The Flood Girls (30 page)

L
averna loved night games, how the bats would swoop down from the sky at the balls, and how the dark made Red Mabel even more frightening to the other team. Laverna knew this game would not be marred by fisticuffs or catcalling. Tonight they were playing the Boyce Beauty Stop, her favorite team in the league.

The Boyce Beauty Stop was a team of bitter divorcées known for the quality of their permanents, and for having the only tanning beds in the county. They hated men and all that they stood for. Only their children came to the games, until they grew up and went to college, or got married and became bitter divorcées themselves.

These women were Laverna's kindred spirits, and she did not mind the hour and a half it took to get there. Boyce Falls was surrounded by rivers, and it was a beautiful drive.

Laverna rode with the infield in Diane's Suburban. Thirty miles outside of Quinn, Tabby announced that this would be her last season.

“The thing is,” she said, and then stopped herself. “I don't want to say it in front of Della.”

“Go ahead,” said Della. “After last week's game, nothing could shock me.”

“I'm leaving Dwayne. And I don't want to hear an ‘I told you so.' ”

“You won't,” said Della. “I could only make it work for six months. I have no idea how you made it last as long as you did.”

“There's something else,” said Tabby, turning to Laverna. “I'm moving.”

“Fuck,” said Laverna. “So you're quitting the bar?”

“You can have your shift back. You seem all healed up.”

“You're no doctor,” spit Laverna.

“I met another man,” said Tabby.

“I think love is something worth celebrating!” announced Diane from the driver's seat.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Laverna. “Where are you moving?”

“That's the funny thing,” said Tabby. “Boyce Falls.”

“This is a town of bitter divorcées,” said Laverna. “They are going to burn your house down.”

“We'll keep our happiness a secret,” said Tabby.

“That's always been my personal motto,” declared Martha Man Hands.

Despite Tabby's news, the girls played with precision and grace, and Red Mabel didn't assault anyone in the bleachers.

Diane masterminded the first double play in the history of the Flood Girls. She tagged out a runner at second, and still found the time to throw the runner out at first. The miracles continued when Rachel actually attempted to catch a ball, ran at it, but ran too fast, and missed it entirely. Thankfully, the taller Sinclair was there to scoop it up.

And at bat, Rachel got contact on a slow pitch and bashed the hell out of it. She hit the ball deep into right field, and remembered to run after the entire dugout began screaming at her.

“Run, run, run!” the Flood Girls yelled until Rachel made it all the way to second.

Her other two at bats were total flameouts, but she was showing some spark. Laverna's girls won their second game of the year, seven to six, and this was a game they had actually played, not won by forfeit.

It was nearly one o'clock in the morning when they got back to town, and Laverna demanded that they go to the Dirty Shame to continue the celebration. Nobody dared argue.

Gene Runkle was in rare form, still upright after hours of drinking. He was also celebrating. He finally caught the brown dog, and carried on about his own Moby Dick.

Jim Number Three sat at the bar and stared into his pint glass. Since she had her casts removed, their sex life had become pedestrian. He still came to her house with his book, and they were nearing the end.

Laverna sat down next to him, as the rest of the Flood Girls celebrated all around her.

Jim Number Three had a grim look on his face.

“What?” Laverna ordered a drink from Tish.

“I need to tell you something that you're not going to like,” he said.

“I'm sure I've heard worse,” said Laverna.

“I screwed up,” said Jim Number Three, and then he was crying. Laverna hated when straight men cried. It made her blood boil, and she had seen enough of it as a bartender for a quarter century.

“Just say it,” said Laverna. She was short with him, which made the tears come even harder. Tish looked over, concerned. Laverna rolled her eyes. His tears were making her lose interest in him anyway.

“I slept with another woman,” said Jim Number Three.

“Fucking volunteers,” muttered Laverna. “Should've known.”

“Some widow in Idaho needed track lighting installed. One thing led to another.”

“They always do,” Laverna said, and stood up from her stool. She tried to walk away from him, but he grabbed her arm.

“I don't want to break up,” he said. “It was just a mistake. You're the one I really want.”

“Fuck off,” she said, but he wouldn't let go of her arm.

“I've been building you a robot!” Now he was sobbing.

Laverna spit in his face. “Fuck your robots! Fuck Kunta Kinte!”

Jim Number Three wiped at his cheeks, at the tears and saliva. “I still love you!”

“After your drink, you get the hell out of here. You're eighty-sixed. For good.”

“Please,” he said.

“It's over,” Laverna said, and tore away from his grasp. She walked to the back tables, and they were all silent. They had seen Jim Number Three's tears.

“What did he do?” Red Mabel cracked her knuckles.

“The same thing every man does,” said Laverna. “He's just another disappointment.”

For some reason, Martha Man Hands raised her glass to this, and the Flood Girls toasted one another, and their first real victory of the season.

When Laverna woke the next morning, she was in a strange mood. She was loath to admit that she had fallen, just the tiniest bit, for Jim Number Three. She wanted to know how
Roots
ended, if Kunta Kinte's family tree finally managed to buck their bad luck. She missed Jim Number Three reading to her, attempting to pronounce all the African names. But he had turned out to be a cheater, and a volunteer, and she had officially sworn off both forever.

She needed a reminder.

She found herself driving to Ellis, to the animal control building.

The woman behind the counter tried to stop her, but Laverna just held up a hand and kept walking. She could hear the dogs barking, and it was easy to ascertain which door to open.

In the third kennel, she found him. Laverna did not know her breeds, just knew that this was the brown dog that attempted to take a chunk out of her calf. She always remembered her enemies. This was turning out to be a year of injuries. It figured, because her daughter had come back to town.

Laverna crouched down in front of the kennel, and the brown dog ignored the deafening sounds of all the other imprisoned dogs and stretched leisurely. He took his time approaching the cage door. When he got near, Laverna expected him to growl, for foam to come out of his mouth, for him to lunge at her. Laverna knew that dogs that bit people had to be put down, and wished the same thing applied to human beings. This dog was destined for execution.

The animal control officer entered the room, holding a clipboard. She cleared her throat nervously. She was a mousy woman, uncomfortable in her own body. Laverna detested women who filled the air with their discomfort, their body apologizing for their very existence. They tried so hard to take such little space that they ended up filling every room.

“What?”

“Sorry, Laverna. I can't let you be back here by yourself. Liability.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Reputation,” said the animal control officer. “Good things, I swear.”

At this, Laverna laughed. “Bullshit,” she said. The animal control officer kneeled down, joining Laverna. They both studied the dog.

“He's also got a reputation,” said the animal control officer.

“I know,” confirmed Laverna. “I'm one of his victims.”

But the brown dog didn't even snarl. He didn't bark. His counterparts in their cages threw themselves against the chain link, howling and baying for her attention.

The brown dog peered up at her, with his giant dark eyes. She supposed he was a dachshund mix of some kind. He was a mutt, and he had a history of violence. He definitely belonged in Quinn.

He wagged his tail and sniffed at the cage. Jim Number Three had snuck up and hurt her, and she needed to be reminded how it felt. She wanted the dog to bite her.

She stuck her fingers through the chain link.

“Don't,” said the animal control officer. “We can't afford the liability.”

“I brought my checkbook,” said Laverna. She wiggled her ring finger, and the dog loped up, and licked where the ring would be.

“I think he likes you,” said the animal control officer.

“Goddammit,” said Laverna. The dog rolled on his back, expecting her to rub his stomach.

Laverna stood, swinging her purse violently as she left the room. She was angry. The males of any species were fickle and mysterious creatures.

T
he next day was Sunday, clear and blue, the yard furrowed and spiked. There was a green glow to it, as the grass had just begun poking out. She scattered the seeds out of a coffee can with a lid perforated with a knife, was proud of her work. A few seeds remained on the surface of the soil, un-sprouted. They looked like rice, and reminded Rachel of Krystal's wedding. She had never heard of a wedding on a Wednesday afternoon, figured it was some weird Evangelical thing, or maybe they were hoping Rachel could not get time off from work.

Since Bucky had nothing on his docket, Rachel decided it was the perfect day to put up the new siding. She wanted wood, but Bucky drove her to Ellis and showed her the giant pieces of vinyl, weather-resistant, half the cost, a quarter the labor.

Rachel had her mind set on a house painted the color of Tiffany boxes, that very particular shade of blue, with dark brown trim and overflowing window boxes.

The vinyl siding came in two colors: kind of white, and kind of brown. Rachel thought that the colors were exactly the same as every trailer house in her court, and she was right.

Bucky appeased her by letting her buy eight window boxes, and flats of moss roses at the Ben Franklin. He stood patiently in the paint section, while Rachel had a confusing conversation with the salesman about Tiffany's, and then the color of robin's eggs, and then Audrey Hepburn. Eventually, she found a blue that was close enough. Bucky apologized to the salesman.

“She's very determined,” Bucky said.

“I would choose a different word,” said the salesman, who thought Rachel was out of earshot. She eavesdropped and pretended to study fake flowers. There was a wedding, after all, and Krystal had become so tacky in ten years that she might welcome such an arrangement.

“I hope it's not a swear word,” Bucky said, and puffed up his chest.

“No,” said the salesman. “Picky. That's what I meant.”

“That house is her baby,” said Bucky. “She wants everything to be perfect.”

“What does that have to do with Audrey Hepburn?”

“Dunno,” admitted Bucky. “Sorry.”

The vinyl had to be delivered. A giant flatbed truck followed them back to Quinn, and the driver was kind of cute, just like the vinyl was kind of brown.

It took an hour and a half to slide the sheets off the truck and pile them on the patio.

Putting up the siding required all four of their arms, a ladder, and a sawhorse. After Bucky drilled the first piece into place, they stood back and admired it. It was like a whole new trailer house, at least this section of it.

They were hanging the second piece when the shouting started. It came from Krystal's trailer, and it was definitely Bert.

“Jesus Christ,” said Bucky, drill in hand. “I thought he stopped drinking.”

“Doesn't stop him from being an asshole,” said Rachel.

Bucky screwed in the final corner of the second piece, and the shouting continued, louder this time. The baby started crying, and Rachel listened for Jake but could not hear him. Krystal's car was gone, so Bert had to be yelling at Jake. Bert never yelled at the baby.

A thump and a crash, and Bucky leaped from the ladder and grabbed Rachel before she could run to the gate.

“Stop,” he said. He pointed to Jake's bedroom window. Jake's legs emerged, as he perched on the sill, and pushed himself up to the roof.

Jake's head was covered by the hood of a cowl-neck sweater, three sizes too big for him. He was crying.

“Are you okay?”

“Go away,” he said, in a quiet voice. He buried his face in wool. The sweater hung down to his knees.

“Get him down from there,” commanded Rachel.

“Don't talk to Bert,” said Bucky. “Let me do that.”

“No,” said Rachel. “You're taller. Get Jake off the roof. He's not in his right mind.”