The Flood Girls (21 page)

“We need your help,” said Laverna.

“Look,” said Bucky. “I can't help you with any more practices. The other teams are gonna think I'm partial to you, and an ump can't be partial. It's called a . . .” He paused.

“Conflict of interest,” said Ginger. “You can't hit for shit anyway.”

“Hey,” protested Bucky. “I'm a volunteer. Respect that.”

“I need to ask you something,” said Laverna. “And I need you to not run your mouth.”

Bucky gulped. “Okay,” he said.

“How do you feel about my daughter?”

Bucky examined the faces of the other women and carefully considered his response. “She's nice enough. And smart. She's got me thinking about giving up red meat.”

At this, Red Mabel spat on the ground.

“Not like that, Bucky,” said Laverna. “I need to know if you find my daughter attractive.”

“Shit yes,” said Bucky. “I ain't blind. Just concerned about my cholesterol. I definitely am going to stop eating so many hamburgers. And do you know where hot dogs come from?”

“Shut the fuck up,” said Red Mabel. “Do you wanna screw her or not?”

“Jesus,” said Bucky. “She doesn't like me like that.”

“How do you know that?” asked Ginger.

“Because she flat out told me so,” said Bucky. “The first five minutes I ever met her.”

“Sounds about right,” said Martha. “She really does take after her mother.”

“Quiet,” said Laverna. “Are you sure she still feels that way?”

“Yep,” said Bucky. “I spend a lot of time at her house. She would've jumped me by now.”

“Because you're so irresistible?” said Ginger, who chortled and drained the rest of her wine cooler.

Bucky blushed. “I'm young and single and I'm a volunteer fireman. I'm a catch. Everybody says so.”

“I'm thankful you have such high self-esteem,” said Laverna. “You just keep thinking that way.”

“Thanks,” said Bucky. “I will.”

Tabby brought him the Diet Coke, and he began to drink it greedily.

“Does she ever talk about any man?” Laverna leaned in close. “Is there anybody she's interested in?”

“Nope,” said Bucky. “She only hangs out with Jake and the Chief.”

“The Chief?” Red Mabel was incredulous. “She's already fucking a married man!”

“No,” said Bucky. “They're buddies. He gives her advice about life.”

“I was not aware of this,” said Laverna. She felt her blood pressure begin to spike, and lifted up her arm to smash her fist on the table. This is what she usually did to accentuate her point, to let people know she had enough. Unfortunately, she still had her casts, and her arms barely budged. Angrily, she kicked at Bucky's leg, missed.

“You're not supposed to,” he said, frightened.

“Oh,” said Laverna, instantly calming. “This is some sort of sober-people thing.”

“Not telling,” Bucky said, and finished his soda.

“So she listens to him?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Bucky, do you think you could get the Chief to teach her to not be afraid of the ball?”

“No guarantees,” said Bucky. “But it won't hurt to ask.”

Laverna wanted to keep drinking, but Red Mabel insisted that she take her home first, to change back into a sweat suit. Red Mabel was going on a mission, and as usual, it was top secret. She would not let Laverna sit at the bar by herself in clothing that could restrict her movement. There could be another assassination attempt.

When Red Mabel returned her to the Dirty Shame, Tabby helped Laverna take a few more pain pills. Laverna sipped at a shot of tequila, bending like a bird each time, using the embarrassing pink straws.

Jim Number Three came in, just as the silver miners were gathering up their coats and their wild animal. He sat down next to Laverna and watched their procession as they paraded out the door.

“Don't ask,” said Laverna. “Can you light me a cigarette?”

Jim Number Three obliged. Laverna was fond of him—he continued to stop by the house most days and read to her. They were up to the chapter in
Roots
where Chicken George was gambling on chicken fights while courting Mathilda. Laverna remarked that this was everyday behavior among the men of Quinn.

Jim Number Three had been ice fishing all day, and was already drunk. He described the fish at length. He told Laverna that he was born in Alaska, and then his family relocated to Chinook, where the weather was pretty much the same. He told Laverna that he grew up hoping to become a seismologist but settled for being an electrician instead.

“Seismology is not really a science,” said Jim Number Three. “Earthquakes are an art.” He whispered, “Earthquakes make my heart beat fast.”

“They do that,” Laverna said, and leaned forward so he could remove the cigarette from her mouth.

“Chinook's main industry is sugar beets,” continued Jim Number Three. “The high school football team is called the Sugarbeeters.”

“That's pathetic.”

“I really like you,” said Jim Number Three. “I'd like to get to know you better.”

“Don't say that,” said Laverna.

“Why?” Jim Number Three ordered another round, ashed Laverna's cigarette.

“Because I'm a miserable person,” she said.

“It's this town,” said Jim Number Three, as Tabby slid another shot of tequila in front of Laverna and a pint of beer in front of him. “I think you all have vitamin deficiencies, or maybe the water is poisoned.” He raised his glass to her. “Cheers!”

Laverna stared at him. Apparently, he forgot she did not have use of her arms.

The pills and the booze made her feel brazen. “Take me to your house.”

Jim Number Three grabbed his keys without a word, and then he was helping her off the barstool and out the door.

He lived in Rachel's trailer court, and Laverna was thankful his house was at the end by the gravel pit, far away from her daughter.

She plopped down next to him on the couch, her casts stuck straight out in front of her. She tried to figure out a way to kiss him. He brought her a beer, and a straw, and she leaned down to the coffee table and sipped slowly. Laverna pressed her body into his side. He smiled at her, touched her face with a callused hand.

“I don't feel so miserable right now,” said Laverna, and then Jim Number Three placed his own beer down on the coffee table and took her face in both hands, kissed her open mouth. He tasted like cigarettes and beer, and she loved it.

“I don't date volunteer firemen,” said Laverna. “That well has been poisoned.”

“I'm an electrician,” he said.

“Can you build me a robot?”

“No,” he said. He kissed her neck, and she shivered.

“You don't even know me,” said Laverna.

“I asked around,” said Jim Number Three.

“I don't like the sound of that,” she said.

“I wanted to know what I was getting myself into.”

“I've lived here all my life,” said Laverna. “That's what you really need to know.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I guess it is.”

“I need to use your bathroom,” she said. He helped her from the couch and escorted her to the rear of the trailer house, while opening the second button of his regulation polo shirt. He was a consummate gentleman. He flicked on the bathroom light and left the door slightly open. She did have to pee, but her arms prevented her from wiping. She could not ask for his assistance, but she didn't really care.

When she was done, she shook herself dry and used the edge of the countertop to push her sweatpants back into place. She stared into the bathroom mirror and checked her teeth, even though she hadn't eaten anything but peanuts and pills for the last six hours. She used her casts to push the door open wide enough for an exit. It was hard to flirt without hands, and she had long ago stopped wearing her hair long enough to toss. She growled at him when she returned to the living room.

He grinned at this, patted the empty cushion beside him.

“Your daughter is awfully nice,” he said. “It's hard to raise kids with manners, I suppose.”

“My daughter is an animal,” said Laverna. “I'd prefer not to discuss her.”

“Okay,” said Jim Number Three. He leaned over and kissed her on the lips. “You might be the prettiest woman in this whole town. I think I've met most of them.”

“Have you ever been electrocuted?”

“Not really,” he said. “A couple of shocks, but that's to be expected.”

“Sure,” she said. “I've never really known an electrician before. I've always relied on Red Mabel when it comes to fuse boxes and shit like that.”

“I went to school for it,” he said. “I had a calling, I guess.”

“My mother had a calling,” she said. “She made the mistake of listening.”

“I have a license and certification and everything.” He kissed her again, and she felt her body swell with the pills, rise up to meet him. It had been a long time since this had happened to her.

“You could spend the night,” he said.

“I sleep late,” she said. “And I'm terrible when I wake up. Mouthy.”

“Fine,” he said. “I'll be gone when you get up.”

An ax leaned in one corner of his bedroom. It was the regulation ax, the wooden handle inscribed with
QVFD
. She asked why he kept it at home, if it was a prop to impress the ladies. He nodded his head and undressed. He removed her panties, hung them from her cast.

He was careful as he lowered himself on top of her. To maneuver around her injuries, he placed his hands underneath the plaster that cut into her armpits, raised himself back up slowly. She was thankful he was in excellent shape. Jim Number Three did push-ups for the next twenty minutes.

His penis was a neat curve of flesh, slightly crooked. Her doctor would be pleased; they were being so cautious. He kissed her breasts in between every push-up. She felt top-heavy with pills, and wanted to ask him his last name. Instead, she watched his muscles bulge, and she found herself counting. At one hundred and fifty, she became his cheerleader. Excitedly, she counted out loud, delighted by his physical prowess. He was drunk but accurate, every push up truly impressive.

It felt strange to be so rigid, to have sex like this, her arms cemented in a permanent ninety-degree angle. Jim Number Three continued to do all the work. Each time he entered her, she smelled the top of his head, and she imagined she could smell the smoke in his hair, imagined that he would climb a ladder to save her.

T
he first Saturday of April, at 3:00 p.m., the Flood Girls were scheduled to play their first game of the season, versus the Eunice Volunteer Dispatch.

When Rachel woke up that morning, it was still snowing. She peered out her window at the billowing curtains, thick as the kinds that hung in theaters, ruffling, changing direction. She knew it was ferociously cold.

The phone call came from Ginger Fitchett at eleven o'clock.

“Game is called,” said Ginger. “As you can tell, there is a blizzard outside, and as much as we hate those ladies from Eunice, we don't want them to drive here. Nor do we want to take the field. I wouldn't be able to see the batter's box.”

Rachel thanked her, and thanked her higher power for sparing her from potential embarrassment. She bundled up in quilts, grateful she could spend the day with Laura Ingalls Wilder.

The next morning, the blizzard was gone. Rachel left her house shortly before noon, and it had already warmed to the midfifties. This was Quinn in April. Mercurial, stronger than you, full of surprises.

At her AA meeting, they celebrated Mr. Tyler's sobriety birthday. Even though he insisted, Rachel could not bring herself to call her former biology teacher by his first name, even though they had grown familiar. He was the only old man with enough balls to yell at Rachel for blaming her mother for everything.

When they passed around his three-year coin, Rachel held it in her palm and remembered her first AA birthday. Athena had presented the coin to her at their home group, and had made a speech about how far Rachel had come, and how she had worked for it, really worked for it, and they both had cried. Her coin was passed around the room for everyone to hold, to bless. And then there was cake and ice cream, and immediately afterward, Athena had taken her to another meeting, her version of celebration.

After the AA meeting, Rachel stood outside the library with her old men, and they discussed the prospects of the Flood Girls. She still did not understand their allegiance to her team, but they predicted a winning season.

There was a reason for the softball talk. The Chief returned from his truck and presented Rachel with a box.

She could tell it had been wrapped by his wife. He handed it over, without a word.

Inside the box was a softball glove, brand-new, a pair of black batting gloves, and an actual softball, neon green. The old men lit more cigarettes. She knew they had all chipped in on this purchase, but just like in meetings, they let the Chief provide the explanations.