The Flood Girls (23 page)

He had made progress. Five of the shirts were completely done, and hidden deep inside his bedroom closet. He worked on these shirts only when Rachel was gone. When she was home, he sewed things for her house, and clothing for himself.

Jake did not turn on the stereo, tried to remain as quiet as possible, just in case Bert was spying. When he heard footsteps on the porch, the sound of boots stomping to dislodge the snow, he dove behind the couch.

Black Mabel entered without knocking. Jake stood up from behind the couch, and she swung a snow shovel at him.

“It's just me,” he protested, holding up his hands in surrender.

“Oh,” she said, eyes tiny and darting. Jake could tell she was more stoned than usual, and offered no explanation as he returned to the sewing machine. It would only confuse her.

“I'm here to shovel off the roof.” Black Mabel was dressed like an arctic explorer, her familiar black trench coat straining to contain the thick layers of down underneath, goggles dangling from her neck.

“Okay,” Jake said, and tapped at the foot pedal as the needle began to whir.

“I don't want the roof to collapse. There's four feet of snow up there.”

“You don't have to explain to me,” said Jake. “I've been watching you do it for years.”

“I made a promise,” said Black Mabel.

“Be careful,” said Jake, knowing that she was reckless. He kept sewing and lost himself in the fifth T-shirt. He listened to the shriek of the wind and the thumps and scrapes of Black Mabel. She had made a promise to Frank, and apparently it stretched through the years, extended to his daughter.

He made an extra grilled cheese sandwich, and waved out the back door until he caught her attention. He didn't want to shout her name, just in case Bert was listening. She cleared half the roof, had paused to catch her breath against the impotent chimney. She stared at him until he returned with a plate, pointed at her sandwich.

Above him, Jake could hear Black Mabel continue to shovel. He kept sewing, occasionally stopping to watch out the window as giant drifts came cascading down, until they piled so high that the window was blocked from snow from the roof. He had no fear that Black Mabel would slip and fall. Black Mabel was a capable woman, and if she fell, she would only land safely in the enormous banks of snow.

L
averna's casts were removed in the third week of April. She was able to smoke her own cigarettes whenever she wanted to, and enjoy baths by herself. She loved Red Mabel, but she enjoyed having the house to herself. She no longer had to bite her tongue as Red Mabel bathed her; the humiliation of being naked and cradled near her best friend's armpits was exacerbated by the smell—Red Mabel needed a bath of her own.

There was one visitor who she tolerated; Jim Number Three continued to stop by in the afternoons and read to her. They were three-quarters of the way through
Roots
, and Red Mabel had taken to calling him Kunta Kinte behind his back.

Laverna bought the property on the river in 1983. She couldn't live in the house that she once shared with Rachel. Everywhere she went, she saw another reminder of her asshole daughter.

At the time, there were no neighbors. It was a half acre surrounded by aspen trees on one side, and a weeping willow on the other. Behind the house was the river—usually muddy brown, but on good days, green like an old bottle.

She took out a loan to buy a brand-new trailer house, and to place it on a permanent foundation. In Quinn, that made it a real house. Nobody could drive it away ever again.

She made the last payment four months ago, and despite the fact that it was January, she and Red Mabel had celebrated by drinking bottles of champagne and running around the yard topless.

The house was set far enough back that she had no fear of floods. The riverbank was mighty but sloped gradually. The first year she lived there, she spent a hundred dollars on crocus and paperwhite bulbs, threw them off the back deck scattershot, and now the crocuses came up in March, and then the paperwhites in May. Between those flowers and the buttercups and forget-me-nots that grew there naturally, she considered herself a master gardener.

Red Mabel mowed Laverna's lawn, and fixed everything that needed fixing, and cleaned the gutters. She even hung the lights at Christmas.

Laverna was taken care of, and knew she would never marry again. Jim Number Three was a plaything, a diversion. Laverna wanted to live her life like a desperado, unencumbered and free to shoot back whenever necessary.

This was why it pained her to call the Chief.

His wife answered. Laverna knew her peripherally, from the grocery store or the post office or city council meetings. The Chief's wife occasionally attended the Fireman's Ball, but she always left early.

She seemed scared, however, when Laverna identified herself.

“He's not here,” she said. “Do you want me to give him a message? Is there something wrong with your chimney?”

“I would call 911 if I had a chimney fire,” said Laverna. “Just tell him to come see me when he has a chance.”

“At the bar?”

“At my house,” said Laverna. She scratched at her strange pale arms. They had grown a scraggly fur during her convalescence.

“Oh,” said his wife.

“It's not what you think,” explained Laverna. “This is about my daughter.”

“I love Rachel to death,” said his wife.

“Are you kidding me?” Laverna was suddenly angry; she hated not knowing things.

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind,” said Laverna. “Just send him this way.”

He arrived a few hours later, in his special red pickup truck, emblazoned with
QVFD
on the door. He carried jars of something.

She met him at the door.

“Apple butter,” he said, and handed her the jars. “From the missus.”

“Is it like applesauce?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Is it like jelly?”

“No.”

“Then what the hell is it?”

“You wanted to talk to me?”

“Sorry,” said Laverna. “Come in.”

She ushered him out to the back deck. The river was running high, and giant pieces of bark and fallen trees rushed past, and closer to the bank, swirls of dead leaves spun in fast eddies. Today, the river was muddy, the color of the apple butter.

Instinctively, Laverna grabbed two beers from the refrigerator but then put them back and brought out Bubble Up instead. He would have to drink from the can.

She handed him the soda and sat down on a wooden deck chair. He lit a cigarette, and she pushed an ashtray toward him. They watched osprey swoop down at the water and then return to their bald perches across the water.

“I suppose you're wondering why I asked you here,” she said.

“Nope.” The Chief was the only man in Quinn who Laverna could not intimidate.

“How do you know?”

“There's only one thing you and I have in common, Laverna.”

“How is she doing?”

“Why don't you find out for yourself?” The Chief refused to make eye contact, and continued to stare out at the river.

“I've got nothing to say to her,” said Laverna. “I just need a body in the right field.”

The Chief puffed on his cigarette and finally turned to look her square in the eye. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“She's scared of the ball. She covers her face with her glove and she won't swing at anything.”

“Rachel isn't scared of the ball, Laverna. She's scared of you.”

“I'm not following.”

“If she does nothing, she can't screw it up.” The Chief removed his ball cap. “She does nothing, because she doesn't want to make a mistake.”

“That doesn't make any sense.” Laverna looked out at the riverbank. A month ago, the crocuses had appeared, blue flowers pushed up through inches of whiteness and revealed themselves, polka-dotted the entire snowy bank.

“She doesn't want to disappoint you,” he said. “I figure she's done enough of that.”

“She disappoints me by not catching the goddamn ball,” said Laverna.

“Then why did you put her on the team?”

“I told you,” said Laverna. “I had no choice. There's only so many women in this goddamn town.” They watched a giant gray log come down the river, dragging through the high grass along the shore. It was an ancient thing, riddled with holes from woodpeckers.

“You know she's no good at sports,” said the Chief. “You're up to something.”

“I guess I want to keep my eye on her,” Laverna confessed.

“That's my job,” said the Chief. “You can stop doing that.”

“Can you blame me? I mean, Jesus Christ, she completely ruined my life.”

“That's what kids are for,” said the Chief.

“You don't have any kids,” said Laverna.

“Exactly,” said the Chief. “I wrecked enough things on my own. I've spent the last twenty years making it up to my wife.” He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “I'm way ahead of you. Been playing catch with her for the last few weeks.”

“Tell your wife thank you for that apple stuff.”

“I will,” said the Chief.

“I never thought she would come back,” admitted Laverna.

“It would do you some good to forgive her,” said the Chief. “It might even make you a happier person.”

“You're not exactly Mr. Sunshine,” she said.

“That's because I'm still trying to forgive myself,” he said.

He left her there on the back porch. She heard him drive away, and she sat there and watched the river. There was no telling what could float by next.

J
ake predicted disaster. This was the first game of the season, and the Flood Girls were playing against another team from Quinn. The bleachers were completely full.

He arrived at the softball field at five thirty. The outfield was freshly mowed, and Jake could smell the grass from his seat on the far left of the bleachers. Bucky's white sneakers were stained green from the clippings.

Jake watched as Bucky secured the padded, puffy squares to each corner of the diamond. He laid the flat mat of home plate after using his measuring tape, and nodded to Jake in the bleachers. He and Jake were the only paid employees of the league, and they behaved like professionals.

“Nice outfit,” called out Bucky. Jake wore his black sailor pants and a white shirt with epaulets. He knew that he looked like a sailor and didn't really care. If there was a flood in Quinn, Jake was ready to command the ship.

“Thanks,” said Jake, ignoring the tittering among the crowd. He was used to such a reaction. “I wanted to make sure we matched.” And they did—Bucky wore his umpire's uniform, also black and white, the shirt divided into vertical stripes. Bucky looked down at his outfit and shook his head.

Jake opened his scorebook, brand-new for 1991, and carefully inscribed the names into the boxes with a pencil. He had a special pencil case just for softball, and it contained eighteen pencils, two sharpeners just in case one malfunctioned. It also was loaded with cough drops, allergy medication, and a cloth handkerchief to offer others, to be polite.

Laverna had had her casts removed, and she handed him her roster on a piece of notebook paper. Her bare arms were nearly the same color as the casts had been. They looked scrawnier, too, although he doubted tending bar had ever made her muscular.

“This is going to be a shit show,” she said, and waited for him to print the names into his book. Although several people in the crowd clamored for her attention, Laverna stared grimly out onto the field.

“Bucky is a professional,” Jake assured, and finished copying down the last player of the Flood Girls. “He'll keep this under control.”

“Might need stun guns,” muttered Laverna. “I know all these people. And they're assholes.” Nervously, she returned to her dugout with the roster.