The Flood Girls (14 page)

Laverna screamed at the answering machine. “It's because you're a goddamn vegetarian!”

Laverna listened for Rachel to hang up, but she didn't. She could hear Rachel breathing. Laverna suspected that her daughter was pretending not to hang up in order to use up all of the tape on the answering machine. Instead, there came a beaten-down voice, one that Laverna had never heard before.

“Fuck it,” said Rachel. “I'll see you at two o'clock.”

The tape in the machine whirred to a stop.

Two more painkillers later, Laverna finally floated. She could barely feel the road beneath her as she walked to the softball field. Driving was out of the question, and she was tired of asking Red Mabel for things. She didn't care if the people of Quinn saw her zombie-walking through the streets. In fact, she kind of relished it, hoped that it might scare some children.

Bucky was the first person there. Laverna was not tolerant of players who showed up late, or showed not at all. She had seen other teams fall apart that way. She arrived at the field at a quarter to, and there was Bucky, unloading his bags. He carried them out into the field, bare of bases, and he kicked at the frozen dirt where home plate would be. He went back to the truck, and returned with two buckets of softballs.

“Laverna,” he said, and nodded.

“We've got two newbies. The worst in right field. I want you to hit it to her as much as possible.”

“Rachel,” he said. “I heard.”

“Right field. Hit it there.”

“You know I don't have that kind of control,” he responded. “I suck at softball.”

“And you suck as an ump,” she said. “At least you're consistent.”

Red Mabel emerged from the woods behind the bleachers. Laverna was thankful she wasn't carrying the corpse of some animal. She did have her rifle slung across her shoulder, so it wasn't out of the question to worry about such things.

“Go get me some beer,” said Laverna, collapsing on the wooden bench inside the dugout.

“Got some in my truck,” said Red Mabel. “It's even cold.”

Laverna closed her eyes and rested against the fence. She could hear Bucky whistling inanely. Laverna thought it was Hank Williams, and then she thought it might be Paula Abdul.

“You even suck at whistling!” she screamed this at him, her eyes still closed.

Red Mabel returned, with beer and a plan. “I don't have any straws in my truck,” she said. “I got my knife. You're gonna shotgun these mother­fuckers.”

Laverna didn't argue. “You are a really good nurse,” she said. She had grown up in Quinn, so she was used to shotgunning beers. The men of Quinn considered it foreplay. Red Mabel nested the beer into the space between the two boards of the bench, and she stabbed the can with her knife. Laverna sat down in the dirt and put her mouth over the hole. She nodded to let Red Mabel know she was ready. Red Mabel pulled the tab, and the beer shot into Laverna's mouth. Laverna guzzled almost the entire can, foam all over her mouth and chin. She leaned back and belched, and Red Mabel slapped her back.

“Again,” said Laverna. Red Mabel was happy to oblige.

“Why don't you just hold it up and let her sip at it?” Here was Bucky, trying to be helpful.

“Fuck off,” said Red Mabel. “We haven't done this for years!”

“Nurse!” Laverna could tell she was slurring, but she didn't care. She weaved a bit as she called out from the dirt floor of the dugout. “Give me another!”

Red Mabel delightedly stabbed the can, and Laverna filled her mouth again. She blinked, tried to bat away the sting of beer that shot into her eyes.

Red Mabel slugged a beer down in one gulp, the old-fashioned way. She wiped her mouth with the tail of her flannel shirt and helped Laverna up from the dirt.

Laverna attempted to compose herself as the Flood Girls began to arrive in their cars. Red Mabel dusted off Laverna's jeans, wiped the beer from her chin, and kicked the empty cans underneath the bench. Satisfied, Red Mabel jogged out to third base.

Rachel showed up five minutes late, her truck rattling from the stereo. To make things worse, she brought somebody. Krystal's son.

“What is he doing here?” Laverna gestured at Jake with her casts.

“I picked him up on the road. He told me he was our scorekeeper,” said Rachel. “Why is your shirt all wet?”

“He's the scorekeeper for the entire league. He doesn't belong to us. He belongs to all the teams in Quinn,” said Laverna. “And I think he knows that.” Jake shrugged, and Laverna belched lightly. He sat down next to her anyway, immaculate in his suit and tie, like a tiny Jehovah's Witness. He carried a small satchel, from which he removed a sketchpad and a pencil case.

“Maybe he can teach you how to play right field,” said Laverna. She tried not to sound drunk as she addressed Jake. “This isn't a game, kid. Don't think you're getting paid.”

“I am well aware of that,” answered Jake. “You don't cut the check anyway.”

The Flood Girls began to warm up on the field, while Rachel wandered around the outfield, smoking a cigarette. She dropped it into the brown grass when Diane jogged out to her, handed her a softball glove. Laverna watched as Rachel pointed to her fingernails.

“Wear the goddamn glove,” shouted Laverna. “You can't catch the ball with your hands.”

“Jesus Christ,” Red Mabel said, and spit on the ground.

The Flood Girls took the field, and the sun was out. An icy patch remained in the outfield, conveniently located between the Sinclairs. They were like pioneer women anyway, and could no doubt navigate it. Laverna suspected that if a grizzly bear came charging on the field, between the Sinclairs and Red Mabel, it wouldn't stand a chance. And that was without Red Mabel's rifle, easily accessible in the grass near third base. Guns were not allowed at regular league games.

Ginger Fitchett warmed up on the pitcher's mound. Bucky lugged a bucket of balls and carefully arranged them before her. People in Quinn still treated Ginger like she was sick, but Laverna knew that Ginger was made of much stronger stock. Ginger had kept her hair short after the chemo, even after remission. She was a no-nonsense woman, and a hell of a pitcher. She was two years older than Laverna, and almost as mean, and she warmed up by swinging her arms around and around, wiggling her fingers. Ginger had been on the team for the last eight years. She and Red Mabel were the only original members.

“C'mon!” shouted Red Mabel. “Let's get this shit going.”

Bucky flipped her off and picked up his bat and pointed it toward the outfield. Ginger snickered.

The first pitch was wild, and clattered against the chain link that caged off the bleachers. Jake startled and dropped his sketchpad.

The second pitch glanced off Bucky's bat, and it dribbled along the third-base line. Red Mabel barely moved. She scooped it up and threw it to Della at first. Della gossiped with Tabby and was not paying attention. The ball hit her on the thigh.

“Fuck!” Della shouted, and rubbed her leg. The ball rolled toward the dugout. “What was that for?”

“You need to pay attention,” said Red Mabel.

“You are not the coach,” Della said, and looked at Laverna for backup. Laverna said nothing, would not discourage the gossip. Della and Tabby had married the same man at different times, so they understood each other, and Laverna learned from years of coaching that communication was paramount to the success of the infield. Shortstop almost always threw to first.

The next pitch was good, and sailed into the outfield. The shorter Sinclair caught it without fuss and threw it to Della. The shorter Sinclair always smelled like freshly baked bread. Laverna assumed she was in charge of carbohydrates for their entire compound.

Ginger put the third one right over the plate, and Bucky connected, sending the ball high into the air, heading toward Rachel.

“Move!” shouted Laverna.

The taller Sinclair heeded her orders and made her way toward Rachel, who had put the glove in front of her face, cowering. The ball dropped a few feet behind Rachel, and the taller Sinclair beat Ronda by seconds and hurled it to second base.

Rachel removed the glove from her face, and began to comb out the tangles in her hair with her free hand.

“At least Krystal could make a tourniquet,” shouted Red Mabel. Laverna did not like that Red Mabel was already thirsty for blood. The season hadn't even started yet.

“Nice try, Rachel,” said Diane, who genuinely meant it. The entire infield laughed.

Ginger's next pitch went straight over the plate, and Bucky aimed for right field. This time, the taller Sinclair ran to assist. Rachel covered her face again, did not move an inch.

Della backed up from first and caught the ball, just barely, and threw it to Ginger, who had hustled over to cover first base.

“That's teamwork,” hollered Diane encouragingly.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Red Mabel.

Laverna groaned, and Jake scooted away from her. She stood up from the bench, wincing as her casts caught on the chain link. As the beer and pills rushed to her temples, and the pain sent sparks into her eyes, Laverna Flood nearly fainted. She called for her nurse.

Jake shrieked when beer sprayed in an arc from the corner of La­verna's mouth. Laverna wasn't sure if his sketchpad had been soaked, or if he was shrieking at Red Mabel and her knife. She didn't really care. When Red Mabel pulled her back up on the bench, Laverna swallowed a belch, tried to appear coach-like. The rest of the Flood Girls were staring at her.

“PLAY BALL!” Laverna cried, wiggling her thumbs, her casts pointed toward home plate.

Laverna studied her team as they shook off the winter. This year, the Flood Girls were going to be ready. Rachel would have to do for now. At least Red Mabel had not run to the outfield and punched her in the face. In that case, putting the glove over her face might have offered Rachel some actual protection.

Twenty minutes later, it was time for batting practice. Tabby warmed up, swinging the bat in circles that dizzied Laverna. Bucky replaced Tabby at second base. Laverna needed a runner.

She called out his name, and Jake looked up from his sketchpad. “I need you to run for me, kid.”

“I don't run,” Jake said, and pointed at his outfit. “And I'm wearing a suit.”

“I'll give you twenty bucks,” said Laverna.

“I don't think so,” Jake said, and returned to drawing.

“Twenty-five,” said Laverna. “Only because I'm hammered.”

“Okay,” agreed Jake.

With Jake at first base, Tabby hit a ball directly at Bucky, which he caught easily. He lobbed it to Della, once again ill prepared. Della watched it sail past her shoulder. Laverna yelled at Jake to run to second, as Della chased after the ball.

In his stiff little suit, Jake pranced to second. He had plenty of time. The ball rolled all the way to the concession stand. Laverna watched as Diane commented on Jake's pocket square and reached up to catch the ball at the same time.

Laverna looked out at the Flood Girls, at Della trying to catch her breath, at the gay kid on second base, at the princess in right field. She swore silently.

B
uley Savage Connor owned the thrift store, and she also owned Rocky Bailey. It was unclear what a sixty-year-old, morbidly obese woman would do with Rocky, but she kept him. He lived in her house, and despite the thirty-year age difference, and the gap in mental facility, it worked. Jake did not know his uncle Rocky very well, but knew that Buley kept him busy.

“My darling boy,” said Buley. “We've been waiting for you.” Buley rarely rose from the giant, overstuffed chair that loomed next to the front door, her lap and shoulders covered in white cats, climbing all over her massive frame. She had one in her armpit as Jake entered the store. Buley's hair was as thin as her body was thick. What remained stood up in white curlicues around the circumference of her head, a crown of white tufts.

“As always,” said Jake. He stomped his feet, dislodging the snow from his moon boots. He leaned down to kiss the back of her hand. Her arm emerged from her enormous silken gown, the meat underneath her forearm sagging, her fingers puffy but immaculately clean. This was their ritual, his tribute to her grandiosity. She behaved like a queen, a real queen, not bossy like Laverna, but innately royal and kind.

“Reverend Foote continues to poach Catholics, and you continue to reap the rewards.” Buley pointed to a velvet pouch on the counter. Jake squealed with delight. “Go ahead, my boy. I left them there for you.”

Jake snatched the pouch and stood before Buley, holding court. She smiled as he untied the tasseled rope, slid the rosaries out with a shaking hand. He held them up to the low light of the lamps that surrounded Buley, five lamps in all, perched on low tables and crowding the cash register. Buley did not believe in overhead lighting. Jake dangled the rosaries from one hand, and Buley raised her reading glasses and peered through them like a magnifying glass: pearly pink beads and a crucifix of careworn gold, mahogany beads and a crucifix carved from a green stone. Worn in spots from the oil from many hands, the weight of thousands of prayers spoken, and hopefully heard.