The Flood Girls

by Richard Fifield

  It was a Friday afternoon, and it had been an odd week. Mrs. Matthis was still drinking, even though lunch had come and gone. She finished two entire crossword puzzles, and the floor beneath her was covered in pencil shavings. In addition to the lesbian psychodrama, Rachel had felt a tangible buzz throughout Quinn, noticed a bloodthirsty look on the faces at the grocery store and at the Sinclair. Tomorrow was the first day of deer-hunting season. Jake was the only normal person in town, and his outfit especially pleased Rachel, even though it was a rare repeat. She adored the smart gray suit, as it hung on him perfectly, and this time he had paired it with a black button-down, the butterfly collar fanning out across his shoulders. She would check his shoes later.

  “I’m going hunting tomorrow,” he said, and stabbed at a maraschino cherry with a plastic cocktail sword. For the first time ever, he avoided making eye contact.

  “I hope you are talking about the thrift store,” said Rachel. “Please tell me you are stalking the elusive Yves Saint Laurent sweater vest.”

  “In this town?” Jake had finally secured the cherry, and popped it in his mouth. He laid the stem delicately across the edge of the napkin. “And that’s not very funny. I really want one of those.”

  “Sorry.” Rachel was confused, and the outcast had brought taxidermy with her today, adding to the insanity. The outcast had propped up a ­badger on the stool beside her, mounted on a circle cut from the stump of a pine tree. It was a cheap job, the eyes replaced with pure black marbles, much too large, bulging from the sockets. She had staple-gunned plastic Easter basket grass along the edges. The whole thing was unnerving to look at, made worse because something had gnawed off a front paw. Rachel was aghast when the outcast stroked the badger during the lunch rush, but now she almost called her mother, because the alpha had begun to whisper to it.

  Jake whispered also. “That is really, really weird.”

  Rachel wiped the bottom of the glass before she returned it to the napkin. Jake would say something about a ring of condensation. “I guess you aren’t going to clarify,” said Rachel. She slid the math book down the bar, and leaned on her elbows. “Why on earth would you go hunting?”

  “Jesus Christ,” said a gravelly voice. “This is America, sweetheart.” Rachel looked up at the miner, waiting at the bar with an empty glass. She was Laverna’s favorite, and despite her crew cut, she still resembled young Elvis. “Are you some sort of communist?”

  “Vegetarian,” Rachel said, and tilted her pint glass, pulled the tap. While it filled, Elvis extinguished her cigarette on the head of the badger, and the outcast said nothing. Elvis squinted at Jake’s drink.

  “Is that a fucking Shirley Temple?” Elvis was drunk, and obviously looking for a fight. Unfortunately, she had picked the two most fearful people in Quinn.

  “Yes,” said Rachel, reaching for the bar phone.

  “They are delightful,” Jake announced, and picked up the plastic cocktail sword, as if he planned on using it as a weapon.

  “You should be drinking a Roy Rogers, kid.” The miner snatched the sword out of Jake’s hand and flung it at the outcast, and it stuck, trapped in the static of her hair. “Little boys drink Roy Rogers. Little girls drink Shirley Temples.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” said Jake. Rachel winced at the defiance in his voice. “I certainly don’t think you, of all people, should be giving me advice on gender conformity.”

  “Speak English,” said Elvis. “This is America!” Mrs. Matthis tried to ignore Elvis, even though she was uncomfortably close. She valiantly sharpened another pencil, and turned another page.

  “You’ve already said that,” Jake said, and stood up from his stool. Rachel began to dial her mother’s number, her other hand scrambling in the soapy water of the bar sink, as she tried to find something more vicious than a teaspoon. Elvis stared down at Jake, two feet shorter.

  But all at once, the showdown was over. Mrs. Matthis stabbed her in the hand with a freshly sharpened pencil. Elvis screamed; the pencil had been brought down so hard that it continued to stick in her hand, even though she shook it wildly, in pain.

  Mrs. Matthis did not react, picked up another pencil and sharpened it nonchalantly. The bar filled with the sound of crickets, as she continued to twist another pencil back and forth, creating an armory.

  Elvis screamed as she was rushed out the door by her brethren, on their way to the hospital in Ellis. There would be no retribution—even the silver miners knew Mrs. Matthis still had friends in the court, even though she was now armed and dangerous.

  The outcast was delighted by this turn of events, but did nothing to stop the fire that smoldered in her taxidermy.

  “You need to be more careful,” said Rachel. “Those women are lunatics. You can’t challenge them to a fight, Jake. Especially not in that suit.”

  “Whatever,” said Jake. He faked a yawn. “Overdressed and unimpressed.”

  The smell of burning fur had reached Rachel, and she wrinkled her nose. “Let’s talk about this hunting thing.”

  “Not my idea,” Jake said, and accepted his drink. “Obviously.”

  “Are you even old enough to hunt?”

  “I don’t really know,” he said. “This morning, there was a brand-new camouflage shirt and matching pants on the kitchen table. In my size. And one of those horrendous orange safety vests.”

  “How awful,” said Rachel. “Do you even have shoes for that sort of thing?”

  “Loafers,” he said. “I’m kind of worried about the traction. I’m pretty sure hunting was my mother’s idea. Or maybe Bert’s. Whatever. They’re trying.”

  “Maybe things are better.”

  Jake lifted his glass and saluted her, just as Tabby came through the front door. The sudden burst of daylight lit the Shirley Temple, and it glowed as he held it in the air. “I owe that to you.”

  He took a drink, as Tabby halted, grimaced at the badger. The drape of smoke made the scene even more surreal.

  “The miners,” explained Rachel. “Don’t worry. I’ll clean it up.”

  Tabby said nothing as she walked behind the bar, tied an apron around her waist. This was the Dirty Shame, and Tabby had apparently seen stranger things. She poured a beer for the outcast, and began to busy herself opening the cash register and counting the till. It was the beginning of another shift.

  The outcast, silhouetted by the thick, acrid smoke, whispered something. A prayer, as she poured out the contents of her pint glass. The outcast asked for another beer. She sipped until the embers stopped glowing, until she was certain her friend was no longer on fire.

  * * *

  Four days before Halloween, and all of the flowers in the garden had been cut down to their nubs. Somehow the clematis continued its march. The vines had overgrown the trellises and wrapped around the planks of the fence. The plant was still blooming, and Rachel let it go. The squirrel kept watch for the first frost of the year.

  She had to wear slippers now, and a coat. She could no longer sit outside in her pajamas. For the hundredth time, she thought about quitting smoking. She exhaled, and decided that there were bigger things to think about.

  She heard the latch of the gate, and the creak as it swung open.

  She turned around to see Jake, bearing a brown envelope and two carefully gift-wrapped packages, dressed in his most ridiculous outfit yet. As threatened, he wore the camouflage pants, a camouflage long-sleeved thermal shirt, and a mesh vest the bright orange of hunters.

  “Don’t even start,” he said, gesturing to his clothes. “Just remember that Bert built me a shoe rack. He’s trying.”

  “He’s got a long way to go,” said Rachel.

  “I’m done with fighting,” said Jake. “Bert isn’t going anywhere.” He pulled up a pant leg, and he was wearing the pinkest socks she had ever seen.

  “Thank God,” said Rachel. “You were starting to scare me.”

  “Here,” he said, and thrust the envelope at her. “I’ve been meaning to give it to
Laverna, but you’ll do.”

  Rachel opened the envelope. Jake had compiled the stats for the season, and typed them in his usual, fastidious way. She found her name, and when she saw the numbers, she wished that she hadn’t.

  “I’m done with keeping score,” said Jake. “Acceptance,” he said. “I learned that from one of your books.”

  He pushed the gift-wrapped packages at her, and she tucked the envelope under her arm.

  “Presents?” Rachel was mystified. He had given her enough.

  “Not for you,” he said. “I finally finished the uniforms for Bucky and Shyanne. I know it’s late. I made Bucky number thirteen, and Shyanne number zero. Zero is the runway sample size. We’re going to have to work on her diet.”

  “Of course,” said Rachel.

  Jake flashed his pink socks at her one more time. He tipped his hat to Rachel Flood, and walked up the path, let himself out of the gate.

  * * *

  An hour later, the Chief came to her house for their weekly meeting. They no longer met on the field, no longer threw a ball back and forth. Softball was over. Now they sat across the couch from each other, and they actually used the literature.

  “I wanted to tell you something.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket.

  “It better not be bad news,” Rachel said.

  “No,” said the Chief. He removed a blue ribbon from his pocket. FIRST PLACE, SCIENCE FAIR, 1961. “Sorry. It’s the only first place I ever got.” He placed it in her hand, wrapped her fingers around it. “As your sponsor, I think you are officially done making your amends.”

  “What?” The ribbon seemed to weigh ten pounds.

  “You’re done here,” said the Chief. “You can leave this place.”

  “Where am I supposed to go?” Rachel felt frantic. She assumed she would know when she was done, that there would be an obvious conclusion.

  “I think you’ve made peace. You can go wherever you want to go,” he said.

  Rachel began crying, and the Chief was quick to hold her.

  “It’s all so overwhelming,” she said.

  “I know,” he said.

  She never thought she would feel reluctance at leaving Quinn. Just months ago, she had barely endured each day. Once upon a time, envelopes returned to her, unopened. The people of her hometown marked them RETURN TO SENDER, and now Rachel Flood wrote her amends so wholeheartedly no envelope could contain them. No words were necessary; she would let grace and humility end this story.

  If she wanted, she could go create a whole new tale, leave this chapter far behind, put the book on the shelf. If she wanted, she could go back to Missoula.

  She could wait there. In four years, Jake would be old enough to join her.

  Meadow

  Jake’s stomach was growling. He hadn’t had a chance to eat breakfast, and it took Bert nearly an hour to pack his truck. Jake felt obligated to stand and watch, because it seemed respectful. All Bert needed was a gun and their lunches, but it was all for safety’s sake.

  Mrs. Foote arrived in her station wagon, said something encouraging to Bert, but Jake paid no attention to her. Waiting for Bert was painful enough. Mrs. Foote left with the baby, and Bert cleaned his rifle, even though Jake was certain it had been taken apart the night before. Krystal placed their lunches behind the driver’s seat and kissed her husband good-bye. Saturdays, she worked the day shift. Jake peeked inside the paper bags as Bert finally turned the key in the ignition. Bologna sandwiches, potato chips, and a pudding cup.

  Lunch was all Jake could think about as Bert drove toward the mountains.

  It began to rain, softly at first, and then picked up until Bert had to put his wipers on. The wipers were the only sound in the truck. They did not make conversation. The silence became a tangible thing after Jake crossed his leg, and Bert caught a glimpse of Jake’s pink sock.

  Jake could tell Bert was angry by the way his stepfather clenched the steering wheel. Bert flicked off the heat in the truck so hard that Jake thought the switch would break in his hand. Jake wished they could turn on the radio, but Bert did not believe in popular music anymore.

  The rain kept up, and the truck got colder as they wound their way up the mountain and turned off onto a logging road. They had been driving for an hour. Jake had no idea where they were. The geography of the mountains that enclosed Quinn never interested him. All Jake could think about was the lunch his mother packed and getting home as quickly as possible.

  Bert was a deer hunter. The freezer in Krystal’s trailer was a testament to this. Jake pretended to look for deer in the brush, but he was secretly rooting for them, and would not have let on, even if he did spot one.

  Twenty minutes up the logging road, Bert pulled the truck into a gravel turnaround and parked.

  “This will do,” he said. These were the first words he had spoken all morning.

  It was still raining, and Jake cursed Bert silently for making him get out in all of this wetness. At least Jake didn’t care about these clothes.

  Bert grabbed his rifle from the rack above the seat, and Jake reached for the cooler sitting next to him, hoping they were bringing the lunches with them, but Bert shook his head.

  It was drizzling as they began to descend into the thickness of white pines. They slid their way down a shale embankment. He tried to follow Bert’s path, because he was a man who knew what he was doing in the woods, and Jake did not want to be left behind.

  Jake’s mind was preoccupied with his plans for the homecoming dance. He was trying to figure out how to create a giant papier-mâché castle facade. He had no doubt that it would work out exactly as planned, but it would require some assistance from the teacher of the shop class.

  The rain became less of an issue when they reached the deeper woods. The giant pines provided shelter and as Jake inhaled, the glorious smell made him feel better about all of this. They rose up so tall that they became the sky. The gray sky was barely visible through the canopy.

  They kept going, deeper into the forest, Bert stopping occasionally, and holding up one hand. Jake knew to stop moving when Bert did this, just as he knew not to talk, not that there was a chance of conversation. The rain changed to sleet, and Jake shoved his hands deep inside the pockets of his jacket. He did not have gloves.

  He moved his fingers along the rosary in his right pocket. He no longer wasted his time thinking about his fifty-nine enemies. He had finally stopped keeping score.

  Madonna had a new album, and he had enough money to buy it. He knew Rachel would take him to Ellis, make a special trip. They were both tired of Like a Prayer. He continued to move his fingers along the chain of beads. He kept the rosary hidden from view, because it felt good to have a secret. There was Catholicism going on inside Jake’s pocket, and Bert would never know.

  They passed through a brief opening in the trees, a tiny meadow, the tall grasses brown after summer. Full of rain, the vegetation soaked the legs of Jake’s pants.

  Bert held up a hand and Jake stopped obediently in the middle of the meadow. He was starting to shiver. He saw other hunters during their descent, saw the flashes of orange. This was the first day of hunting season, so that was to be expected. But they hadn’t seen any hunters for a while, and Bert looked around and cocked his head, listening for sounds in the brush.

  Jake stood still, patiently, thinking about a movie that Laverna might actually enjoy, something that had men with mustaches. Definitely not a musical.

  There was a rustle in the brush, and then the flight of birds, their bright colors as they took to the sky. His winter birds. A flock of black-capped chickadees. A burst of yellow as a trio of cedar waxwings hopped from limb to limb, wearing their robber masks.

  Jake watched the birds, until a doe stepped into the meadow. The deer did not notice them. Jake remained so still that he could hear the doe chewing, the sound of grass ripped from the soil.

  Bert turned suddenly, his face just as expressionless as always.

  He l
ooked to the right, and raised his rifle.

  Thank God, thought Jake. Maybe they could be done with this.

  And Bert turned, just as the sleet began to fall in heavy sheets, and Jake could hear the patter on his shoulders as Bert aimed the gun at him.

  Jake didn’t have time to realize what was happening.

  A flash, and then nothing.

  No Lights Flashing

  Rachel finished reading the forty-ninth book of the Nancy Drew series, The Secret of Mirror Bay. She could finish these books in a few hours, figure out the villain within the first fifty pages, and unravel the mystery within the first seventy-five. This brought her comfort—despite the mystery of her own future, at least she was always a step ahead of the girl detective. Perhaps that was where her future lay; Rachel was still young enough to be a police officer.

  She listened to the rain for an hour and thought about her future.

  Eventually, she got up from the couch and called her mother.

  “Jake and I are coming over,” she said. “I just wanted to warn you.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Laverna. “I’ll make dinner. I’ve got some steaks in the freezer.”

  “That’s not funny,” said Rachel.