The Flood Girls

by Richard Fifield

  “Sure it is,” said Laverna. “It’s not my fault you have a crappy sense of humor.”

  “It might be,” said Rachel. “There’s a good chance it might be genetic.”

  “I refuse to tangle with you,” sighed Laverna. “Athena told me not to engage when you bait me.” She hung up the phone, and Rachel laughed. Her mother was full of surprises. Apparently, Laverna was also full of Al-Anon.

  Rachel filled the sink, and stacked dirty dishes under the running water. She turned on the stereo, and the cassette whirred to life. Madonna blasted through the kitchen, rattling the speakers. She did not hear the knocking.

  The music stopped. Rachel spun around, and the Chief was standing in front of the stereo. She waited for him to speak, and kept her hands in the soapy water. She heard Bucky’s truck pull up in the driveway.

  “Rachel,” said the Chief. “There’s been an accident.”

  Rachel’s mind went many places, all of them dark. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s Jake,” he said. “There was a hunting accident.”

  “Jake?”

  “He’s gone, Rachel.”

  She saw Bucky was running through the door and he was in the kitchen in time to help the Chief ease Rachel to the floor.

  She didn’t cry. That’s what she would remember, days later. She just went into a gray place. She could recollect sitting on the couch, Bucky and the Chief on each side of her, the phone ringing and ringing. None of them made a move to answer it. Rachel only rose to the corner of the living room, and she wiggled the loose brick where the fireplace had once been. She slid it from the mooring, reddish dust piling at her feet, from passing years and new construction. She wanted to get high. The Chief and Bucky said nothing. Inside the hole, more dust, a neatly cut line of mortar and creosote.

  Rachel eventually spoke, and it was to insist that she be the one to tell Laverna. Rachel felt that her mother needed to hear that their good-luck charm had been undone by bad luck of his own. For the first time in her life, she needed to be near Laverna. The Chief and Bucky thought this was a bad idea, but they did not want to fight her. They found her a coat, and the Chief insisted that he would drive.

  Rachel was in shock as she regarded the scene in Krystal’s driveway. It seemed like a dream. Krystal’s car was gone. The Chief said she was at the hospital with the body.

  A city cop car was parked outside, and the long sedan of the sheriff. Bert sat in the dirt, a cooler open beside him, and he ate a sandwich.

  Rachel rushed him. He didn’t flinch as she tore across the gravel. He was expressionless as she lunged, as if he had been expecting it all along. She was yanked backward by Bucky, pulling at her T-shirt until it began to tear. She heard screaming, a wail that could be heard throughout Quinn, another siren. It took a moment until she realized the uncontrollable keening sound was coming from deep within her.

  The Chief pushed Rachel into his truck, and they both waited for Bucky, who was talking to the cops. Bert kept eating his sandwich, even though it had started to rain again. They watched as Reverend Foote appeared, gingerly holding the rifle.

  They watched as Reverend Foote handed the sheriff the gun, as the reverend walked up to Bucky and put his hand on his shoulder. They watched as the reverend said something, his brow furrowed as he attempted an expression of concern.

  Bucky reached back and punched the reverend so hard in the face that he stumbled backward and tripped over Bert. Reverend Foote landed on his back, arms cast out in a perfect cross, as if it would break his fall.

  Both cops did nothing, just stood there. Bucky crossed the driveway and got into the truck with them. He was shaking. He asked the Chief to turn on the heat as they backed out, and Rachel looked over as they drove away. Bert continued to eat his sandwich, and the reverend remained prone in the gravel.

  Rachel watched the sheriff slide the rifle into the backseat of his car, no lights flashing.

  The Mercy Rule

  Laverna already knew, just as the Chief had suspected. It was Ginger Fitchett who called, Ginger Fitchett who had the police scanner going all day and all night next to the cash register at the Sinclair.

  After Ginger called, Laverna went out to the back deck and drank a beer and watched the river. The sleet warmed back into rain in the afternoon, made the water a sheet of ripples, turned the surface gray with motion, gray with reflection of the storm clouds above. Laverna removed her corduroy blazer, despite the damp air. She slid the red velvet headband from her hair, threw it at the wind chimes, missed by feet. Kicked off her low-heeled pumps, the same gray as the river. She tugged the gauzy scarf from her neck, dangled it beside her chair in hopes Frank would snatch it away and bury it in the yard. There was no more need for armor.

  She drank her beer and waited. She knew Red Mabel would show, and that they would get drunk, and she would cry, and Red Mabel would sit beside her and smoke, because that’s what always happened when somebody died. This was how they mourned.

  Frank crawled on her lap, and they watched the river together. He tucked his head into her armpit. She had come to learn that it was his favorite place on earth.

  She heard the truck pull up, and she could tell it was not Red Mabel.

  She lifted Frank from her lap, set the beer down, and went to the front door.

  The Chief and Bucky helped Rachel inside. Frank came galloping from the back, and sniffed at their legs, as Rachel lowered herself to the couch. Bucky tucked an afghan over her, and they stood there, all of them, waiting for Laverna to do something.

  She sat down next to her daughter, and asked Bucky to fetch a beer and an ashtray. Rachel handed her the piece of paper Jake had given her that morning. Finally, the tears came as Laverna read the statistics, the careful columns of runs batted in, errors, runs scored, and batting averages. Jake paid close attention to each one of the Flood Girls, and there would be nobody who could possibly take his place.

  She drank while Rachel smoked, cigarette after cigarette, and not a word was spoken.

  The Chief and Bucky took turns rolling a ball across the carpet for Frank, until the dog had enough, and he nosed the ball under the couch. He crossed the room and lay across Laverna’s feet.

  Bucky built a fire, because it was the only thing he could do.

  When Red Mabel sped down the driveway, and lurched to a stop, the Chief stood up and kissed Rachel on the forehead. He and Bucky left as Red Mabel rushed in.

  Perhaps they thought that grief was women’s work, or perhaps they were afraid of Red Mabel’s anger.

  Later, Rachel finally spoke. “I can’t go to his funeral.”

  “I know,” said Laverna.

  “I imagine it will be at Reverend Foote’s church,” said Red Mabel, attempting to be helpful.

  That was when Rachel broke, and Laverna reached over and pulled her close.

  “None of us will go,” said Laverna. “We’ll do whatever you want.”

  “I hate him,” said Rachel, still sobbing, and Laverna didn’t know if she was talking about Reverend Foote or Bert, but figured that it didn’t really matter. All Laverna could think about was the mercy rule. She wished for an umpire to call the game.

  There had been enough loss.

  * * *

  Laverna stopped by Rachel’s house every single night. She sat with Rachel while she worked her day shift, tried to give her some time off. Rachel refused. Laverna understood, had also lost herself in work when her heart had been broken, nine years earlier.

  The funeral would be Saturday morning. There was no announcement in the newspaper, just a small article on yet another hunting accident. The report did not even mention the names of those involved, those absolved. At the Dirty Shame, Laverna learned that the funeral was private, and only for the congregation.

  Laverna knew her daughter well enough, knew that Rachel could not stay away. The other Flood Girls would not have gone to the service. The other Flood Girls were ready to burn the church to the ground.

  B
enediction

  Rachel slept fitfully, and between every nightmare, she smoked a cigarette on the front porch. The last hours of night bore a dampness, a threat of snow, the temperature the coldest in months. Summer and softball seemed like impossible things.

  She lay there, and said her prayers, and forced herself to pray for Krystal, even though she didn’t want to.

  Today was the funeral, and all Rachel could think about, all that preoccupied her mind, were the clothes he was going to be buried in.

  She knew she had no say, knew that he would not have left directions. As organized as Jake was, he would not have thought it necessary to create a will.

  Bucky was going, because the Chief demanded it, even though the funeral was private. Closed to the public, and closed casket, because the injuries were so devastating. There would not be a chance for Bucky to see what he was wearing and report back to her.

  Jake had so many suits. A storage shed full of them. Krystal probably bought a cheap black suit from Pamida, brainwashed. Reverend Foote would approve. No ascots or funny hats or pocket squares.

  Rachel settled into the fact that she would never have any way of knowing. Instead of plastic flowers, she would bring something with flair to where he was buried, every year, until she herself was gone.

  She found herself thinking of the women in black, the women in Missoula, standing solemnly on the bridge.

  She was lost in this distraction when she realized Bucky was calling her name from the hallway.

  “Rachel?”

  “What?”

  “Are you decent?”

  “Yes,” she said. He stood in the doorway of her bedroom, impossibly tall and slim in his dark suit. They had spent enough time together that she had grown accustomed to his teeth. He was handsome.

  “I knocked and knocked. You really gotta start locking your front door.”

  She rolled over, away from him, and pretended to look out the window.

  “Leave me alone, Bucky.”

  “It’s not right, Rachel. It’s not right for you to stay here. You have to come with me.”

  “I’m not going,” said Rachel. “None of us are.”

  “That’s why you have to go,” said Bucky. “Somebody from the Flood Girls ought to be there. He was one of you.”

  “You’re going.”

  “Chief’s orders,” said Bucky.

  “Well, he’s not the chief of me.”

  “I thought he kind of was.”

  “Not about things like this,” said Rachel. “I don’t want to see Bert, okay?”

  “I get that.”

  Bert was a free man, absolved, clean. He continued to insist on the sudden appearance of a deer, that Jake stepped in the way. The coroner and the sheriff declared it a hunting accident. They were so common around Quinn, that it was probably not even investigated. Rachel wished that Nancy Drew was real, but this was a mystery that would never be solved. How Krystal could stay with Bert was perhaps the biggest mystery of all.

  “I don’t want to see Krystal, either.”

  “It’s not always all about you, Rachel.”

  “Fuck you, Bucky. I hear that enough at AA meetings.”

  “It’s not,” he said, and sat down on the bed. “You are gonna hate yourself later if you don’t go.”

  “I don’t want to go to the church. I don’t want to see that stupid fucking reverend. I don’t want to see Krystal. I don’t want to see Bert. That’s it. I’m done arguing.”

  Bucky got up from the bed, and started sliding hangers on the rod he himself had hung, looking for clothes.

  “Do you want a dress?” He held up the first black thing he found, which was actually a sundress. “Just tell me, and I’ll find whatever you want.”

  She sat up in anger, and was ready to yell at him, but did not. She wasn’t angry with him. Her chest got tight, and she pushed herself out of bed, and the tears started coming.

  “Is it snowing?”

  “A little,” said Bucky.

  “I guess I’m going to need a coat.”

  She shoved him out of the way and began to choose things from her closet.

  As she stepped out onto the front porch, she saw Bucky’s ladder, still propped up against the fence. The snow had collected on every rung.

  * * *

  The snow fell harder as they drove to the church. There were not many cars in the parking lot. The church looked the same, but the roof was white from the snow. She recognized the Chief’s truck, and the same station wagons and vans from the wedding.

  It broke her heart a little bit, to see that the parking lot was barely a quarter full.

  When they entered the church, it was worse than she expected. The front row was empty, except for Krystal, Bert, and the baby. Nobody sat in the pew across from them. The rows behind were occupied, contained all of the people she remembered from the day Bert and Krystal were married. Those plain people in their plain clothing. They were dressed identically, and it infuriated Rachel to see them in their cheap dark jackets and black pleated dresses.

  Only Krystal was distinguishable. Rachel could see her from behind, in the seat closest to the aisle. She wore lipstick. Bert sat next to her, in a dark gray sweater. He was holding the baby, and Krystal rested her head on his shoulder.

  The Chief and his wife sat in the back by themselves. Bucky steered Rachel over to them, and she sat down next to the Chief, who was holding on to his wife’s hand tightly.

  There were no flowers. Rachel hated this place, the plainness, the cheapness; apparently there would be some sort of wake afterward—one wall was lined with those same card tables, covered in things wrapped in tinfoil and wax paper.

  The door of the church opened, and a girl with dyed-black hair stomped past in heavy boots. She wore a black leather jacket and torn blue jeans. The congregation turned to stare. Rachel could smell her leather jacket as she sat down in front of them, the leather wet from the falling snow. The Chief tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned around and glared at him.

  “Misty?” The Chief seemed flabbergasted. “How did you get here?”

  “Hitchhiked,” she said, and turned back around.

  “There are no flowers,” said Rachel, and nobody responded.

  She wanted to stand up and scream at the top of her lungs. This place was so empty and quiet and everything was too new, and Jake was a kid who appreciated things that were loud, things that had a previous life of their own. Jake’s funeral should have been held at Buley’s, not a place that still had pieces of masking tape around the doorjambs, a place that still smelled of fresh paint.

  As if she had been conjured, Buley and Rocky entered the church. Rachel knew that nothing would keep Rocky away from his nephew’s funeral, even if his presence was unwanted. He helped Buley sit in the empty pew across from Krystal and Bert, a pew meant for family.

  Bucky put his arm around Rachel, and the Chief’s wife offered her a handkerchief, the real kind, cloth, and the fact that Jake would have appreciated that made her cry even harder.

  Reverend Foote came out onto the raised stage, entering from a little door off to the left.

  Rachel gritted her teeth as he walked to the pulpit.

  He led them in prayer. Rachel glanced over at Bucky, who was watching her closely.

  She could not focus on his words, just kept staring at the row of card tables, thinking about how none of these people who belonged to this church belonged to Jake; they were here out of duty, and then to eat.

  The parishioners began to sing “We Shall All Be Reunited.” The Chief opened up the songbook and placed it on her lap, but she refused to acknowledge it, and it fell to the floor and made a thump as it landed. It slid beneath Misty’s bench, and Misty kicked at it, and it came to rest between the third and fourth row.

  Reverend Foote smiled when the song was over, and began to talk about lives cut short, about how God had a plan for each and every one of them. She could see Bert nodding his head.

  R
achel found herself staring at the coffin. In truth, she had suspected that the size of it would gut her, but it wasn’t terribly small. Jake had been a little over five feet tall. He had just seemed so waifish and slight in real life. The coffin was plain, and brown, and didn’t look like expensive wood. It didn’t even seem polished. It didn’t gleam in the lights that shone on the reverend.

  Reverend Foote was speaking about the survivors, Krystal and the baby, and Bert, and those in the church who had gotten to know and cherish Jake. At that point, Rachel was ready to start throwing casseroles, but she just pulled her jacket tighter around her.

  Reverend Foote talked about lambs in heaven.

  Rachel heard the door as it opened behind her. She didn’t turn around.

  Then Rachel smelled something familiar. She immediately twisted in her seat.

  She would know Athena’s perfume anywhere.

  In came Athena, lightly dusted in snow, wearing her usual giant black shift dress, but a scarf in all the colors of the rainbow, tied around her neck.

  The parishioners turned in their seats to stare, and the reverend stopped his sermon, as the long line of women marched behind Athena, up the aisle, and Rachel didn’t recognize them until they were upon her.

  Each squeezed her shoulder before taking a seat in the pews.

  Here was Ginger Fitchett, in an exquisite vintage Chanel suit, black wool, the skirt hitting just at the knees, pillbox hat pinned to her dark hair, and a thin polka-dotted veil.

  Shyanne was right behind her, wearing a long silk sheath, the décolletage and the hem framed by fans of delicate black lace. The sheath was split up the side, and one of her long, beautiful legs was revealed with every step. She was wearing opera-length evening gloves and a giant black hat. A small stuffed bird perched along the brim in a nest of feathers. She was wearing turquoise heels.

  The Sinclairs came next, in matching dresses, long, ebony silk, flapper style, the hems heavily beaded, fringes hanging and clattering, the strands of beads making a racket as the Sinclairs eased into the pew. Their hair was up in complicated buns and twists. They had enormous amounts of hair, and it had been secured all over with black lacquered combs, sparkling with tiny rhinestones.