Thirty-five minutes passed, time disappeared as magically as the baby blue. Glacially, the embroidery spread, millimeter after millimeter stitched with tiny darts of gold thread.
Jake heard Bert’s truck, and leaped to stuff the T-shirt and embroidery hoop under his bed. He plucked the inch-long bits of gold thread that snaked, snagged in his carpet, at least a dollar’s worth that he snipped with every new row. He wished he could tie them back together, return them to the spool.
He managed to remove the evidence by the time Bert knocked. He was allowed to close his door now, Bert’s wedding present to his new stepson. He still entered without being asked inside. Jake stopped the cassette as Bert crossed the threshold. Jake sat down on the bed, surrounded himself with the quilt.
His stepfather looked around the room, suspicious as always. The candelabra was still lit, the only sign of possible homosexual activity. Maybe not.
“Smells like a rodeo whore,” said Bert. “Excuse my language.”
“Stetson,” said Jake. “Aftershave.” Jake was nowhere near shaving, but Bert said nothing. At least it wasn’t concealer. For the first time ever, Bert sat down on Jake’s bed.
“I want to make things right,” said Bert. He made eye contact with Jake, and his gaze wasn’t glazed by booze, framed with bloodshot. He cleared his throat and continued. “I want to say sorry for hitting you and for ruining your sewing machine.”
“So you want to make amends?” Jake looked away. He still did not trust Bert, and probably never would. This seemed like his mother’s doing.
“Yes, I do.”
Jake took a deep breath. The power dynamic had shifted, and he was going to take full advantage. He resumed eye contact with his stepfather. “Lately, I’ve become sort of an expert on these things.” Jake pointed at the AA book on his nightstand. “I’ve learned that just saying sorry isn’t enough.”
“What the heck do you want me to do, kid?” Bert stood up and crossed his arms, frustrated. “All I can do is say sorry.”
“Amends means trying harder, and living better.” Jake’s voice quivered at first, and then grew more certain, as he continued. “Amends is something you demonstrate.”
“What do you want?” Bert sighed and uncrossed his arms.
“I want you to build me a shoe rack,” said Jake.
Level
When Bucky and Black Mabel arrived to do the last of the work on the trailer, Jake came out to help. Rachel was nervous—it seemed improbable that this trailer house could survive being lifted without splintering into pieces.
Bucky drove a giant flatbed, loaded with cinder blocks. Rachel and Jake carried one at a time through the gate, Bucky and Black Mabel carried two each. When the truck was unloaded, Bucky went to the dump for yet another load, and when he returned, they resumed in earnest. Rachel couldn’t help but watch Bucky’s back, straining with the load, surprisingly muscular.
She watched as he placed the jacks under the listing north end of Rachel’s house, saw Black Mabel disappear underneath to begin stacking the cinder blocks. Eventually, Rachel gathered enough bravery to bring Black Mabel more, despite the spiders and centipedes that skittered around the pieces of skirting that had been unscrewed, propped up in the yard. Jake refused to go under the trailer house, because of his outfit, and because of his fear of the pale insects.
Despite the heat, Black Mabel kept her long leather jacket on, and Rachel was amazed that she didn’t sweat. Bucky was drenched. They kept at it until all of the cinder blocks were in place, Bucky working from the edges, until he finally reached Black Mabel, pinned beneath the pipes underneath the bathroom.
Finally, one-third of the house rested on cinder blocks, and Bucky removed the jacks.
Rachel and Jake helped them screw the skirting back into place, but Bucky and Black Mabel refused the twenty dollars that Rachel pulled from her pocket.
* * *
There was work to be done, finishing touches. They had grown to love this house.
They painted the kitchen cabinets. She had allowed Jake to pick out the colors, and he had chosen a butterscotch yellow. The linoleum on the counters had been replaced with a dark brown tile, and he was adamant that the colors worked perfectly together.
Rachel removed all the cabinet doors and placed them on sheets of newspaper on the kitchen floor. Jake unscrewed all of the knobs carefully, and he painted the doors while Rachel painted the faceless cupboards.
“I hope you’re going to line those shelves,” he said.
“Of course,” said Rachel. “I suppose you want to pick out the shelf paper.”
“I trust you,” said Jake.
“You never told me what you thought about Cannery Row,” said Rachel as she stood on her tiptoes and dabbed at a corner of the cabinetry.
“It was hard to read,” said Jake. “But it wasn’t bad. Not enough sex, though. And everybody was so grimy and filthy.”
“That’s Steinbeck, kid.”
“I didn’t hate it,” Jake said, and began painting the first door. “If you have any other recommendations, I will accept them without question. You have good taste.”
“I know,” said Rachel. “Except all I’ve been reading lately is Nancy Drew.”
“Jesus,” said Jake.
“They’re comforting,” said Rachel. “I can’t believe I never read them when I was a kid.”
“You were too busy causing chaos,” said Jake. “But that’s all over now.”
“I don’t know,” admitted Rachel. “I still feel like a grenade.”
“Don’t make me lecture you again,” said Jake. It was true—Jake had read enough Al-Anon literature that he counseled her like an expert. He demanded that Rachel forgive herself but admitted it was out of his control. He finished the first door and stood up to admire his work. The butterscotch was dazzling. The wet paint shone in the kitchen lights, and Rachel could tell, without having turned around, that he had paused his work, words unsaid. She held a paintbrush, and waited.
“You didn’t kill Billy,” he said. “Stop living like you did. You need to forgive yourself.”
At this, Rachel began to cry, until Jake grabbed for her hand. “I have something for you.”
Jake removed the harmonica from his pocket.
“This belonged to your father,” he said. “He always told me that it was the Special 20, model number 560 manufactured by Hohner, plastic comb instead of wooden. I remember all of that.”
He placed the harmonica in Rachel’s hand, and she closed her fingers around it.
They stood there for a moment, until Rachel pulled Jake close.
“Thank you,” said Rachel. “I know exactly where it should go.”
Rachel placed the harmonica on the tallest stack of bricks around the fireplace, the corner that had become her altar.
The house was completely level now, and they could both feel it.
* * *
The next morning, Rachel prepared to pay the man responsible for all of this.
The grass grew where the seeds were scattered, the furrows she kicked up in anger long since raked over, patted down, put back in place.
Black Mabel had poured cement and created a patio. Rachel bought new patio furniture from the parking lot of the Ben Franklin, and the golden squirrel was placed in the center of a small glass table.
Rachel stared out at the fence line, at the beds bursting with flowers. Orange and white lilies stood proud, unfurling with the morning sun. Clumps of purple and yellow irises, like odd fists, all things her father planted.
The Johnny-jump-ups spread, just like Ginger promised, a carpet wending itself around the roots of the taller plants, tiny striped tiger faces, pale lavender, white, and yellow. The echinacea were in full bloom. The clematis climbed two-thirds of the trellises; the giant purple blooms and snaky green arms glowed against the golden spray paint. Bucky left his ladder behind, and it remained propped against the fence, just for Jake.
Rachel called Bucky early in the morn
ing, when it was still crisp outside. By afternoon, the last days of June were too hot to bear.
“I’ve got a leaky pipe,” she said.
“Bullshit,” he said. “Everything is brand-new, up to code.”
“It’s under the kitchen sink,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s going to warp the wood. And I know how you feel about soft spots and mold.”
“My enemy,” he said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
She sat outside and contemplated the corner of the yard that had once been a giant pile of cans. She thought about planting a lilac bush, or maybe an apple tree. She thought she should honor her father somehow.
She imagined the blooms of an apple tree, and it cheered her. She stood when she heard Bucky’s truck.
She waved as he opened the gate and came down the path, no longer jagged and dangerous. The walkway filled in with gravel and the pieces of shale resunk and flattened. He carried his bucket of tools, smiling as always.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Not if you’ve got a leaky pipe,” he said, and set the tools down. He flexed a muscle for her benefit. “I shall destroy any leaky pipes.”
“I know,” she said, and followed him into the house.
He rested his bucket of tools on the counter.
“Do you want some coffee?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She didn’t make a move to pour any, knew he would attend to the sink immediately, because that was how he worked.
He crouched down and opened the cabinets. He craned his neck and swept a hand across the new subflooring, and looked up at her.
“There’s no leak,” he said.
“Look harder,” she said.
He stuck his head in farther, until she could see only his neck. He popped back out with an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“It’s got your name on it, dude.”
He stood up and opened the envelope. It was stuffed with bills.
His eyes widened.
“Four thousand dollars?”
“I wish I could pay you more.”
“Sweet Jesus,” he said.
“Make sure you pay Black Mabel her share,” she said. “She’s always been good to me.”
“I honestly didn’t think you were gonna pay me a dime,” he said.
“Really?”
“Shit,” he said. “Ladies make promises to pay me all the time. You’re the first one who ever came through. I didn’t mind the work, honestly. Would’ve done your house for free.”
“You need to stop letting the ladies walk all over you,” said Rachel.
“Can’t help it,” said Bucky. “And you paid for all the materials.”
“But you did all the work,” said Rachel. “I sat down with the Chief, and we figured out what I would’ve paid a contractor. You did months of work. I’m getting off easy.”
“Thank you,” he said, and then his face grew sullen.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m done here,” he said. “I guess that means I won’t be seeing much of you anymore.”
“Bucky,” she said. “I promise that you won’t be able to get rid of me.”
“Really?”
“I don’t treat friends like that.” Rachel reached out for his hand, even though he remained crestfallen. She wasn’t sure if he was sad because the construction was over, or sad because she just wanted to be friends. “Besides,” she said. “Next summer, I want you to build me a back porch.”
He smiled at this, and Rachel continued to hold his hand.
Into Bloom
Jake, Krystal, and the baby were sitting in their usual place, in the parking lot of the IGA supermarket. Krystal brought lawn chairs and a sunhat for the baby. Bert stayed behind at their trailer house. He was doing the work, hanging eight rows of shelves on a wall in Jake’s bedroom. Jake really needed ten rows for his shoes but decided to say nothing. He remained wary of Bert looking through his drawers, but at least he was trying.
The townspeople gathered at eleven o’clock in the morning, in anticipation of the parade. They sat on curbs, leaned against the bent poles of stop signs. Their usual number was thinned by half—their sons and daughters and husbands and wives would be riding on the floats.
Buley and Rocky joined them, and Krystal made painful small talk with her brother, until eventually, she handed him the baby. It was not enough of a distraction.
“She looks like you,” he said.
“Thank God,” said Buley.
Krystal ignored this. Mrs. Matthis stumbled across the road, clutching her crossword puzzle book. Jake could tell she was wasted—the Dirty Shame had closed for the parade, and the morning regulars were forced out into the sunlight. Mrs. Matthis plopped down in the parking lot of the IGA, sought refuge in a row of cars. She leaned against a Pontiac Firebird, her lips moving as she faked solutions.
Buley fanned herself extravagantly, a red-and-yellow accordion, Chinese dragons. Jake coveted it, could not help himself, even though his mother shifted in her lawn chair uncomfortably. Buley took notice, and silenced him with a rosary from her purse, beads the color of the cloudless July sky. Jake took it gladly, even though the crucifix was cheap white plastic.
Krystal eyed Rocky and the baby nervously, reached over to adjust the sunhat. “So, Rocky? When are the two of you going to get hitched? Marriage is the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“I refuse to be known as Buley Bailey,” Buley said, and folded her fan with one crisp movement. She looked at Krystal with disdain. “Sounds like a disease you catch in the Amazon.”
“Indeed,” said Jake. Across the street, Gene Runkle, another refugee from the Dirty Shame, waved an unlit sparkler in one hand, and a miniature American flag in the other. The people around him could tell this was not patriotism, just alcoholism. They moved away as fast as they could.
The parade began with a long line of logging trucks, strung with Christmas lights. This was how the parade always began, and it was stultifying.
“I’ve never understood that,” said Jake, shouting to be heard over the engines. “Why do they always get to go first?” Jake was a sucker for pageantry, and believed every parade should begin with a marching band and cheerleaders. In Quinn, the cheerleaders did not twirl batons, or do much of anything. They didn’t even hold pom-poms correctly—dropping their elbows and let them hang limply. Cruel-mouthed, slouchy, and disinterested, Jake could not wait to befriend them in high school. Alas, the bad-postured cheerleaders and the marching band in street clothes would come in the middle of the pack. Thirty logging trucks, creeping in their lowest gear, and Jake was already exhausted. To make matters worse, the logging trucks were completely loaded, reeking of pine sap and diesel fuel.
The people of Quinn loved their logging trucks, stuck fingers in their mouths to unleash whistles, drowned out by the big rigs.
Buley smiled at Jake wryly. “The people of Quinn do love a parade,” she said.
“The people of Quinn love ranch dressing,” added Jake. “That doesn’t make it right.”
The first float finally approached. It was Reverend Foote and New Life Evangelical, stuffed full of identically dressed parishioners Jake recognized from the wedding. The float wasn’t that special—a butcher-paper banner, children dressed like lambs. They sang, and Mrs. Reverend Foote banged on a tambourine. Krystal snatched the baby away from Rocky, and forced her tiny hand into a wave.
Buley was not aware of the new church in town; she was the type of woman who isolated herself out of disgust, another reason why Jake loved her. She stared at the float quizzically.
“Moonies,” she pronounced. “I bet they had a mass wedding in the football field.”
“Christians,” Krystal corrected her. “That’s our church.” She forced her baby to wave with more gusto, and the baby responded by erupting into tears.
“Does your church have a dress code?” Buley pointed at the cheap black slacks and jean skirts. The children on
the float wore the same clothes but did not have the blank piousness on their faces. Instead, their identities were disguised by photocopied lamb heads, sagging with cotton balls, held aloft on Popsicle sticks.
“We’re nondenominational,” said Krystal proudly. “We accept everyone just as they are.” Buley peered down at Krystal’s jean skirt and arched an eyebrow.
Behind Reverend Foote came the ladies from Quinn Lumber Mill, shaking silent chain saws at the crowd. They wore flannel shirts, despite the heat, and Jake appreciated that they stuck to a theme. Unfortunately, instead of candy, they threw sawdust.
Next were the fire trucks, both engines, the volunteer firemen stood on the running boards and clung to ladders. They wore the red baseball caps and regulation polo shirts, and satisfied smirks. They knew they were considered the most fearless citizens of Quinn, Red Mabel notwithstanding. There was no room for Jim Number Three. Since he was the newest, he walked behind the trucks, and Jake could tell he was ashamed. But Jim Number Three was the only fireman who had tucked in his shirt, and Jake hoped that Laverna would give him another chance, points for good grooming. The volunteer firemen threw candy, and occasionally, a smoke alarm. The crowd always loved the firemen the most, because they hosted the only social event of the season, and tonight, they were responsible for the fireworks show. Bucky was not riding with them, and the Chief drove behind the fire engines in his special truck, his wife waving proudly from the passenger seat.
The Shriners followed on their stupid little motorcycles and atrocious little hats. Years ago, Jake had asked his mother what the Shriners did, and Krystal claimed that they worked on finding a cure for cancer. They did not look like scientists to Jake; he’d seen trained bears at the circus in Ellis, and they had exhibited more intelligence and skill than these fat men, wobbling on their tiny bikes. Jake would have given anything for trained bears in this parade. Perhaps the lazy cheerleaders could ride the bears without saddles, and they would be forced to take interest, or risk being clawed.
The Flood Girls Page 26