The Flood Girls (11 page)

“We've been waiting for you,” said the man. Jake shook his hand, aghast at the sheer number of freckles, the bright orange hair on his arm as it emerged from the cuffs. The suit didn't even fit him. Jake did not respond, because this man affronted him on so many levels. Plus, this man wore shoes in the house. Jake wasn't even allowed to wear his house slippers in the house.

“I've been at school,” said Jake, dropping the man's hand. “Where's my mom?”

“Grocery shopping,” said the man. “You are a lucky young man. We've all taken a shine to Sister Krystal.”

“Sister Krystal?” Jake said the name, and giggled as soon as it escaped his mouth. “That sounds like that Night Ranger song.” Jake could not control himself now, and was laughing out loud. All he could think of was “Sister Christian.” Bert stood up from the couch, his neck a rash of fury, but the man held up a hand. Bert sat back down.

“I am familiar with that song,” said the man. “There was a time when I listened to secular music.” Jake could not help but notice Bert had been broken, leashed. Jake was impressed by the weird man and his unfortunate color scheme. He accomplished the impossible, and he had not tracked snow on the carpet.

“You're gonna listen to the reverend!” Bert shouted this out, and it startled the man, but Jake was used to this. Bert was suddenly meek again, eyes on the coffee table, face scarlet with impotent rage.

“Fine,” said Jake. “Whatever.” He sat down on the floor and leaned back on his hands, crossing one leg over the other. He was glad he had chosen green-and-purple argyle socks, wiggled his toes to attract even more attention.

He listened for two minutes because it seemed the polite thing to do, and it rolled off him like another math class. He had been preached to before.

His mother returned from the store and shocked Jake with her amiability. It seemed that she had forgotten her promises, and Jake had no choice but to listen. Krystal and the reverend were an effective team. Jake stopped listening and began to protest. They had planned this ambush, clearly predicted Jake's reactions, prepared counterarguments, and held fast to their demands. He stopped wiggling his toes and covered his face with his hands. He would not allow them to see the defeat. Frank had given up, too. Misty had been captured, taken away. The little faith and hope that remained inside him had been hung on his mother, and now it was gone forever. He would rather be an infidel; he would never be spineless, or submissive.

He would play along. This was just another thing to endure. Even though Jake couldn't see Bert through his hands, the intensity filled the room. Bert didn't need to utter a word. Jake could not believe he had let himself be taken hostage by his mild-mannered mother and a man in an ill-fitting suit.

It wasn't Sunday school. It was more like day care. Sundays were the only day he could spend with his mother, and now they had been taken away. Bert drove Jake and the baby to New Life Evangelical before nine o'clock in the morning, and the baby was immediately shuttled off by a group of women wearing long jean skirts and homemade blouses. The blouses were all sewn from the same pattern, high-necked and long-sleeved, only varying in the shade, all faded pastels. They frightened him. If Jake had been religious, he would have offered up an honest prayer for his sister's safety.

Reverend Foote waited for him in the kitchen. Jake poured himself a cup of coffee, and stood there, bleary-eyed, as the reverend went on about the need for Brother Bert and Sister Krystal to be alone together. They were trying to save the family. Jake knew they were just having sex. His mother was not religious, but Jake feared that Bert would try to convince her of the existence of God, in addition to the existence of his penis.

Reverend Foote took Jake's coffee away and escorted him to a little room. He was horrified by the other children, blank-faced, sitting on their knees in cheap suits and dresses. The reverend sat in a chair, and instead of graham crackers, saltines were passed around on a paper plate. These just made Jake thirsty. The reverend held up Bible verses scrawled on butcher paper, but Jake refused to memorize them, just moved his mouth silently when they were asked to repeat them on command. He excused himself and sought refuge in the kitchen, and poured himself another cup of coffee.

He sat in the corner, trying to hide, and began to read. Reverend Foote found him an hour later, clearly in no hurry. Reverend Foote did not try to hide his distaste. Bert and Krystal were not around to impress, and Jake was clearly a lost member of the flock, a pink sheep. Reverend Foote tried to talk to him anyway, but Jake could tell his heart was not in it.

“There is always time to repent,” he said. “There is always time to cast away the things that make you different.”

“No, thanks,” said Jake. “I've read the Bible, you know. I even liked some parts. Violent and pulpy.” He did not like Reverend Foote's polyester slacks, and his attempts to bring Jake to Jesus seemed just as fake. He wanted to be left alone to read.

“Jesus was different than the other boys,” continued Reverend Foote as Jake hid the copy of Shirley Conran's
Savages
behind his back, and leaned up against the dishwasher. “He had long hair like a woman and it is said that his eyes were lashed heavily, and that he was a pretty, pretty man.”

“He also wore a dress,” said Jake. “A dirty one.”

“That's blasphemous,” said Reverend Foote. “Jesus had a dirty robe because he worked hard. Our Lord and Savior was different from the others, but not because of his clothing.”

Jake's own outfit that day included black-and-scarlet plaid pants, a black polo shirt that was a vintage Penguin, and a black fedora with a scarlet band.

“Maybe this isn't the right place for you,” said Reverend Foote.

“I kept telling you that,” said Jake. “I'll make you a deal. I'll let Bert drop me off here every Sunday, and leave them alone all day. I'll go to the library, and be back in time for him to pick me up.”

“That would be a falsehood,” said Reverend Foote.

“It's beneficial to everyone,” said Jake. “He's spreading the good word to my mother.”

“I can't argue with that,” said the reverend. “I wonder how she's taking it.”

“On her back,” muttered Jake, and grabbed his paperback. He pushed past the reverend and hurried to find his coat.

L
averna arrived at the Dirty Shame early. As coach, she always tried to set a good example. She also wanted to catch Tish slacking on her weekend shift. But with her arms in these torture devices, she could not be sneaky. She could not even open the door. She kicked at it until Tish appeared, opening the door for Laverna with a flourish and a small bow. Tish and Tabby were sisters, and Tish got the looks, and Tabby the tits. Tish could never play for the Flood Girls. After surviving Bert's flying boat as a child, Tish developed a nervous condition and would not ride in a car, ruling out any away games. And somebody had to cover the bar when the Flood Girls played.

Like Tish, Laverna never played softball. At first, she didn't even understand the game. She was a born leader, an inspiration, frightening. Coaching was perfect. Laverna paid the fees to play in the league, paid the dues for every single player. When they mouthed off, she held that over their heads.

“Those casts are something else,” said Della Dempsey, the other new recruit, as she took her seat. Laverna regarded Della coolly, the skin on her face tight and pink, like a burn victim. And she didn't have any eyebrows. She did have a discount at her parents' hardware store, which Laverna hoped would prove useful. “It looks like you're getting ready to choke somebody.”

“Fuck up on first base and it might be you,” pronounced Laverna.

It was Saturday, and the silver miners claimed their usual tables around the jukebox, the air around them blue with cigarette smoke. Laverna squinted, and it appeared they were having some sort of cribbage tournament. Shirts versus Skins. Laverna hated the dirty bras but loved the business.

Tish ferried drinks to Laverna's kingdom of tables, pushed together in a semicircle, arranged around a stool. Laverna perched on this stool like a throne; she used the height advantage to appear imperious. Tish managed two pitchers of beer and a stack of pint glasses on one single tray, returned with the single can of Diet Coke requested for Rachel. Tish looked anxiously at the tables, trying to figure out where to place it, finally deciding that Rachel would most likely sit as far away from her mother as possible.

As the team arrived, Red Mabel stood and helped Laverna sip at a double Canadian Club, even though the pink straw was shameful. Laverna looked at her watch. It was ten past three. They heard the truck slide into the gravel of the parking lot. Rachel burst through the door—she had curled her hair, and wore black slacks, a black turtleneck, a black blazer, and three-inch heels.

“This isn't an art opening,” said Laverna. “Why in the hell are you dressed like that?”

Rachel didn't answer. She saw the empty chair and the can of Diet Coke, and took her seat. Laverna seethed in her sweatpants and a giant white T-shirt. Rachel's outfit filled her with rage, clearly some passive aggressive move to remind Laverna of her beloved armor, her layers.

Tish argued with a silver miner at the bar. The miner was a regular, one of Laverna's favorites, because she resembled Elvis Presley. Tish's voice raised as she accused lesbian Elvis of trying to pass a counterfeit bill.

“Go tell your sister to take her medication,” said Laverna, and Tabby leaped from her seat and began to dig through Tish's purse. Red Mabel gave Tish a nickname once, but “Twitch” had not stuck. Laverna, in a rare moment of kindness, declared it too on-the-nose.

Laverna pointed to the stack of papers in front of Red Mabel, who had broken into the elementary school to use the town's only mimeograph machine. “Pass those out,” she commanded.

Dutifully, Red Mabel handed out the smudged copies of the roster and contact information. Laverna believed in phone trees, demanded the infield call the outfield the morning of every game and practice. The Sinclairs did not have a phone. They lived in a strange compound behind their namesake gas station, four trailer houses arranged in a square, surrounding a garden and massive compost pile. More than three mobile homes were considered to be a trailer court in Quinn. There were many Sinclair children and many Sinclair husbands, and a goat that stood on top of a doghouse at all times, despite the weather. The sisters played left and center field, because Ginger, their employer, made them.

Tabby returned to the tables, and Tish took deep breaths behind the bar. Laverna watched her daughter study the list. Rachel's hair did look bouncy, sporty—blonde locks athletic as they moved. Laverna nearly asked Rachel what kind of conditioner she used but, thankfully, was stopped by a ruckus in the back. A cribbage board slammed into the door of the men's bathroom. The miners were competitive, and violent. It was too bad they were dismissive of organized sports.

Della and Rachel were the wild cards. Diane Savage Connor, the shortstop, was the best player on the team, and a legend in the league. Diane was a math teacher at the high school, and was renowned for her fast reflexes, as she snatched up grounders and all the bachelors in the county. Tabby was a surprisingly adept second base player, although she was short and missed most anything that flew through the air. Working at the Dirty Shame had taught her how to stop things, however, and transferred the fearlessness from breaking up bar fights into launching herself into the path of women who dared run to third base. She was so sweet that the umpires always believed the tackles were accidental. If runners made it to third base, they encountered Red Mabel, a beast on and off the field. (This was another reason Laverna had depended on Krystal—her nursing skills came in handy when there was carnage.) Ginger Fitchett pitched, always consistent and calm, attributes the rest of the Flood Girls sorely lacked. At catcher, Martha Man Hands just had to sit on her ass and be Ginger's target, both things she was born to do. Laverna's outfield was always a cluster fuck. Ronda played rover, but barely. On the rare occasions she moved, she was painfully slow, and Laverna suspected that Ronda did not like participating in yet another white person's game. The Sinclairs tripped over their cursed jean skirts, refusing to wear shorts or sweatpants, and would not dive for balls, claiming modesty. To top it all off, Martha Man Hands decided last summer that she would no longer run past first base, despite how far and deep she smashed the ball. Unfortunately, Martha had decided this in the middle of a game, and the first-base coach (Red Mabel) cursed her and pushed her off the bag. Martha declared she would walk to second base, if necessary. Of course, Laverna was apoplectic, but Ginger offered up her teenage daughter as a designated runner. Shyanne Fitchett upped their beauty quotient, could hit the shit out of the ball, and filled in whenever Red Mabel was in county jail.