The Flood Girls (29 page)

The first pitch was a strike. Rachel watched as it flew past. The second was a ball, so far out of the strike zone that it nearly struck Bucky in the throat.

At that moment, there was a commotion in the outfield, as three white-tailed deer came bolting from the forest, chased by the brown dog. The deer ducked through a curled-up piece of the chain-link fence, galloping into center field.

The pitcher was not aware of the deer, and threw the ball before Bucky could call a time-out.

Rachel noticed that the outfield and second base were completely distracted, watching the deer in awe. Perhaps they thought the deer were some sort of miracle, sent to remedy Red Mabel's immorality.

Rachel had completed enough personal inventories to know that she thrived on chaos. She kept her eye on the ball, and swung like the Chief had instructed.

She made contact with the pitch, weak contact, and the ball rolled slowly past the pitcher and right past the abandoned second base, sending Diane running to third.

Rachel was amazed she had hit the ball, and forgot to run.

Laverna screamed at her daughter, and Red Mabel jumped up and down in the dirt, and pointed at first base. Their words were lost in the music, and Rachel only ran after Bucky broke the rules and nudged her from the plate.

The Methodists collected themselves and threw out Rachel at first. Diane wisely stayed at third.

Rachel could hear Jake cheering for her. When she walked into the dugout, Laverna and Red Mabel refused to congratulate her, even though she had finally done something softball-like.

She hit the ball.

The coach of the Methodists consulted with Bucky, and Laverna put a quick stop to their protestations that the deer were grounds for a delay of game. Not that it mattered. Ronda struck out, and the game was over.

T
he next night was Sunday, and it was a special occasion. Jake was allowed to sleep over at Rachel's. He planned on skipping school the next day, which only seemed to fuel the decadence of the occasion. Bert had left for five days of a men's retreat with the church. Apparently, Jake was not considered a man, not considered at all, really. He took no umbrage at the lack of invitation, thankful he would not have to attend church day care. Rachel had a free Monday, as she had switched with Tish, who needed one of her weekend shifts to go find her husband, who had left town with Black Mabel.

After a trip to the video store in Ellis, they ate popcorn, drank Shirley Temples, and clutched each other as they watched Kathy Bates in
Misery
.

He slept on the couch, happily.

Rachel made oatmeal in the morning, and they ate it slowly outside on the front porch, so Jake could put off returning home for as long as possible.

A day of rain revealed a ragged version of a rock garden. The beds followed the entire length of the fence, framed by jagged pieces of shale that Frank had hauled there and sunk into the ground. Each bed was three feet wide, and Rachel told Jake that she assumed this was just more of his bachelor landscaping, a hillbilly Stonehenge covered in snow and then the slog of dead leaves.

“He always had flowers,” said Jake. “I remember that.”

They spotted the squirrel, glittery and golden, almost completely covered in the green mush from plants that had been cut back and left to rot. Jake leaped from the porch, and Rachel followed in her flip-flops. She crouched down, brushed away the detritus until it revealed itself: a squirrel statue, ceramic and spray-painted so thickly that the paint had dried in globs and drips. A golden squirrel, like a trophy, some special achievement in small woodland animals.

Jake went home and changed into what he felt was appropriate gardening clothing—khaki everything, including a beret. Bert had not returned from his retreat, Krystal was asleep with the baby in her arms, so Jake scrawled out a note and left it on the kitchen table.

Jake and Rachel knelt down in the soggy earth and began to scoop away all the leaves, some so mushy they disintegrated in their hands, almost decomposed into mud.

Under the cover of leaves, dark soil was studded with tiny green spikes. The green was so pale and new, so unaccustomed to light, that it made Jake slightly sad. He thought of Frank planting these things, hidden from the rest of the trailer court by the privacy fence, his secret garden. Maybe Frank had planted them for Jake's benefit. Frank didn't have grass in his yard, but he always had flowers. Jake didn't know what kind they were, but he remembered the colors.

“I lived here my senior year,” said Rachel.

“I didn't know that,” said Jake, as he scooped a handful of sludge and deposited it in a garbage bag.

“He didn't have a garden,” she said. “This was where I used to put my lawn chair and suntan.”

“Careful,” said Jake. “The sun is not friendly to blondes. I'm amazed your skin looks as good as it does.”

Grayed stalks, cut down as close to the ground as possible, were hard as sticks. They offered more evidence of flowers here, and that Frank had made sure they were ready for winter, and maybe his death.

Rachel pointed at the grayed stalks. “So you don't know what these are?”

“No,” said Jake. “I don't know flowers. That's a stereotype.”

“Sorry,” said Rachel. “I've never grown anything in my life. Just hair.”

“I know somebody who can help,” said Jake. “You have to trust me.”

“Of course,” said Rachel.

They drove through the nearly flooded streets of Quinn and Jake gave her directions, but Ginger Fitchett's house was easy to find. It was the nicest house in town. Like Frank, Ginger surrounded her entire property with a privacy fence.

Jake pushed through the gate first, and sitting in the middle of her own secret garden, Ginger Fitchett was entertaining Diane Savage Connor. They sat at a glass café table, under a giant pink umbrella, drinking tea. Ginger already began the work of preparing her garden for spring, and it was magnificent. Every square inch of yard had been landscaped in exact beds, framed with railroad ties. Ginger's bushes were enormous, testament to a woman who spent years and years on her yard. A tiny greenhouse nestled in the corner.

“Hello there,” Ginger said, and stood to greet them. Jake was slightly shocked that Ginger wasn't asking what Rachel wanted, or even seemed perturbed that Rachel had gained entry to her yard. “Do you want some tea?”

“Sure,” said Jake. Rachel nodded. They sat down next to Diane, as Ginger entered her gorgeous house, all three stories of it, a giant sunporch, the whole thing painted the color of a sunset. She returned with two more cups of tea. Jake helped himself to sugar cubes, while Rachel craned her neck to take it all in.

“Diane is seeing her gynecologist,” announced Ginger. She took a sip of her tea, while Diane nibbled at a Lorna Doone.

“It's nice to know you're concerned about your health,” said Rachel, to break the silence.

“Dating,” said Diane, after she had swallowed her cookie. “Like really seeing him.”

“Oh,” said Rachel.

“That's what we were talking about before you showed up,” said Ginger. “We think he might be the marrying kind.”

Jake couldn't stand it any longer. “We need your help,” he said. “Frank had a garden. Neither one of us know what to do with it.”

“Frank?” Ginger was incredulous. Diane raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” said Rachel. “He kept it a secret, just like you. I don't think anybody in the trailer court knew what was going on behind that fence.”

“I did,” said Jake. “He had the flowers for as long as I can remember.”

“He was a mystery to us all,” Ginger said, and she reached over and patted Rachel's hand.

“I want more,” said Rachel.

“I really didn't know the man,” said Ginger. “I'm sorry.”

“No,” said Rachel. “I meant more flowers.”

“Oh,” said Ginger. “I understand. I always want more flowers.” She gestured around her property, already crammed with garden beds and groupings of small trees and shrubs. “Is there a lot of sun in the yard?”

“Just along that side of the fence,” said Rachel. “The rest is blocked by the trailer house and the trees.”

“Jake,” said Ginger. “I trust you have a notebook on you.”

Ginger knew Jake all too well. He removed a small sketchpad from one of his khaki pockets, and a pen from another, and Ginger began to dictate a list. He made sure the sketchpad only opened to the last third of pages, the blank ones—there were secrets to be kept.

On Monday mornings, the Ben Franklin in Ellis was thick with housewives. The garden supplies had been arranged out in the parking lot, in small huts made of clear plastic.

Jake and Rachel filled the cart with five bags of soil, two trowels, four pairs of gardening gloves, and three flats of flowers, neatly divided like black ice-cube trays. They picked out the healthiest looking Johnny-jump-ups, echinacea daisies, and vines of clematis. Rachel bought two trellises, per Ginger's instructions.

“Can I spray-paint them?” Jake was a big fan of spray paint.

“Of course,” said Rachel.

They added six cans of gold spray paint to the cart.

They returned to Quinn, and Jake scooped out the rest of the dead leaves and dragged the trellises out into the driveway to paint.

As they dried, he returned to the garden beds, and Jake and Rachel knelt along the fence line, clearing spots for the clematis, shaking out the contents of the heavy bags of soil, stirring it in with the old dirt.

They finished planting the daisies just as the sun went down.

Jake asked for permission to have dinner at Rachel's house. Krystal noted all of the black earth that stained Jake's knees and shirt, and seemed pleased. He was dirty, like any other normal twelve-year-old boy. Jake nearly ran into his bedroom to change clothes.

Rachel made beans and rice and homemade tortillas, while Jake fussed over the gold spray paint on his hands.

After dinner, Jake insisted on doing the dishes. They could hear the thunder, and then the rain drummed on the roof of the trailer.

“I have an idea,” said Jake. “But I need to go home first.” He dried his hands carefully on a dish towel as the thunder boomed again.

“What if they don't let you come back?”

“I'm sneaking in. Do you have a ladder?”

Rachel and Jake stood in the pouring rain, as she propped Bucky's stepladder against the wooden fence. He climbed over and snuck in the back door. He raced back to Rachel's house through the rain, as it had turned into a deluge, the sound roaring on the metal roof.

“Get your boom box,” he demanded as he stood in her living room, dripping. “And some scarves.”

She followed his commands, and he plugged the stereo into the living room outlet. The scarves she offered up were gauzy and purple. He switched on the lamp he had given her, and draped the scarves over the shade.

“Turn off the rest of the lights,” he demanded, and as she walked to the kitchen, Jake put a cassette tape in the boom box and hit the rewind button. The living room was cast about with their shadows, the light in the room as deep purple as the sky outside.

“Now what?”

“Close your eyes,” he said. He pushed play. “Open them! Dance party!”

Rachel stared at him, until the strings kicked in.

“It's wonderful!”

“It's Madonna!”

Jake framed his face with his hands, stood perfectly still. He waited for a moment, and then twirled those hands above his head and stopped again in midpose. “Vogue” blasted throughout the house, the volume shaking the objects on Rachel's brick altar.

When the music played, Jake forgot he was a twelve-year-old boy who lived in a trailer house. This was the sound of supermodels. He always thought that he resembled Linda Evangelista anyway, although he was much, much shorter.

The light from the lamps shone on the gold paint that remained on his hands as they twirled glamorously, so fast that they seemed to be on fire.

“Pose!” He pointed at her, and she marched forward, gave a few ­run­way stomps, and stopped, looking behind her, as if she had dropped something. This was Naomi Campbell's over-the-shoulder smolder. Rachel knew her supermodels, and that made Jake love her even more.

And they danced, as the trailer shook with the storm and their choreography.