“Fuck,” said Laverna. “So you’re quitting the bar?”
“You can have your shift back. You seem all healed up.”
“You’re no doctor,” spit Laverna.
“I met another man,” said Tabby.
“I think love is something worth celebrating!” announced Diane from the driver’s seat.
“Shut the fuck up,” said Laverna. “Where are you moving?”
“That’s the funny thing,” said Tabby. “Boyce Falls.”
“This is a town of bitter divorcées,” said Laverna. “They are going to burn your house down.”
“We’ll keep our happiness a secret,” said Tabby.
“That’s always been my personal motto,” declared Martha Man Hands.
Despite Tabby’s news, the girls played with precision and grace, and Red Mabel didn’t assault anyone in the bleachers.
Diane masterminded the first double play in the history of the Flood Girls. She tagged out a runner at second, and still found the time to throw the runner out at first. The miracles continued when Rachel actually attempted to catch a ball, ran at it, but ran too fast, and missed it entirely. Thankfully, the taller Sinclair was there to scoop it up.
And at bat, Rachel got contact on a slow pitch and bashed the hell out of it. She hit the ball deep into right field, and remembered to run after the entire dugout began screaming at her.
“Run, run, run!” the Flood Girls yelled until Rachel made it all the way to second.
Her other two at bats were total flameouts, but she was showing some spark. Laverna’s girls won their second game of the year, seven to six, and this was a game they had actually played, not won by forfeit.
It was nearly one o’clock in the morning when they got back to town, and Laverna demanded that they go to the Dirty Shame to continue the celebration. Nobody dared argue.
Gene Runkle was in rare form, still upright after hours of drinking. He was also celebrating. He finally caught the brown dog, and carried on about his own Moby Dick.
Jim Number Three sat at the bar and stared into his pint glass. Since she had her casts removed, their sex life had become pedestrian. He still came to her house with his book, and they were nearing the end.
Laverna sat down next to him, as the rest of the Flood Girls celebrated all around her.
Jim Number Three had a grim look on his face.
“What?” Laverna ordered a drink from Tish.
“I need to tell you something that you’re not going to like,” he said.
“I’m sure I’ve heard worse,” said Laverna.
“I screwed up,” said Jim Number Three, and then he was crying. Laverna hated when straight men cried. It made her blood boil, and she had seen enough of it as a bartender for a quarter century.
“Just say it,” said Laverna. She was short with him, which made the tears come even harder. Tish looked over, concerned. Laverna rolled her eyes. His tears were making her lose interest in him anyway.
“I slept with another woman,” said Jim Number Three.
“Fucking volunteers,” muttered Laverna. “Should’ve known.”
“Some widow in Idaho needed track lighting installed. One thing led to another.”
“They always do,” Laverna said, and stood up from her stool. She tried to walk away from him, but he grabbed her arm.
“I don’t want to break up,” he said. “It was just a mistake. You’re the one I really want.”
“Fuck off,” she said, but he wouldn’t let go of her arm.
“I’ve been building you a robot!” Now he was sobbing.
Laverna spit in his face. “Fuck your robots! Fuck Kunta Kinte!”
Jim Number Three wiped at his cheeks, at the tears and saliva. “I still love you!”
“After your drink, you get the hell out of here. You’re eighty-sixed. For good.”
“Please,” he said.
“It’s over,” Laverna said, and tore away from his grasp. She walked to the back tables, and they were all silent. They had seen Jim Number Three’s tears.
“What did he do?” Red Mabel cracked her knuckles.
“The same thing every man does,” said Laverna. “He’s just another disappointment.”
For some reason, Martha Man Hands raised her glass to this, and the Flood Girls toasted one another, and their first real victory of the season.
* * *
When Laverna woke the next morning, she was in a strange mood. She was loath to admit that she had fallen, just the tiniest bit, for Jim Number Three. She wanted to know how Roots ended, if Kunta Kinte’s family tree finally managed to buck their bad luck. She missed Jim Number Three reading to her, attempting to pronounce all the African names. But he had turned out to be a cheater, and a volunteer, and she had officially sworn off both forever.
She needed a reminder.
She found herself driving to Ellis, to the animal control building.
The woman behind the counter tried to stop her, but Laverna just held up a hand and kept walking. She could hear the dogs barking, and it was easy to ascertain which door to open.
In the third kennel, she found him. Laverna did not know her breeds, just knew that this was the brown dog that attempted to take a chunk out of her calf. She always remembered her enemies. This was turning out to be a year of injuries. It figured, because her daughter had come back to town.
Laverna crouched down in front of the kennel, and the brown dog ignored the deafening sounds of all the other imprisoned dogs and stretched leisurely. He took his time approaching the cage door. When he got near, Laverna expected him to growl, for foam to come out of his mouth, for him to lunge at her. Laverna knew that dogs that bit people had to be put down, and wished the same thing applied to human beings. This dog was destined for execution.
The animal control officer entered the room, holding a clipboard. She cleared her throat nervously. She was a mousy woman, uncomfortable in her own body. Laverna detested women who filled the air with their discomfort, their body apologizing for their very existence. They tried so hard to take such little space that they ended up filling every room.
“What?”
“Sorry, Laverna. I can’t let you be back here by yourself. Liability.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Reputation,” said the animal control officer. “Good things, I swear.”
At this, Laverna laughed. “Bullshit,” she said. The animal control officer kneeled down, joining Laverna. They both studied the dog.
“He’s also got a reputation,” said the animal control officer.
“I know,” confirmed Laverna. “I’m one of his victims.”
But the brown dog didn’t even snarl. He didn’t bark. His counterparts in their cages threw themselves against the chain link, howling and baying for her attention.
The brown dog peered up at her, with his giant dark eyes. She supposed he was a dachshund mix of some kind. He was a mutt, and he had a history of violence. He definitely belonged in Quinn.
He wagged his tail and sniffed at the cage. Jim Number Three had snuck up and hurt her, and she needed to be reminded how it felt. She wanted the dog to bite her.
She stuck her fingers through the chain link.
“Don’t,” said the animal control officer. “We can’t afford the liability.”
“I brought my checkbook,” said Laverna. She wiggled her ring finger, and the dog loped up, and licked where the ring would be.
“I think he likes you,” said the animal control officer.
“Goddammit,” said Laverna. The dog rolled on his back, expecting her to rub his stomach.
Laverna stood, swinging her purse violently as she left the room. She was angry. The males of any species were fickle and mysterious creatures.
Boy on the Roof
The next day was Sunday, clear and blue, the yard furrowed and spiked. There was a green glow to it, as the grass had just begun poking out. She scattered the seeds out of a coffee can with a lid perf
orated with a knife, was proud of her work. A few seeds remained on the surface of the soil, un-sprouted. They looked like rice, and reminded Rachel of Krystal’s wedding. She had never heard of a wedding on a Wednesday afternoon, figured it was some weird Evangelical thing, or maybe they were hoping Rachel could not get time off from work.
Since Bucky had nothing on his docket, Rachel decided it was the perfect day to put up the new siding. She wanted wood, but Bucky drove her to Ellis and showed her the giant pieces of vinyl, weather-resistant, half the cost, a quarter the labor.
Rachel had her mind set on a house painted the color of Tiffany boxes, that very particular shade of blue, with dark brown trim and overflowing window boxes.
The vinyl siding came in two colors: kind of white, and kind of brown. Rachel thought that the colors were exactly the same as every trailer house in her court, and she was right.
Bucky appeased her by letting her buy eight window boxes, and flats of moss roses at the Ben Franklin. He stood patiently in the paint section, while Rachel had a confusing conversation with the salesman about Tiffany’s, and then the color of robin’s eggs, and then Audrey Hepburn. Eventually, she found a blue that was close enough. Bucky apologized to the salesman.
“She’s very determined,” Bucky said.
“I would choose a different word,” said the salesman, who thought Rachel was out of earshot. She eavesdropped and pretended to study fake flowers. There was a wedding, after all, and Krystal had become so tacky in ten years that she might welcome such an arrangement.
“I hope it’s not a swear word,” Bucky said, and puffed up his chest.
“No,” said the salesman. “Picky. That’s what I meant.”
“That house is her baby,” said Bucky. “She wants everything to be perfect.”
“What does that have to do with Audrey Hepburn?”
“Dunno,” admitted Bucky. “Sorry.”
The vinyl had to be delivered. A giant flatbed truck followed them back to Quinn, and the driver was kind of cute, just like the vinyl was kind of brown.
It took an hour and a half to slide the sheets off the truck and pile them on the patio.
Putting up the siding required all four of their arms, a ladder, and a sawhorse. After Bucky drilled the first piece into place, they stood back and admired it. It was like a whole new trailer house, at least this section of it.
They were hanging the second piece when the shouting started. It came from Krystal’s trailer, and it was definitely Bert.
“Jesus Christ,” said Bucky, drill in hand. “I thought he stopped drinking.”
“Doesn’t stop him from being an asshole,” said Rachel.
Bucky screwed in the final corner of the second piece, and the shouting continued, louder this time. The baby started crying, and Rachel listened for Jake but could not hear him. Krystal’s car was gone, so Bert had to be yelling at Jake. Bert never yelled at the baby.
A thump and a crash, and Bucky leaped from the ladder and grabbed Rachel before she could run to the gate.
“Stop,” he said. He pointed to Jake’s bedroom window. Jake’s legs emerged, as he perched on the sill, and pushed himself up to the roof.
Jake’s head was covered by the hood of a cowl-neck sweater, three sizes too big for him. He was crying.
“Are you okay?”
“Go away,” he said, in a quiet voice. He buried his face in wool. The sweater hung down to his knees.
“Get him down from there,” commanded Rachel.
“Don’t talk to Bert,” said Bucky. “Let me do that.”
“No,” said Rachel. “You’re taller. Get Jake off the roof. He’s not in his right mind.”
“Neither are you,” said Bucky. “You don’t know what Bert is capable of.”
“That,” said Rachel, pointing at Jake, curled up into a ball, sobbing.
Rachel jumped up Krystal’s steps and let loose on the door.
Bert opened it and stared at her silently.
“Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”
“Yes,” said Bert. “I do.” He moved to shut the door, but Rachel put her foot in the way.
“What’s wrong with Jake?”
“Everything,” said Bert, not red-faced or sweating, strange for a man who had just been shouting at top volume. Behind him, the baby was crying.
“I’m not leaving until you tell me what you did,” said Rachel.
“He’s the one that did something. And you don’t have any right to talk. I know all about . . .” He stopped himself. “You’re not a good person.”
“I’m calling Krystal,” she said.
“I already did.”
“You can’t yell at him like that.”
“You need to get off my porch. Right now. I’ve got a baby who’s crying, and I don’t give a fig what you think.”
“Did you hit him?”
“Lady, if you don’t get off my front porch, I’m gonna go get my shotgun, and maybe that will make you shut the fuck up.” Now his face was red. “Sorry for swearing.”
“I’m calling the cops.”
“Go ahead,” said Bert. “Get gone.”
Rachel stepped backward as Bert slammed the door in her face.
Rachel ran around the trailer, just in time to see Jake sliding into Bucky’s hands. She stopped when she saw Bucky pull the boy close, Jake still sobbing, Bucky holding him as if he weighed nothing. Jake was small for his age, but Bucky had volunteer fireman muscles.
He carried Jake into the house, and Rachel picked up the phone as Bucky deposited him onto the couch.
Rachel called the volunteer dispatcher.
“Quinn Dispatch. What’s your emergency?” Rachel didn’t recognize the woman’s voice, but she recognized the disinterest. It was an epidemic in this town. Laverna was right about volunteers.
“I need the police. A child has been abused.”
“Is this Rachel Flood?”
“Jesus,” said Rachel. “Yes. Can you please send somebody? Do you need my address?”
“We all know where you live,” said the woman.
“That’s fucking creepy,” said Rachel. “Send them now, please.”
Twenty minutes later, the police had not arrived. Bucky sat down next to Jake, who leaned into him. Bucky had his eyes closed, and tapped his foot nervously.
Jake stopped crying and pulled the sweater back. One eye was swollen shut.
Bucky swore and stood. He paced, eventually standing in front of the window. He pulled back the curtain.
“The cops just got here,” he reported. “And Reverend Foote.”
“Why didn’t we hear sirens?”
“I don’t know,” said Bucky. “I’ll go find out.”
“Please,” said Rachel.
Rachel retrieved ice from the freezer, and wrapped it in a washcloth.
They sat there in silence, Jake holding the ice to his eye. Rachel listened to car doors opening and car doors closing. Another car arrived. Rachel could tell from the brakes that it was Krystal’s.
Jake started talking then. Bert confronted him, had ordered his stepson not to hang around Rachel, but Jake had not listened. Bert had proof that it was not the first time. He spied the day they planted flowers, and that night, he watched them dance in her living room. Jake admitted this, and admitted he had been coming over more often than that. Jake had the nerve to quote from the Bible: “But who are you to judge your neighbor?” To make matters worse, Jake recited the chapter and verse, James 4:12.
That was when Bert smacked him.
Krystal opened the door without knocking. Her eyes were dry, but her face was white, her lips set in a tight line.
Krystal sat down on the couch, and pulled Jake to her.
“Why are you wearing my sweater?” Krystal asked him this quietly, and examined his eye, while she waited for his answer. Rachel stood in front of them, arms crossed, holding her tongue. Finally, she could take it no longer.
“Where are the cops? I
want to make a report.”
“I sent them away,” said Krystal.
“Bert threatened to shoot me,” said Rachel. “I’m going to call them back.”
“Please don’t,” said Krystal.
“Don’t you even tell me that you’re worried about your fucking wedding,” said Rachel.
“No,” said Krystal. “Right now, I’m worried about Jake.”
“We’ve known each other for fifteen years,” said Rachel. “I can still tell when you’re scared. And I can definitely still tell when you’re lying.”
“I’m fine,” said Jake.
“This is fucking ridiculous!” Rachel grabbed the washcloth from Krystal’s hand.
“Bert is sorry,” Krystal said, and hugged Jake again. “He’s very, very sorry, and he’s going to make it up to you.”
“You always say that,” muttered Jake.
Krystal turned to Rachel, pleading. “I’m not a bad mother.”
“I didn’t say that,” said Rachel. “You were the most loyal friend I ever had. Why can’t you be loyal to your own son?”
“I am,” said Krystal huffily.
“Then take his side for once,” said Rachel. “He comes here because he doesn’t feel safe.”
“Our home is safe,” said Krystal. “Jake likes to be dramatic.”
“Bert hit him,” said Rachel. “Did you leave your baby with that dirtbag?”
“Mrs. Foote has the baby, and the reverend took Bert for a drive.” Krystal smoothed Jake’s hair. “Bert’s not going to be home when you get there,” she said.
“You’re afraid of him, too.” Rachel wanted to hear the words come out of Krystal’s mouth, wanted her to admit it.
Instead, Krystal began crying, but Rachel could tell these were selfish tears, the tears of someone overwhelmed. Krystal cried out of hopelessness, not out of concern for her son.
“Okay,” said Krystal, after she regained her composure. “I will tell Bert to lay off. Jake is welcome to come over here anytime he wants. As long as it’s okay with you, and as long as he lets somebody know.”
“Thank you,” said Jake.
“But you need to mind your own business,” said Krystal, addressing Rachel. “Stay out of my marriage. Don’t forget that I’ve known you for fifteen years, too. And I’ve seen you ruin plenty of relationships.”
The Flood Girls Page 22