy bank.

  “She doesn’t want to disappoint you,” he said. “I figure she’s done enough of that.”

  “She disappoints me by not catching the goddamn ball,” said Laverna.

  “Then why did you put her on the team?”

  “I told you,” said Laverna. “I had no choice. There’s only so many women in this goddamn town.” They watched a giant gray log come down the river, dragging through the high grass along the shore. It was an ancient thing, riddled with holes from woodpeckers.

  “You know she’s no good at sports,” said the Chief. “You’re up to something.”

  “I guess I want to keep my eye on her,” Laverna confessed.

  “That’s my job,” said the Chief. “You can stop doing that.”

  “Can you blame me? I mean, Jesus Christ, she completely ruined my life.”

  “That’s what kids are for,” said the Chief.

  “You don’t have any kids,” said Laverna.

  “Exactly,” said the Chief. “I wrecked enough things on my own. I’ve spent the last twenty years making it up to my wife.” He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “I’m way ahead of you. Been playing catch with her for the last few weeks.”

  “Tell your wife thank you for that apple stuff.”

  “I will,” said the Chief.

  “I never thought she would come back,” admitted Laverna.

  “It would do you some good to forgive her,” said the Chief. “It might even make you a happier person.”

  “You’re not exactly Mr. Sunshine,” she said.

  “That’s because I’m still trying to forgive myself,” he said.

  He left her there on the back porch. She heard him drive away, and she sat there and watched the river. There was no telling what could float by next.

  The Flood Girls versus Quinn Lumber Mill

  Jake predicted disaster. This was the first game of the season, and the Flood Gir
ls were playing against another team from Quinn. The bleachers were completely full.

  He arrived at the softball field at five thirty. The outfield was freshly mowed, and Jake could smell the grass from his seat on the far left of the bleachers. Bucky’s white sneakers were stained green from the clippings.

  Jake watched as Bucky secured the padded, puffy squares to each corner of the diamond. He laid the flat mat of home plate after using his measuring tape, and nodded to Jake in the bleachers. He and Jake were the only paid employees of the league, and they behaved like professionals.

  “Nice outfit,” called out Bucky. Jake wore his black sailor pants and a white shirt with epaulets. He knew that he looked like a sailor and didn’t really care. If there was a flood in Quinn, Jake was ready to command the ship.

  “Thanks,” said Jake, ignoring the tittering among the crowd. He was used to such a reaction. “I wanted to make sure we matched.” And they did—Bucky wore his umpire’s uniform, also black and white, the shirt divided into vertical stripes. Bucky looked down at his outfit and shook his head.

  Jake opened his scorebook, brand-new for 1991, and carefully inscribed the names into the boxes with a pencil. He had a special pencil case just for softball, and it contained eighteen pencils, two sharpeners just in case one malfunctioned. It also was loaded with cough drops, allergy medication, and a cloth handkerchief to offer others, to be polite.

  Laverna had had her casts removed, and she handed him her roster on a piece of notebook paper. Her bare arms were nearly the same color as the casts had been. They looked scrawnier, too, although he doubted tending bar had ever made her muscular.

  “This is going to be a shit show,” she said, and waited for him to print the names into his book. Although several people in the crowd clamored for her attention, Laverna stared grimly out onto the field.

  “Bucky is a professional,” Jake assured, and finished copying down the last player of the Flood Girls. “He’ll keep this under control.”

  “Might need stun guns,” muttered Laverna. “I know all these people. And they’re assholes.” Nervously, she returned to her dugout with the roster.

  Jake looked around the bleachers and wondered if the ten dollars he was paid per game would be worth it today. He was supposed to remain unbiased, but his allegiance would be with Laverna’s team. His project was coming along, he supposed, the seventh shirt nearly finished. He had considered making shirts for himself and Bucky, but that would only result in cries of favoritism. The Flood Girls could use all the help they could get, but Jake would behave like a professional. He could not afford to lose this job.

  The Flood Girls were playing the ladies from Quinn Lumber Mill, but the bleachers were full of firemen’s wives, ex-wives, widows, or daughters. The people who surrounded him in the bleachers had sharpened their knives for Rachel, and they did not hide their hatred. They leered at her in the dugout, snickered when she let the balls roll past during warm-up. A small town never forgets, or forgives. Rachel was still a mistress and a murderess in their eyes.

  The Flood Girls’ fans sat in the rear corner of the bleachers. The pack of old men came to cheer on Laverna, and take delight in the chaos. They had been coming to support the Flood Girls for as long as Jake had been keeping score, and Jake supposed that Laverna’s team provided the most entertainment in the league. All the old men looked the same to Jake, except for the Chief. Rachel told Jake that he was her sponsor, and Jake had read enough of the AA books to know how difficult the job must be. Especially today.

  The ladies from Quinn Lumber Mill all wore orange T-shirts, and during their warm-up, they threw as hard as they could. Jake winced at the smack of the ball in their gloves. They were out for blood.

  Before the game began, as both teams continued throwing balls back and forth on the field, Jake saw the stray dog enter the dugout. Apparently, Della was unable to tame him. The dog seemed drawn to Laverna, and sniffed at her feet. Laverna tried to shoo the dog away, but it wouldn’t leave. Finally, Laverna bent down, and Jake figured she was going to pick up the dog and throw it toward the concession stand. Instead, the dog nipped at Laverna’s calf. Laverna screamed, and Red Mabel was there in seconds and swatted the dog in the head with her baseball glove. The dog yelped and bolted out of the dugout.

  “For fuck’s sake,” said a voice behind Jake. He turned around and saw one of the volunteers from the ambulance hand his beer to his wife and make his way down the steps of the bleachers. “This game hasn’t even started yet!”

  The volunteer took his time getting to the dugout of the Flood Girls. Laverna was cursing, and Red Mabel threw the duffel bag that contained the first-aid kit at the volunteer. Jake watched as he pushed up Laverna’s slacks, and cleaned the area with antiseptic and wrapped it several times with gauze.

  The warm-ups were over, and Bucky dusted off home plate and addressed the bleachers.

  “Play ball!” Jake knew that Bucky loved saying those words.

  Rachel’s first at bat came during the bottom of the second inning, and she was wearing her usual punk rock clothes. Her T-shirt was much too big for her, and the neck was stretched out from years of wear. The gaping T-shirt revealed the strap of a lacy black bra and her small amount of cleavage. Jake was scared. If Rachel had been sixteen, Laverna would have sent her back to the house to change.

  Jake wanted to close his eyes for the first pitch.

  Bucky had no problem pronouncing it a strike. Rachel didn’t even bother swinging at it.

  “That bitch has some nerve,” declared a woman, prehistoric-looking, all brow and jaw.

  “Please watch your language,” said Jake. Huffily, he turned back to await the next pitch.

  The bleachers snickered at him. The troll toasted the man next to her, and beer slopped on Jake’s elbow. He turned to glare.

  “Look,” said Jake. “I’ve got a job to do. I need to keep a clean and accurate record of this game. Especially the clean part.” He made a show of wiping away the drops of beer on the corner of the scorebook.

  “Shut up, freak,” said the troglodyte. Jake inched away from her.

  Jake observed Rachel in the batter’s box. Something was wrong. She had let the ball go sailing past her with a purposeful nonchalance. She dressed more provocatively than usual. This seemed to be the old Rachel, and he wished the Chief would descend from his perch to give her a good talking-to.

  The next pitch also flew directly across the plate.

  Bucky called the ball as it smacked into the catcher’s mitt. “Strike!”

  “Slut!” The woman next to him waited for this exact moment, watching the pitch closely, shouting at almost the same time as Bucky’s call.

  The bleachers whooped at this, and someone slapped the troglodyte on the back. Jake wanted to curl up and put the scorebook over his head as the laughter continued, but instead stared down at Rachel, who stood in the batter’s box, attempting to appear oblivious, even though the woman’s voice had been loud enough to hear in the outfield.

  The third pitch went wild, and someone else had yelled out “Whore!” before Bucky even had the chance to declare it a ball. The entire infield from Quinn Lumber Mill chortled.

  Jake knew it wasn’t the troglodyte, as she was sitting right next to him. This was a man’s voice, and Jake didn’t bother turning around to determine the source.

  “Please,” said Jake, speaking to the air in front of him. “There are rules for unsportsmanlike conduct.”

  “We ain’t playing, princess.” The voice was familiar, and Jake wondered if it was Ron, the owner of the movie theater. “Ain’t nothing you can do.”

  Bucky finally realized something wasn’t right, and swiveled his neck to stare into the bleachers. He looked as confused as always.

  Jake put his face in his hands, and then reluctantly, he studied Rachel again. She was staring at the pitcher, expressionless, as if she couldn’t hear any of the heckling.

  The pitcher, doubled over in laughter, managed to regai
n her composure. She grinned as she lobbed another perfect pitch to the catcher.

  Before Bucky could call Rachel out, the bleachers bombarded the field with slurs. There were many voices this time, and all around Jake they hollered out.

  “Slut! Slut! Slut!”

  Red Mabel leaped from the bench and ran into the bleachers, and Laverna didn’t even attempt to stop her.

  The Flood Girls stood up in the dugout as Red Mabel tore through the bleachers, beer flying everywhere as she took hold of some woman’s hair and yanked her down the steps. Jake wished it had been the troglodyte, but Red Mabel’s anger was never accurate.

  The crowd was on their feet, shouting out profanities, and yet Rachel just stood there, waiting for a pitch that would never come.

  Two other women jumped on Red Mabel’s back, which was a mistake. They surely should have known better. One got an elbow to the mouth, and the other was thrown through the air and slid across the wooden steps.

  Jake shrieked and ran just as the beer started being thrown, as four volunteer firemen took each one of Red Mabel’s limbs and dragged her from the bleachers. She cursed and spat in their faces.

  The volunteer firemen pulled Red Mabel into the grass, and two of them sat on her. Red Mabel managed to bite one of the firemen, and that was when Bucky finally called the game, over after two innings.

  Rachel calmly walked back to the dugout. She dropped the bat in the dirt as if nothing had happened.

  After the crowd dispersed, Jake walked onto the field and tried to hand over his scorebook to Bucky, who frowned and kicked at the dirt around home plate. Bucky threw his count clicker to the ground.

  The Flood Girls were silent as Jake approached the dugout. The women were packing up their duffel bags. Martha and the Sinclairs were already gone. Laverna comforted Red Mabel. The gauze on Laverna’s calf was perfectly white. Jake wondered if the dog had even drawn blood.

  Jake stepped into the dugout and grabbed Rachel’s hand.

  “You should probably come with me,” he said. “If anybody tries anything in the parking lot, I can give an excellent and accurate witness statement.”