The Flood Girls

by Richard Fifield

  Jake showed up fully prepared the next morning, just as Rachel was drinking her first cup of coffee. He carried his tiny suitcase, and a small tin briefcase that contained a camera from the 1960s, complete with effect lenses and an impossibly compact tripod.

  “I’m ready,” he announced. He wore a newsboy cap and a scarf wrapped four times around his neck.

  “Travel clothes? You look like Amelia Earhart.” Rachel laughed. “Are you sure you don’t need goggles?”

  “That’s not funny,” said Jake. “Take me to the city, please. I made a mixed tape for our travels.”

  Rachel finished her coffee, and he watched as she threw some things in a duffel bag, and refrained from commenting when he noticed that she did not fold her clothes.

  The drive to Missoula took three hours, and the trees and the rivers looked just like the trees and rivers in Quinn, but there seemed to be more sunlight in the air. His ears popped as they left the lower elevation and ascended in her little red truck. The road followed rocky cliffs, carved out of the mountains.

  When Rachel reached the turnoff and entered the interstate, Jake had to take a deep breath. The field trips he took at school were always just hour-long drives into more of the same wilderness, but today he was destined for a city of seventy thousand people.

  Low-slung cars zipped around Rachel’s truck, not the giant trucks and beaten-up Jeeps he was accustomed to. A gargantuan casino covered an acre of land, and the electronic reader boards flashed out promises of upcoming concerts and theme nights. Jake noticed every single exit ramp, all flanked by enormous advertisements for multiplex movie theaters and tourist traps—a museum devoted entirely to agates, an exhibition of dinosaur bones at the university, an amusement park that offered up a zero-gravity experience.

  In the distance, he saw streets weaving through, tucking under the interstate. He observed streetlights, actual traffic signals. The billboards were everywhere, including one that advertised a shopping mall. He clapped his hands together delightedly.

  “What is it?” Rachel turned the volume down on a particularly raucous song by the B-52s. “What’s got you so excited, little dude?”

  “The mall!” He screamed the words, and Rachel grimaced.

  “That place is a nightmare,” said Rachel. “I thought you had better taste than that.”

  “I never get to buy new things,” said Jake. “Unless I get them through the mail.”

  “Maybe we can stop there,” said Rachel. “Every stylish person deserves new things. But we are not going to Wal-Mart. That place is a fucking black hole.” She turned on her blinker. “Sorry for swearing.”

  “I love it!” Jake clapped again as they turned onto the exit ramp.

  Rachel drove into the city of Missoula, and Jake’s head turned in all directions. A record store. A dog-grooming business. A real estate office with three floors. A park that was built on purpose. In Quinn, the parks were uninhabitable tracts of land the city had repossessed. Jake saw a post office that was built with actual stone columns and had a grand entrance of cement steps. A courthouse with gothic-looking architecture, built around an impossibly tall clock tower. And then, on the front curb of the courthouse, sat the first black person he had ever seen in real life. They had stopped at a red light. The black person looked normal enough, drinking something steaming from a Styrofoam cup. He did not appear to be dangerous, although Jake did not approve of the giant, baggy muscle pants, the legacy of MC Hammer. Jake took pride in the fact that he did not lock his car door.

  “My first black person,” declared Jake.

  “You poor thing,” said Rachel. “We’re eating Chinese food tonight. I hope you don’t have a stroke from all the multiculturalism.”

  “This is the best day of my life,” said Jake as the light turned green, and they drove farther into the city.

  They continued driving, past a parking garage, a Taco Bell and a Kentucky Fried Chicken, restaurants Jake had only ever seen commercials for.

  Rachel took a sharp left and came to rest in the parking lot of a Red Lion.

  “Have you ever stayed in a hotel before?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Maybe this really is the best day of your life,” said Rachel. She reached over and removed his hat to ruffle his hair, and he could not stop smiling.

  * * *

  Rachel changed in the bathroom and emerged wearing a man’s blazer over a pink bodysuit, sleeves rolled up. A tiny and tight black miniskirt, and her legs tucked in tights of shiny pink. Purple wool socks, giant Doc Martens. Jake sat on the hotel bed and watched as she put on her makeup: lip liner, the color of plums. Lipstick, the color of pink carnations. Silver eye shadow and blue mascara. Her hair looked the same as it did in Quinn, but she added mousse to the hay-colored tangles.

  Jake had packed a black suit and a pink dress shirt. It was a wedding suit, he was sure of it, especially since it had been accompanied by a tiny cummerbund. Rachel assisted him with his bow tie, took his hand, and led him out to the truck.

  “Athena is a very large woman,” said Rachel, as she turned out into traffic. “She’s also very loud. I wanted to warn you ahead of time.”

  “I like large and loud,” said Jake.

  “She’s the best teacher I ever had,” Rachel said, and continued downtown, across a giant, well-kept bridge, so unlike the rickety one lanes in Quinn.

  A row of women, all in black, stood like crows, holding hands. All eleven silently watched the traffic crossing over the bridge.

  “Those women are famous around here,” said Rachel. “They come to the bridge to protest the war. Every single week.”

  “Are we in a war?”

  “These women have been coming here for the last twenty years.”

  It was true that the women seemed ancient, and Rachel honked her horn. They did not react to the honk, did not smile or acknowledge that Jake was flashing a peace sign.

  Rachel turned onto a street that led to a parking lot, the lights just flickering on, as the sun had nearly set.

  She parked in front of a restaurant that was built out over the river. The Mustard Seed, “Fine Asian Cuisine.” Jake had an egg roll once, but it had come out of a microwavable box.

  Again, Rachel took his hand and led him into the foyer. They waited on narrow wooden benches, low to the carpet. The entire entrance was walled with fish tanks, goldfish the size of his baby sister.

  The hostess was dressed in black, and all Rachel had to do was say the word Athena and they were whisked off to a table that looked right out on the water.

  “RACHEL!” Athena eased herself from the banquette and completely consumed her. Rachel disappeared into this embrace, and Jake stood there, until Athena pushed Rachel away with considerable force and bowed down to shake his hand.

  Athena was also wearing black, layers of it, scarves, a long glittery blouse over a black lace camisole that strained, and a flowing skirt that did not. If it wasn’t for the gray crew cut, Jake would have mistaken her for Stevie Nicks. Just as he had imagined, everybody in the city wore black.

  Athena did not seem that fat to him, just exotic, and full of life.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Athena said, and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Her arms tinkled, and he saw that her wrists were covered in silver bracelets, each strung with tiny bells. “I have heard ever so much about you. Rachel calls you her best friend, so it is truly an honor.”

  Rachel smiled at him, and he blushed as Athena herded them into the banquette.

  “I’ve already ordered,” said Athena. “I made sure you got your precious goddamn tofu.” Athena reached across the table and touched Jake’s arm. “I apologize for my language, but you’d better get used to it.”

  “God, I missed you,” said Rachel.

  “I should hope so,” said Athena.

  “I’ve got four hundred and thirty-four days,” said Rachel.

  “I know,” said Athena. “Your new sponsor and I have become pen pals. That motherfucker c
an’t spell for shit.”

  “Really? He writes you letters?”

  “I spoke to his wife. I suspect that she forces him.”

  “How on earth did you find him?”

  “I have my ways,” said Athena as the food began to arrive.

  Athena announced each item, as it was lowered in front of Jake: General Tso’s chicken, pot stickers stuffed with pork and cabbage, wonton soup. Thin slices of barbecued pork were arranged in a perfect ring that surrounded tiny dishes of hot mustard and sesame seeds.

  Rachel and Athena talked recovery, and gossiped about mutual friends from AA. Jake surrendered to the food. He was so full after ten minutes that he forced himself to stop, and stared out at the river. It had become night, and the city lights twinkled on the water. He peered around the room at the other diners, impeccably or interestingly dressed, living a city life in the candlelight.

  “So, little man.” Athena’s arms tinkled as she pointed a finger at him. “What do you want to do with the rest of your life?”

  “This,” he said.

  “Rachel tells me that you like fashion and the arts. She tells me that you had very firm opinions about the decoration of her house.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, blushing again.

  “In the city, we have a name for men like you.”

  Jake almost choked, waiting to hear that word, the word that was never to be spoken.

  “Fabulous,” said Athena. “Fucking fabulous.”

  Jake exhaled.

  “Goodness,” said Athena. “You’re white as a sheet.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I think I ate too much.”

  “Well, my fabulous little friend. I got you a special present. A thank-you for taking such good care of my girl.”

  “Oh no.” Rachel put down her egg roll. “Please tell me it is age appropriate.”

  “Of course not,” said Athena. “I can tell this kid is wise beyond his years.”

  “Thank you!” Jake was ecstatic. “That’s what I keep telling my mother.”

  “You absolutely cannot tell your mother about this,” said Athena. “But I think it’s going to blow your little mind.”

  “Are we going to the mall?”

  “That’s disgusting,” said Athena. She reached into her mammoth black purse, and removed three tickets and fanned them out across the only clear space on the table. “If you mention that cursed place, I shall give these tickets to some homeless people.”

  Jake clutched the ticket with shaking hands, made out the words in the candlelight.

  “The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” he said.

  “Sweet lord,” said Rachel.

  “Sweet transvestites,” corrected Athena. “You will never, ever be the same again. The show starts in an hour.”

  “Thank you,” said Jake.

  “Honey, growing up where you do, I think you need this experience.”

  “I used to have cable,” said Jake. “I read books. I know things.”

  “Oh, little man,” said Athena. “You have no idea.”

  * * *

  When Jake returned from Missoula, he was full of hope and ideas and leftover Chinese food gobbled in the truck. They returned on Sunday afternoon, just as the clouds gathered in a portent of storm.

  Rachel had to use her headlights, and they shone on Martha’s trailer house. There was a stone in his throat, and just like that, the good feelings were gone. Jake had two bags of clothes from the thrift stores in Missoula, and Rachel agreed to store them in her trailer for safekeeping.

  Rachel sensed his trepidation, and waited, parked in front of her own house, her truck still running. She grabbed his wrist.

  “You can live in Missoula,” she said. “You can wake up every morning in that town and be yourself and do the things that you were born to do.”

  “I know,” said Jake.

  “Five years,” she said. “You just have to make it five more years, and then you can go wherever you want, and be whoever you want, and nobody can stop you.”

  “Okay,” said Jake. They continued to sit there, until Rachel reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a business card.

  “This is from Athena.”

  “She’s a tax lawyer?” He studied the card. “I don’t pay taxes.”

  “Her address and phone number are on the back. She wants you to stay in touch with her. She likes you.”

  “Okay,” he whispered.

  “Ready?”

  “I think so,” he said.

  They unloaded the back of her truck, and Jake made his way across the gravel to his house.

  The porch light was on, which was a new thing. It was as if they were welcoming him home, but he had never gone anywhere without them, so he was unsure. He felt like knocking for some reason, but opened the door after taking a few deep breaths.

  He found Bert in his usual place, quiet and reading his Bible. He didn’t acknowledge Jake’s entrance, and Jake hustled to his bedroom. He could hear Krystal giving the baby a bath. He removed the duffel bag beneath his bed and examined his work. He was nearly done, still had to finish two shirts, and he had decided to stitch all the collars and sleeves. He only worked on these shirts at Rachel’s house, when she was not home. He slid a chair in front of his bedroom door, just in case.

  He lost himself, caressing the familiar fabric, the thick stitching, but Jake felt different. He realized that he had forgotten to take any pictures. He returned everything to the safety of the duffel bag. As he collapsed on his bed, he realized that pictures weren’t necessary. Some things would stay inside you until the day you died.

  The Flood Girls versus Ellis Methodist Church

  Rachel slept in, and when she woke, she said her prayers and reminded herself that this was just softball. She had no control over the outcome, but she could control her effort, and her outfit. Outside, it was raining lightly. The game was scheduled for noon. She took a bath, and meditated in front of the brick altar. She was in a Zen state when she picked out her clothes.

  Rachel pulled up to the field thirty minutes before the game, as instructed. Laverna rolled her eyes at Rachel’s choice of clothing: jean shorts that had been dyed black and hung with ripped fringes of hem, over neon green spandex, and a giant black T-shirt with a bloody skull on it. She and Jake had gone shopping for cleats in Ellis, even though they both despised entering a sporting goods store. She bought the first black pair in her size, but then Jake had found neon green laces at the cash register, which at least made them unique. She had practiced with the Chief in her Doc Martens, but even with two pairs of wool socks, she still ended up with blisters.

  The T-shirt was actually appropriate. Rachel wished that she wore her pentagram necklace, something she bought for a Judas Priest concert in Missoula that she was kicked out of. This game would be played against the Methodists from Ellis.

  All the other girls paired for the warm-up, leaving her to toss a ball back and forth with Ronda. She watched the opposing team, all in matching uniforms: pink T-shirts with tiny gray crosses above the right breast, gray sweatpants, pink socks. In her previous life, Rachel would have beaten them up on sight.

  Laverna recited the batting lineup in the dugout, and even though it was raining, she removed a clothespin from her pocket and attached the paper to the chain-link fence. Rachel watched as the ink began to run.

  She could see Jake in the bleachers, a coat draped over his head and the scorebook. The very sight of him was reassuring. A raincoat, dark blue with violet lining, surrounding his face like a cowl, the rest of him bedecked in varying shades of denim. Her seven dwarfs dug into a giant cooler, unlike the rest of the crowd, it was not filled with beer. Rachel suspected that the chief’s wife had made all the sandwiches, as it was something an Al-Anon wife would do.

  Rachel had grown accustomed to right field. It was a lonely place, but she crouched down into ready position every single time, even if the batter wasn’t left-handed. Most of the action went to left field, but Rachel wa
nted to appear prepared.

  Bucky called out, and Rachel watched her mother come to the ­pitcher’s mound for the coin toss. The coach for the Methodists was wearing pink but had spent too much time in the tanning beds in Boyce Falls.

  From the dugout, the Flood Girls stopped gossiping long enough to witness the nut-brown coach stop Bucky with one hand, kneel down to pray before he could flick the coin into the air.

  “For fuck’s sake,” said Laverna. “That’s cheating.”

  “You could pray if you wanted,” said Bucky. The coach rose to her feet to applause from her team. The Flood Girls had a reputation in the league, and the Methodists feared evil was contagious.

  “I don’t need Jesus,” said Laverna. “I’ve got Diane.”

  It was true. Diane had adopted her mother’s maiden name, Savage, and for good reason. Her vertical leap was the stuff of legend, and in the first inning, she leaped in the air, almost as high as Tabby’s breasts, and snagged a ball destined to land in front of the statue of Ronda. A line drive peeled off the bat and nearly knocked out Ginger’s teeth, who dove to the ground just in time, as her dental work was expensive. Diane darted behind her, scooped up the missile before it could land. Like Red Mabel, Diane was a beast, but she had been raised with good manners. She helped Ginger to her feet, brushed the dust from their pitcher’s perm.

  Diane was the type of woman who swung at everything, on and off the field. Fearless, she reached for an errant pitch, tapped it straight down the foul line, and Bucky had to squint and stammer until he finally called it good. By the time he had made this decision, Diane was on third base. Unfortunately, Della followed their cleanup hitter, and she was also the type of woman who swung at everything but never succeeded.

  “WAIT FOR YOUR PITCH!” Laverna screamed as Della attempted to hit a ball that cruised two feet outside the batter’s box. This is how it had been every game. Laverna instructed Della not to swing at anything, and to step in front of a ball if necessary. A walk is as good as a hit, Laverna reasoned, and Della might as well sacrifice her body for the team. Della refused to be a patsy, and continued to swing away, hopelessly. Rachel had no fear of throwing herself in front of a pitch. Rachel had been thrown on the hood of a Nissan Maxima, had been beat with a garden hose by a gang of drunk Russian women. A softball was nothing, and Rachel kept this contingency plan in the back of her mind, just in case.