However, Shyanne twisted her ankle in the fourth inning, running like a colt, after nailing a ball clean to the fences.
She limped into the dugout. Rachel looked on nervously as Ginger immediately started fussing. Laverna pretended that she knew what she was talking about, and diagnosed it as nothing.
“Walk it off,” Laverna commanded. “It’s not even swollen.”
That was a lie. As they all watched, it grew larger.
The Flood Girls went back to the field, and Tabby surprised everyone by catching a ball that shot three inches off the ground, diving into the dirt before it could make contact. She brushed off her chest, and waved at her sister, Tish, who was emitting bloodcurdling screams from the bleachers, off her medication once again.
“Calm down!” Laverna screamed into the bleachers. These screams were a distraction, and off-putting. “Take your fucking medication!”
Tish was chastened by this. Rachel knew that Laverna had let Tish close down the bar for a rare hour, so that she could finally see her sister’s softball game. This was a mistake, as Tish was extremely excitable. Her face crumpled as she grabbed her keys and left at the top of the fifth inning. Rachel understood this—Tish would rather be serving drinks than let herself be a target for Laverna.
Ronda showed off her guns by catching a pop fly and then throwing the ball all the way from the outfield to Red Mabel at third base. This was the second double play in Flood Girl history. Rachel ran in from the field and hoped that their luck would continue, that Shyanne would be standing in the dugout, ready to bat.
She wasn’t. Shyanne continued to sprawl across the bench, her ankle elevated on a pile of purses.
Rachel nervously adjusted the lineup, attached to the chain link with a clothespin, and a lump rose in her throat when she saw she was on deck.
It was the top of the sixth inning. The Flood Girls were behind by one, eight to nine, but Rachel wasn’t worried about a loss. She was worried about the crowd.
As Rachel stepped up to the batter’s box, the bleachers became completely silent.
Bucky turned around and strained to look through the chain link. He seemed determined to avoid a melee, because if the game was called short, he wouldn’t get paid. She watched as he dusted off home plate with extra care. He winked at Rachel, and she swallowed down the fear in her throat.
Rachel swung the bat around to warm up her arm, and the crowd was still. She wondered if Red Mabel was aiming a sniper’s rifle at them.
It was a ball. Bucky called it. From the bleachers came a few snickers, some tittering. Rachel could hear Jake cough nervously.
The next pitch was a thing of beauty, a high, impossibly perfect arc, and Rachel swung and missed.
“Strike,” called Bucky.
There was laughter now, but no one had screamed out any slurs.
Rachel figured they were past that now. It was enough for the people of Quinn to watch her fail.
But she didn’t. Rachel kept her eye on the ball and swung at the next pitch. The ball flew over the third-base line and stayed in play. Rachel remembered what to do. She ran to first. She blew her mother a kiss.
The citizens of Quinn gasped, and the seven dwarfs stood up to applaud. Rachel’s single brought in Della, and the contingent without eyebrows delighted. Ronda continued her streak and hammered a slow pitch, sent it rocketing over the head of the woman in right field. Even though Ronda was right-handed, she was always full of surprises. Her triple brought in Rachel, and just like that, Bucky called the game.
The Flood Girls were victorious, eleven to nine.
* * *
Monday morning, Gene Runkle sat at the end of the bar. Rachel didn’t mind him or Mrs. Matthis—she saved her anxiety for the appearance of Winsome, and had planned a speech where she reiterated that it had been only a one-night stand. Gene was celebrating, but he wouldn’t say why, just kept raising a gray finger for another shot of Crown Royal.
For once, Rachel had to pry the gossip out of him, on his fifth shot.
“Caught that fucking dog last week,” he said. “It was like Moby Dick or some shit. An endless hunt.”
“Bullshit,” said the silver miner who looked like Elvis. She leaned across the bar on an elbow and ordered her first beer of the day. “It was the Klemp girl who caught him.”
“Whatever,” said Gene. “It’s done!” He raised his glass and saluted himself.
* * *
After her shift, Rachel sped to Ellis. Animal control was in a giant garage, built on the outskirts of Ellis, so the constant, deafening barking wouldn’t bother anyone.
Rachel passed the wing full of cats, but continued down the corridor and entered the cement room that housed the kennels. She was immediately overwhelmed by the chaos of dogs hurling themselves at kennel doors, scrabbling up to greet her, barking madly.
She saw the brown dog immediately. He stared back at her, eyed her like he knew he was on death row.
Rachel went to the front desk and brought the attendant back. The attendant was young and nice, and appeared competent. She was the antithesis of Gene Runkle.
“What is that?”
“We think it’s a dachshund mix of some kind.” The dog was brown, transitioned into a dark red along the back, grew darker still until the hindquarters were completely black. Fangs stuck out from beneath his upper lip, vaguely vampire-like, but the springing tail and white paws suggested anything but evil.
“It looks like a gremlin.”
“He’s a sweetheart,” said the attendant.
“He bit my mother.”
“Oh,” said the attendant, absorbing this information.
“Can I take him on a walk?”
“Of course,” the attendant said, and returned with a leash.
“How long have you had him?”
“A week or so,” she said, and unlocked the kennel. The dog stepped out calmly and stretched out on his front legs, yawned. “We call him Frank.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, ma’am. The dogcatcher in Quinn insisted on it. Thought it was hilarious.”
Frank bent obediently as Rachel attached the collar and leash. She walked Frank out behind the animal control building. He didn’t pull on the leash, just moseyed along, stopping to smell things, lifting a leg on others.
Rachel followed him back into the office, and announced to the attendant her intent to take him home. This pleased the woman, and she slid the paperwork on a clipboard across the counter. Rachel filled out the necessary information, Frank sitting right beside her, as if he knew. He scratched his ear with one hind leg.
“Rachel Flood?” The attendant looked down at the clipboard.
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard about you.” Oh, fuck, thought Rachel. Her past was everywhere. Frank would never be allowed to go home with a slut or a murderess.
“Oh,” said Rachel.
“My friend Diane Connor? She thinks the world of you.”
“Pleasure,” Rachel said, and shook her hand.
Frank and Rachel left together, and the attendant waved at them until they pulled away.
Frank sat calmly on the front seat as she drove to the pet store. Again, he bent down and accepted the leash without a peep. A half hour later, they returned to her truck with dog food, a leash, a dog bed, a bowl for food and a bowl for water. She also bought a chew toy shaped like a softball, and Frank immediately began gnawing on it.
He watched out the window as they drove back to Quinn, tail wagging when she reached over to pet him. She looked over once, and she could have sworn that he was smiling at her.
She parked in front of her mother’s house, and went around to the passenger side, and clipped Frank on his leash.
They walked up to the front porch, and Rachel rang the bell.
This was the first time Rachel had ever been to her mother’s house. To most daughters, this would be a strange thing. To Rachel, it just felt like another thing to brave. She steeled herself and
waited for her mother to appear.
Laverna answered the door, and regarded them both. For once, she didn’t seem suspicious.
“Hi,” said Rachel.
Laverna crouched down and rubbed the dog’s head. “I recognize him.”
“His name is Frank,” said Rachel.
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” said Rachel. “I got him for you.”
Rachel handed Laverna the leash and returned to the truck, expecting her mother to yell after her. Nothing came. Rachel collected the food, the bed, and the bowls, and brought them to the front door.
She stood there, her arms full. Laverna was already stroking Frank’s head.
“Come in,” Laverna said, and Rachel entered without a word, Frank sniffing Laverna’s pants. Laverna unleashed him, and he began nosing around the living room. Rachel examined her mother’s home, at her taste in decorations. Laverna walls were nearly full of woodprints of sunsets, carefully carved heads of Native Americans and the cowboys who hunted them, ancient snowshoes and spurs mounted on a grayed chunk of cedar. Jake would be horrified. Rachel knew these had all been gifts from Laverna’s customers.
Laverna led them out to the back deck. Frank lay down in front of Laverna and snuggled into her feet. She scratched his back, and he stood and stretched, and then began to sniff around. He seemed wary of the river.
“I’ve never had a dog,” said Laverna.
“I know,” said Rachel.
They sat in silence and watched Frank, as he shambled closer to the railing, still careful of the water. Rachel wanted to tell her mother so much. Rachel wanted to give her mother something to love that wouldn’t ever disappoint her, betray her, or break her heart.
Rachel considered her words, but then decided to say nothing. Maybe this time her mother already knew. It had taken ten years, but Rachel had finally accepted her mother as a person, who had done the best with what she had.
“He doesn’t bark,” said Rachel.
“Just like your father,” said Laverna.
Honeymoon
Bert and Krystal did not go on a honeymoon. Bert claimed there was no money for it, and Krystal claimed that what they really needed was family time. Jake had dreams of Glacier National Park, and of Bert falling into a fumarole. No such luck. He even considered giving them the rest of his softball money.
When Krystal went to work, Bert and the baby left with Mrs. Foote, to knock on doors and spread the word. Jake knew they used the baby as bait—who would turn away an infant on such a hot summer day?
Jake loaded his Walkman with Roxette, and his pockets with the sketchbook and pens to make a list. He walked through town, and the sugary Swedes in his earphones erased all fears of bullies hiding around street corners, lurking in abandoned trailer houses.
Without the Singer, he sought an audience with the queen.
For the past week, Buley had been teaching him how to embroider. He sat at her feet, and his fingers swelled, poked by a craft as ancient as prostitution, dating back to the fifth century BC. He didn’t mind Buley’s history lessons. She sent Rocky out for sandwiches, and only acknowledged the broken Singer once, as if she knew the depth and weight of his loss.
He arranged the materials as instructed—a wooden embroidery hoop, tiny scissors, embroidery floss, embroidery needles. Again and again, he practiced with small squares cut from bedsheets, separating the hoops, pulling the fabric tight until Buley was satisfied. For the first three lessons, Jake wrote his name in cursive on each square; cursive a skill he had not utilized in years. Buley watched him as he carefully pulled the needles through, each thread a dot until his name was outlined in thread. He cursed the loop of the J and the tiny circles in the K, and the long tail of the Y of his last name. There was beauty in this, and at last, Buley declared that he was ready to begin work on the T-shirts.
They never made small talk—Buley watched him silently, only shifting slightly in her seat to point out dropped stitches. She saved her words for Rocky, hollering across the store about feeding the cats and refilling the ink of the price gun, even though the numbers were arbitrary.
Jake knew that the lessons were over. He had not wanted to ruin this time in her court, but he could feel the coronation was complete.
“I need to ask you a question,” he said. He could not look Buley in the eye, and tugged at a long piece of embroidery floss a Siamese had appropriated under her throne.
“There are no more questions,” declared Buley. “You’ve got a knack for this. It’s all about practice, at this point.”
“My mom,” said Jake. “I wanted to ask you about my mom.”
“No,” said Buley. “I have nothing to say. Nothing you would want to hear.”
“I respect that,” said Jake.
“ROCKY!” Buley full-throatedly called for her boyfriend, who emerged from the stacks of concentric lampshades. Rocky held the price gun, stickers stuck in the beds of his fingernails.
“Yes,” he said. He attempted to flick the price stickers away, but they remained stuck, no matter how much he shook his hand.
“I need you to have a conversation with your nephew.” Jake watched the ball in his uncle’s throat as he swallowed nervously. Buley pointed at the rug next to Jake, and Rocky sat without a word. “Jake has some questions. And if you want meat loaf for dinner, you’re going to give him some answers.”
“Yes,” said Rocky once more.
“Um,” said Jake, looking at Buley for permission. She nodded, pulled a twinned pair of silver kittens onto her lap, as if she was the one who was seeking comfort.
“He wants to know about his mother.”
“Krystal,” said Rocky.
“That’s the one,” said Buley. She reached for a pack of grape Bubblicious on the counter and threw it at Rocky. He unwrapped two pieces and offered one to Jake, who refused. Rocky filled his mouth—Buley was trying to comfort her boyfriend, as well.
“I just want to know what happened,” said Jake. “I just want to know when she became ashamed of me.”
“Yes,” said Rocky. He chewed his gum, attempted to fold one of the wrappers into a painfully tiny paper airplane.
“Rocky,” commanded Buley. “Talk to him.”
“She did the same to me,” admitted Rocky. He handed the paper airplane to Jake, and the wings were no wider than a match, and the folds shook with his pulse. “My sister is real good at moving on.”
“She never left,” said Buley. “She’s still there. You’re not.”
“Why did you leave us?” Jake took a deep breath, closed his eyes, waiting for the crush of the answer. A question he had never dared ask.
“Trouble,” said Rocky. “She couldn’t stay away from it.”
“I was just a baby,” said Jake. “I don’t remember anything.”
“That’s why I left,” said Rocky. He remained silent, and began to fold the second gum wrapper. Buley nudged him with her ankle, the silver bells on her skirt tinkling, causing the twinned kittens to peer around nervously.
“Rocky,” said Buley. “He’s the only flesh and blood you’ve got.”
“Didn’t want you to remember,” said Rocky. “Couldn’t stay there and let her screw you up. Like I said. She did the same to me.”
* * *
In his bedroom, Jake unzipped the duffel bag. Four shirts left, and without the Singer, the sewing was tedious, secreted away from the eyes of Rachel or his stepfather. Counting stitches, just as he used to count rosary beads. He bit his tongue in concentration, lost in darting through the embroidery hoop, again and again. Couching. Buley called it couching, this gold work, the thread was silk and expensive, and he could not afford a mistake.
These T-shirts were jersey knit, not meant for such detail, and he tried to remain as calm as possible. One false move, and the cotton would stretch. Jake admired Rachel’s rituals of sobriety, and alone in his room, he cultivated his own spirituality. When he embroidered, he lit one candle on his thrift store candelabra, the chea
p brass paint flaking off in great chunks, littering his dresser in glittering piles. He lined up the books and magazines on his bedside table, pleased at the culture: the AA books, two curling issues of Vogue from 1978, the copy of Cannery Row, and last year’s TV Guide cover of Susan Lucci, ripped and glued in a frame of construction paper. He dressed in satin pajamas, lime in color, and forced himself to ignore the missing buttons. That was a sewing project for another day. He sprayed his quilt with a bottle of Lady Stetson perfume, another thrift store find, the contents stretched with tap water. And he listened to the same song, sometimes for hours, if it was a good night, and he was left alone.
Shyanne had given him the cassette single, and that was another portent of good luck. He had gone to the Sinclair for his mother, as milk was cheaper at the gas station. Shyanne washed all the windows every spring and fall, because Martha Man Hands was sloppy and the Sinclair sisters insisted on using vinegar. Shyanne used Windex, legs so long that a ladder was not necessary. She removed her headphones when she saw Jake.
“Here,” she said, and gave him the cassette straight from her Walkman. “I already have the whole album.” It was true—Ginger could afford ten thousand copies of The Immaculate Collection. Krystal flat out refused, thwarting Jake’s Christmas list once again.
“Are you sure?” Jake tried to give her the milk money in exchange, but she refused.
“I’m sick of it anyway,” she said, and removed another cassette from her coat pocket. “Garth Brooks,” she announced.
“I’m sorry,” said Jake, and returned home with his new prize.
The cassette single was part of the ritual. “Justify My Love” was exactly four minutes and fifty eight seconds long. The B-side was the Shep Pettibone remix of “Express Yourself,” and clocked in at just over four minutes. He counted stitches, and listened to Madonna, forced himself to rise each time to flip the tape. The breaks were necessary; if he got too caught up, he got sloppy with the needle, and veered outside of the ribbing on the crew neck and sleeves. Embroidery was the work of perfectionists, and Jake the type of boy who had always colored inside the lines. He saved artistic expression for his wardrobe.
The Flood Girls Page 25