The Flood Girls

by Richard Fifield

  When she returned to the dance floor, a group of volunteer firemen dared to enter the circle, and the most barrel-chested asked them to leave.

  “No,” said Rachel. “I paid for tickets.”

  “I’ll give you your money back,” he said. “You’re causing a scene. The judge sent me over here.”

  Rachel tossed her hair and laughed. She pointed at a short fireman with a long beard. “I fucked him,” she said. She twirled, pointed at one of the Applehaus boys. “And I fucked him. And his brother.” She blew the barrel-chested fireman a kiss. “Sorry you missed out.”

  “My brother is a cop,” said the barrel-chested fireman. “He’s right over there.”

  “Fine.” Rachel pretended to look around the fire hall. “I’d like to report the Applehaus boys for child molestation.”

  “You aren’t a child!” The older Applehaus stepped forward. He was recently married, and furious. “You were never a child!”

  Krystal wheeled into the middle of the circle. Somewhere, somehow, she had been given roller skates. “They’re here,” she called out, executing a perfect barrel roll. Krystal continued her impressive orbits. She crouched down on her skates and stopped herself with her hands. She beckoned Rachel over to a fire engine, out of sight from the left side of the fire hall.

  “They’re here,” she repeated, one roller skate remained in the air, wheels continuing to spin.

  Rachel peeped through the truck window, and there was her mother and Red Mabel. Ginger was sobbing to them, and Red Mabel craned her neck, ready to seek and destroy. Rachel could barely see her mother’s outfit through the warp of the glass, but it seemed to be all shoulder pads and severe waistline. Laverna had lost weight.

  * * *

  Bolting out into the February gales, they leaped into the Datsun, Krystal taking the time to turn on the heat, because her socks were frozen.

  “GO!” Rachel reached over and pulled the gearshift into reverse, but Krystal was too addled, and the car lurched backward, nearly clipping Ginger’s brand-new Mazda RX-7. Screaming with joy, they tore out of the parking lot, although the velocity was unnecessary. The Dirty Shame was only two blocks away.

  Krystal parked in the snowy alley, and they dashed to the back door of the bar. Rachel prayed her mother was still cheap and had not changed the locks. Krystal jumped from one foot to the other, her socks soaking with snow. Rachel kept her key from her weekend shifts, and the door opened easily. The good fortune continued, as a train barreled through town, would cover up any noise.

  Krystal kept an eye on her watch, as Rachel crawled behind the bar, just in case anybody walked past and peered into the window. There was a twinge in Rachel’s heart, as she opened the safe. The combination was unchanged—Rachel’s birthday—09/27/64.

  “Hurry up!” Krystal wiped at her nose and tapped on her watch. Rachel began removing stacks of bills, stuffed them into a zippered vinyl pouch. There was a crashing sound, and Rachel swore and dove to the floor.

  They had not been caught. Krystal had smashed the mirror behind the bar, throwing shot glasses as hard as she could.

  “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, KRYSTAL!” Rachel could not stop her. There wasn’t enough time, and Krystal was coked out of her mind. Rachel dug in the back of the safe for the rolls of quarters. She was determined to leave nothing behind, empty her mother completely. The envelope was too full to zip, and Rachel kicked shut the safe and leaped to her feet.

  One piece of mirror remained in the frame, and Krystal had apparently decided it was the perfect size for a message. Rachel wanted to punch her but settled for grabbing Krystal by the hair. The Neon Orchid lipstick flew out of Krystal’s hand, pink and gooey and smashed from scrawling on the mirror. Rachel watched helplessly as the uncapped tube rolled under the jukebox, but remembered that Laverna never cleaned under there anyway.

  The piece of mirror hung right behind the cash register.

  LAVERNA AND RED MABEL ARE LESBEANS.

  Krystal found this hysterically funny, and Rachel yanked her through the bar as quickly as possible, careful to avoid the shards of glass. Krystal was shoeless. And a shitty speller. In the Datsun, as they spun out in the snow, Rachel hoped that this message would be a red herring. The only prize Rachel had ever won came in the fifth grade, and Laverna had been there to witness her daughter crowned the county spelling bee champion.

  * * *

  Rachel checked her watch, and they had been gone for only twelve minutes. The Datsun sped back to the fire hall. Rachel knew that Laverna would return to the Shame after the ball was over, hosting her usual after-party. There was no way Laverna would connect the destruction to her daughter. Rachel had been spotted on the dance floor, and the twelve-minute disappearance would go unnoticed. Rachel waved at Ginger as she locked the bathroom door and counted the money. $1,975.08, and she struggled with her math as she divided it in half. After solemnly promising to avoid pink lipstick for the rest of her life, Krystal was given another fifty dollars. Rachel removed every trace of Neon Orchid on Krystal’s lips. This had been the most lucrative night of Rachel’s life.

  The lesbians greeted them warmly, and the entire group invaded the dance floor. Inside the circle of miners, Krystal and Rachel danced for hours. It was easy to be conspicuous. When the toughest miner grabbed Rachel’s face and kissed her directly on the lips, she surrendered. Rachel could hear the commotion, despite her heart beating in her ears, full of cocaine and the calisthenics of dancing. She had no doubt that Laverna and Red Mabel were watching; she could feel it on her skin. Rachel had no fear of flamethrowers or the judge or the future. She spun around the cement floor until her hometown was a blur. If she remained in motion, and did not look back, her hometown would disappear entirely. Rachel Flood would leave this all behind.

  The Flood Girls versus New Poland At-Home Sales

  The second game was actually their fourth. It was the first weekend of May, and the Flood Girls had a victory, without even taking the field.

  As promised, Laverna carefully organized a sting, set the Ellis High School girls up in an underage drinking bust. Winsome brought a free keg from the Dirty Shame like a Trojan horse, flirted with the curvaceous seventeen-­year-old captain of the Ellis High School girls in the parking lot of the Town Pump. He offered up the keg as a gift, in exchange for an invitation to their weekend party in the woods, where he promised to make out with her around their bonfire. Laverna knew that high school girls would do anything for the attentions of an older man—Rachel taught her that much. Laverna didn’t pay Winsome a dime. He loved the subterfuge, the chance to get revenge on the thieving, indistinguishable girls from Ellis. The cops were greedy, however, and Laverna slipped a fifty-dollar bill into an envelope for the Ellis chief of police. Thus, the Flood Girls won game number three by default. Laverna was comfortable going into the fourth game of the season with a one-and-one record, and one rescheduled due to a blizzard.

  On the day of their fourth game, Laverna woke up smiling, and she believed that her luck was changing. The Flood Girls won a game, even if it was a forfeit. In addition, the word around town buzzed—the Clinkenbeard kid got kicked out of juvie, shipped off to a facility in Arizona, where Laverna hoped he would die from sunburn or a scorpion bite.

  Today, they played the ladies from New Poland At-Home Sales. It was an away game, and the Flood Girls carpooled the forty-seven miles. The team from New Poland was a conglomeration, an affiliation of housewives who also happened to do at-home sales in their free time. Laverna especially hated them, because they believed they were real businesswomen.

  This team wore nonmatching uniforms, T-shirts advertising their brands, always selling. These bitches had phone numbers on their T-shirts, as if somebody would write down a phone number in the middle of a ball game. They came to games bearing receipt booklets.

  In the dugout, Laverna declared that she would murder any Flood Girl who was distracted at bat by a conversation about a new set of self-­sharpening knives, which the catcher f
rom New Poland had the market on.

  In addition to the knife lady, there were several representatives from Mary Kay, an Avon saleswoman, twin sisters who sold Hoover products, and their rival from Electrolux. The entire outfield was Amway, and Laverna hated them the most. Once, in a show of league spirit, Laverna and Red Mabel let themselves be dragged to one of their parties. Of course, Red Mabel had been coarse, and completely drunk, and burned the hostess’s couch with a cigarette on purpose. Laverna bought a punch bowl just to make up for it. That was five years ago. They still called Laverna every three months and sent her catalogs.

  The field in New Poland drifted with fluff from cottonwood trees. Half her team was sneezing before the game even began, and the remaining Flood Girls unaffected by allergies were skittering, sliding across the piles of pollen that collected in their cleats. The fluff was everywhere, floating down in great motes, catching the wind and blowing into the faces of her starting lineup. Laverna swore she saw a great pile of it, rolling across the field like tumbleweed.

  In the dugout, Diane was complaining about her new boyfriend. “He’s just not very romantic,” she said, and pulled her knee high socks furiously. “I like to have men court me.”

  Ginger rolled her eyes and addressed Laverna, who was denying the tickle in her nose and eyes were related to the cottonwood. She was tougher than allergies. “Diane is dating her doctor.”

  “He’s not just a doctor,” said Diane. “He’s a specialist.”

  “Gynecologist,” declared Ginger.

  “He’s already seen the goods,” said Laverna. “There’s no romance left.”

  Laverna’s attention was distracted by Martha Man Hands, who had already disobeyed. She saw Martha ordering candles through the chain link from an industrious young woman. Martha also made promises to attend a Pampered Chef party, even though Laverna knew Martha had never cooked, just brought home day-old corn dogs and congealed nachos from the gas station.

  “Scram!” Laverna slammed her hand against the chain link, and the saleswoman left in a hurry. Laverna knocked the beer out of Martha’s hand, told her to focus on the game.

  Once again, Rachel was useless in the outfield, wearing her ridiculous gothic wardrobe and refusing to move, the cottonwood fluff creating a crown around her long blond hair. After the second inning, Laverna sat her daughter down on the bench, attempted an inspiration speech.

  “Every woman on this team has seen how fast you can move,” said Laverna. “When you want something, I mean.”

  “This is sports,” said Rachel. “I warned you.”

  “You’ve already got a reputation,” said Laverna. “I think you’ve broken nearly all the Ten Commandments. Let’s not add sloth to the list.”

  “I don’t covet my neighbor’s husband,” said Rachel.

  “You live next door to Bert,” Laverna pointed out.

  “That’s true,” said Rachel.

  Thankfully, Shyanne was there. The Flood Girls were worthless, and Laverna sent Shyanne out into right field, to control the damage. Rachel never had to swing a bat.

  In addition to their tenacious business acumen, the women from New Poland At-Home Sales were fierce on the field. To make matters worse, several residents of Quinn had gone to the city council, asking that Red Mabel be suspended, or fined. They claimed she had started the fight, and nearly injured several children. None of this was true, of course, but Red Mabel was determined to play the rest of the season. Chastened by the warning, Red Mabel was solicitous as she tagged out runners to third, apologizing profusely. Laverna was disgusted. In the fifth inning, she requested a time-out and called Red Mabel in from the field.

  In the dugout, Laverna begged. “Shake it off,” she said. “You’re the beast of this team, and we’re getting creamed. Fuck the city council.”

  “I can’t pay any fines,” said Red Mabel.

  “I’m sure you could trade some pelts or something,” said Laverna. “I don’t really give a shit. If it comes down to it, we’ll sue.”

  “I don’t have very good luck in court,” pointed out Red Mabel.

  “Fuck ’em,” said Laverna. “Go out there and kill somebody. I’ve got a savings account.” She punched Red Mabel on the shoulder. At this, Red Mabel began to howl, despite the double takes from the New Poland At-Home Sales. She trotted out to third base and proceeded to elbow and spit at any runners who dared come near.

  Despite the return of their beast, the Flood Girls could not combat the onslaught of heavy hitters.

  Bucky called the game at the top of the sixth inning, as they had been completely shut out, seventeen to zero. This was known as the mercy rule.

  When the game ended, the Mary Kay ladies were the worst. As both teams shook hands in a long line, a league ritual that ended every softball game, the Mary Kay ladies seemed to be laughing at them, and this was bad sportsmanship. Laverna was worried that Red Mabel would rip out their earrings.

  * * *

  Laverna rode home with Tabby Pierce and the Sinclairs.

  She and Tabby talked about the Clinkenbeard kid, and how it was proving impossible to get any restitution from his derelict family. Even when Red Mabel stood on their front porch, armed with a crossbow, the Clinkenbeards offered up only jars upon jars of pickled tomatoes. They claimed that they didn’t have any money, and Red Mabel threatened to kill all their chickens if they didn’t pay Laverna back within the month.

  “That’s like two hundred chickens,” said Tabby Pierce. “Red Mabel couldn’t shoot them all. Chickens move fast.”

  “Red Mabel has a machine gun,” said Laverna.

  A peep, much like a baby chicken, came from the backseat of the car.

  The Sinclairs had been silent until then, as always. Not even a sniffle.

  The taller Sinclair tapped Laverna on the shoulder.

  “There’s something you should know,” she said, and Laverna craned her neck to see her in the gloom. “We’re leaving Reverend Foote’s church.”

  “What does that have to do with me?” Laverna turned back around. She found the Sinclairs to be incredibly irritating, especially the fact that they played softball in those cursed jean skirts, but she kept them around because they didn’t talk back and took direction well.

  “He insists that we can’t play softball anymore,” said the taller Sinclair.

  “Bullshit,” said Laverna. “I hate Reverend Foote. He is ruining this town. He is a terrible, grotesque man.”

  Tabby tried to be kind for the sake of the Sinclairs. She spoke in a gentle voice. “If you can’t find anything nice to say about someone, maybe you shouldn’t say anything at all.”

  Laverna glared at Tabby. “If you can’t find anything nice to say about someone, maybe you should just set them on fire.”

  The shorter Sinclair spoke, in full voice, and rapidly. Laverna was stunned. “It’s also about Jake,” she said, her pale face and red hair glowing from the backseat. “We have to leave the church because of Jake. We can’t listen to the things they say about him.”

  “What?” Tabby turned around, and Laverna jabbed her with a finger to redirect her attention to the road.

  “Who is saying these things?” Laverna tried to interrogate the shorter Sinclair as kindly as possible. “And what are they saying?”

  The shorter Sinclair took a deep breath. “Reverend Foote says that we cannot be around him. Reverend Foote says that the devil is inside Jake, and if we get too close, it will jump out and come inside us.”

  “Jesus,” said Laverna, and then quickly apologized. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” said the shorter Sinclair. “I just thought you should know. We both really like Jake. He’s one of our favorite customers. He’s very respectful.”

  “The whole congregation holds hands and prays for Jake’s salvation,” said the taller Sinclair. “And to keep Quinn safe from the devil inside him.”

  “Holy shit,” said Tabby. “What does Bert say?”

  “Nothing,” said the shorte
r Sinclair. “He just prays. And then everybody hugs him at the end.”

  “We don’t hug Bert,” continued the taller Sinclair. “We’ve never really liked him anyway.”

  “I think I need to tell Rachel about this,” said Laverna.

  “Please don’t,” said the taller Sinclair. “Like I said, we’re leaving the church. We want the outfield to be a harmonious place. We’re going to start going to church in Ellis.”

  “Ellis is a terrible place,” said Laverna. She reconsidered her statement and looked out at the forests whizzing past. “But any church there would be lucky to have you. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

  “You’re our coach,” said the shorter Sinclair. “This is about the team. We know that Jake and Rachel are close, and we don’t want Rachel to have any distractions.”

  “Amen,” said Laverna, and she meant it. She continued to watch for deer, disturbed by this news but refusing to acknowledge it out loud. Nothing could be done about the reverend. He had proven to be insidious and sneaky, and normally Laverna admired such things. He had a whole church on his side, and Laverna’s fan club were mostly drunk and unorganized. She would have to do this on her own. For now, she could offer Jake her support, and keep watch for any wildlife on a suicide mission.

  A Name for Men like You

  Bert planned for a trip to Idaho Falls, a revival meeting. Krystal and the baby would accompany him, for the entire weekend. Bert knew that Jake would only cause a distraction, and Krystal paid Martha Man Hands for babysitting, even though Jake protested he was almost thirteen and was capable of more housework than women three times his age. Martha gladly took the money, and two hundred dollars more from Rachel. Hush money. Martha did not want to babysit anyway.