The Flood Girls (17 page)

Tonight, Billy was in Ellis. There was no logging in the winter, and Billy had spent the entire month of February apprenticing at a butcher shop. Laverna looked around the fire hall, at the usual suspects and their boring lives. Judge Matthis held court on the running board of a fire truck, surrounded by sycophants; his snobby wife wiped the dust from the truck with a lace handkerchief before she sat down. Buley Savage Connor danced with her husband underneath a curtain of dangling crepe paper. Laverna admired her fearlessness as she moved her hands as if they held tiny cymbals, her lithe body and rolling hips captivating the crowd. Buley was exotic, had somehow mastered the fine art of belly dancing, the only mystery in another predictably oppressive winter.

Red Mabel continued talking about mink. Laverna pretended to be interested, until she noticed the red marks on her neck.

“Holy shit,” said Laverna. “You have hickeys!”

“I do not,” said Red Mabel.

“Nicely done,” said Laverna. Red Mabel was furious, and attacked Gene Runkle, and punched him in the throat, leaving a mark of her own. Although Laverna had been at the ball for only twenty minutes, she was ready to leave. Red Mabel needed to be escorted from the premises, as there were outstanding warrants, and the judge was fewer than ten feet away.

Laverna yanked at her friend's hair and nodded at the judge. She held on to Red Mabel's flannel shirt as she bolted for the door, Laverna sliding across the cement on her daughter's spiked heels.

Laverna drove them both to her house, knowing there was a bottle of Black Velvet hidden under the seat of her truck. It was the only safe place to keep liquor—Rachel did not have keys to the car.

Billy's truck was parked outside, and Red Mabel started swearing. She hated to be the third wheel. “Go,” she said. “I'll just drink in your car.” Red Mabel snatched the bottle from Laverna's hands. Laverna hardly noticed, so delighted that Billy had returned.

Billy and Rachel were in her bed, the music so loud they did not even notice her.

Laverna grabbed Rachel by the hair, and pulled her backward.

She thought that Rachel had slipped out of her grasp, but then realized that she held a chunk of hair in her hand. Rachel had fallen off the bed and onto the floor, and was laughing at Laverna, clearly wasted, until Red Mabel appeared and shut her up with a slap to the face. Billy lay there, stricken; Red Mabel took advantage of his shock and jumped over Rachel to punch him square in the jaw.

Rachel sat up and fished around on the nightstand for a pack of cigarettes, and regarded her mother and Red Mabel with foggy eyes, clearly stoned on something. Red Mabel snatched the ashtray and shattered it against the wall. Rachel didn't even flinch. Billy tried to cover himself, but Laverna was suddenly upon him, punching him, yanking at the covers, screaming at the top of her lungs.

The music blared, as Billy kicked through the empty beer cans, trying to find his clothes.

Laverna was screaming in the corner of the room, launching whatever she could grab and throw at Billy. Pillows, a lamp, picture frames, and finally when the stereo was ripped from the outlet, there was silence. That was when Laverna threw the copy of
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
at him, and it clipped him right above the eyebrow, instantly drawing blood.

Billy was dressed now, and he dodged Laverna's fists as he ran out the bedroom door.

Outside, they heard him start up his truck and roar away.

Laverna stopped screaming, and then she was sobbing. She kicked her daughter in the leg as hard as she could. Rachel made no attempt to cover herself, just stared back at them, her limbs red with carpet burn.

“Get out of my house,” Laverna said, and pointed to the door. “I never want to see you again.”

At that, Red Mabel pulled Laverna into the bathroom. They shut the door, and she cried, and they both listened to the sounds of Rachel slamming drawers, the sounds of her leaving.

I
n the flip-top ottoman, Jake found a stack of baby-blue T-shirts.

“Don't know where they came from, dear,” Buley said, and the cat on her lap was just as quizzical. White and tan, and skinny as could be, Jake thought the cat had been one of Frank's.

The T-shirts ranged in size from small to double XL, and they were in immaculate condition, fourteen of them, still carefully folded around cardboard and wrapped in cellophane.

“I think they're a sign,” he said, and sat on the rug in front of Buley and examined them closely, designs taking shape in his head.

“ROCKY!” Buley was the kind of woman who yelled so much that it barely even changed her face. He appeared from one of the rows and deposited a bulging manila envelope into his nephew's hands. Jake shook the contents into his lap: iron-on numbers, thirty or so.

“Vintage,” said Buley. “But I'm pretty sure the stick-'em still works.”

“They look brand-new,” said Jake. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, dear.” The cat yawned and nuzzled into Buley's armpit. “There are some other things you are going to need, of course.” Jake's head continued to swirl with ideas, and he removed his sketchpad, began to make a list. Once more, Buley called for Rocky, and he appeared silently, this time bearing the cordless phone, without being asked. Jake paid no attention to her conversation.

“Bucky will drive you,” announced Buley, and Rocky was there again, to take the phone.

“Where?”

“Ellis,” said Buley. “I suspect you're going to need some supplies.”

Bucky waited outside the thrift store, honked twice. Jake thanked Buley and counted the cash in his pockets as he climbed into Bucky's truck. Thankfully, Bucky had on the heater. The March wind stung, and the small truck trembled in the gusts.

Bucky did not need instructions. As they left Quinn, he chattered away, about the upcoming softball season and his new ride-on lawn mower. Jake feigned interest, but he waited for Bucky to pause, blabbing nervously, most likely because of his passenger.

The truck rounded the curve of the river, and the highway was freshly sanded. At last, Bucky stopped the softball talk, and concentrated on the icy road.

“I saw you next door,” said Jake. “Working on Frank's house.”

“Yep,” said Bucky.

“Isn't that weird? I mean, does your family care that you're hanging out with Rachel?”

“Don't believe everything you hear, kid.”

“I don't,” said Jake. “I'm pretty sure she never served time. I've read enough books to know what prison does to pretty women.”

At this, Bucky smiled wryly. “Yeah. I've seen some movies.”

In Ellis, Jake consulted with the owner of the fabric store before making his purchases, careful to heed her suggestions, even though he found her fashion to be deplorable. He ignored her crooked wig and sleeveless blouse made from layers of doilies. Her shirt was an arts-and-crafts disaster, but she was extremely helpful, enchanted by his twenty-dollar bill. Bucky said nothing as Jake piled the counter with spools of glittering thread, a bolt of satiny fabric. Jake suspected Bucky held his tongue, embarrassed at these purchases. In the truck, he had admitted to Jake that he needed the money, and Jake figured that Buley had paid him well.

Jake carefully knocked on Rachel's front door. He was cautious, as there was no telling what a thieving murderess would do. He clung to the rumors, because Rachel Flood was the closest thing to Lucky Santangelo; his neighbor could exist in the universe of Jackie Collins. He knew that she was not a killer but believed she was probably a thief and a slut, and he had changed his outfit three times until he was satisfied. He finally chose black slacks and a silk black shirt, a golden ascot that matched his hair. His outfit was dashing and international. It was early evening, and even though her truck was parked outside, he assumed she would be gone, on a date with a married man.

He knocked one more time. Beside him was a laundry basket and an iron with a carefully wrapped cord weighing down the contents.

She answered the door, her eyes puffy and glazed. Jake thought that she seemed kind of drunk, but the word around town was that Rachel Flood was clean and sober.

“Sorry for bothering you,” he said. “I can come back at another time.” He reached down for his basket.

“No way, kid.” She studied him closely, and he tugged nervously at his ascot. “I was meditating. It's something I try to do every day.” He smelled the incense, heard the tinkle of new age music.

“My friend Misty and I tried astral projection once,” admitted Jake.

“What are you doing here?”

“The astral projection didn't work,” said Jake. “Believe me, I'd rather be in Morocco.”

“Your mom and Bert must be gone,” said Rachel. He nodded, and was grateful that she smiled. He was used to being an imposition. “Come on in.”

He lifted the basket with a little grunt and staggered into her living room. He stared around at the mess. “Have you thought about carpet ­colors?”

“Do they know you're over here?”

“Bert doesn't like to see me iron,” he said.

“He doesn't like it when you help your mom out?” Rachel blew out the stick of incense she had been burning. Jake wondered if the witchcraft rumors were true.

“Ha,” said Jake. “My mom never irons anything. This is my iron. I got it for Christmas.”

“Is that what you asked for?”

“Of course,” he said. “I made a list. My mom got me everything except for
The World Is Full of Married Men
. Bert put his foot down.”

“Jackie Collins?”

“The only one I haven't read yet. Do you have a copy?”

“No,” said Rachel. “I don't own any books.”

He decided not to hold that against her. “We have school pictures on Monday,” said Jake. “I would like to wear something that isn't wrinkled.”

“I understand,” said Rachel.

“Can I iron here?” Jake nudged the basket forward with his leg. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not. Are you sure it's okay with your mother?”

“Bert proposed to her last night, so she's kind of preoccupied with that.” That was true—Jake had watched the whole thing play out over last night's Tater Tot casserole. Bert no longer wanted to live in sin, and Krystal swooned at the cheap ring, the cliché of a June wedding. “It was gross.”

“Do you like Bert?”

“No,” he said, examining the kitchen. Frank had never let him inside, so Jake had always wondered what it would be like, and apparently it was chaos and ugly countertops.

“Me neither,” she said, and stopped herself. “I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said that.” She suddenly clapped her hands together. “I've got something to show you!”

She pulled Jake down the hallway and shoved him inside the bathroom. It reeked of fresh latex paint. She had chosen a bright yellow and a pale green, which in the poor lighting of the bathroom mirror, made his face look ashen. He kept this to himself. “It's fantastic! I'm a fan of color.” Lucky Santangelo's bathrooms were usually smoked glass and stainless steel, and there was always an enormous marble bathtub with Jacuzzi jets. Lucky's bathtub would never fall through the floor of a trailer house.

“I'm so glad you approve,” she said. These were not the colors of a thief or a murderess; these were colors from an outdated issue of
Good Housekeeping
. He would help her.

He eased his way past, as she followed him into the living room. “Where's your ironing board?”

“Actually,” she said. “I don't have one.”

He looked her up and down, at her sweatpants and Blondie T-shirt. “I guess I'm not surprised. I'll be right back.”

Jake luxuriated in his empty house and gathered his new purchases from under his bed. He grabbed his beloved ironing board and tucked it under his arm. It was vintage, and he had bought it at a yard sale. It was the kind that was designed to sit on countertops. He assumed that this was so women could cook and iron at the same time. Jackie Collins would not approve.

Rachel's countertops were in terrible condition, but once again, he refrained from comment. Originally, they were a pearly white, shot through with gray veins; Jake's own trailer house had the same version of ersatz marble. But Rachel's were deeply stained with concentric circles of rust in different sizes. Frank must have left wet cast-iron pans on the countertops for months at a time. Jake eased the box of T-shirts and sewing notions from a paper bag, unfolded the board, and plugged the iron into the socket below the window. He folded his arms and stared at her as the iron hissed and began to warm.

“I lied,” she said. “When I lie, I have to promptly admit it.” Jake raised an eyebrow. “I forgot that I have some books. Well, it was a half truth. I don't own them, they came from the library.”

“And?”

“You wouldn't like them,” she said. “Laura Ingalls Wilder.”