The Flood Girls (35 page)

B
ert and Krystal did not go on a honeymoon. Bert claimed there was no money for it, and Krystal claimed that what they really needed was family time. Jake had dreams of Glacier National Park, and of Bert falling into a fumarole. No such luck. He even considered giving them the rest of his softball money.

When Krystal went to work, Bert and the baby left with Mrs. Foote, to knock on doors and spread the word. Jake knew they used the baby as bait—who would turn away an infant on such a hot summer day?

Jake loaded his Walkman with Roxette, and his pockets with the sketchbook and pens to make a list. He walked through town, and the sugary Swedes in his earphones erased all fears of bullies hiding around street corners, lurking in abandoned trailer houses.

Without the Singer, he sought an audience with the queen.

For the past week, Buley had been teaching him how to embroider. He sat at her feet, and his fingers swelled, poked by a craft as ancient as prostitution, dating back to the fifth century BC. He didn't mind Buley's history lessons. She sent Rocky out for sandwiches, and only acknowledged the broken Singer once, as if she knew the depth and weight of his loss.

He arranged the materials as instructed—a wooden embroidery hoop, tiny scissors, embroidery floss, embroidery needles. Again and again, he practiced with small squares cut from bedsheets, separating the hoops, pulling the fabric tight until Buley was satisfied. For the first three lessons, Jake wrote his name in cursive on each square; cursive a skill he had not utilized in years. Buley watched him as he carefully pulled the needles through, each thread a dot until his name was outlined in thread. He cursed the loop of the
J
and the tiny circles in the
K
, and the long tail of the
Y
of his last name. There was beauty in this, and at last, Buley declared that he was ready to begin work on the T-shirts.

They never made small talk—Buley watched him silently, only shifting slightly in her seat to point out dropped stitches. She saved her words for Rocky, hollering across the store about feeding the cats and refilling the ink of the price gun, even though the numbers were arbitrary.

Jake knew that the lessons were over. He had not wanted to ruin this time in her court, but he could feel the coronation was complete.

“I need to ask you a question,” he said. He could not look Buley in the eye, and tugged at a long piece of embroidery floss a Siamese had appropriated under her throne.

“There are no more questions,” declared Buley. “You've got a knack for this. It's all about practice, at this point.”

“My mom,” said Jake. “I wanted to ask you about my mom.”

“No,” said Buley. “I have nothing to say. Nothing you would want to hear.”

“I respect that,” said Jake.

“ROCKY!” Buley full-throatedly called for her boyfriend, who emerged from the stacks of concentric lampshades. Rocky held the price gun, stickers stuck in the beds of his fingernails.

“Yes,” he said. He attempted to flick the price stickers away, but they remained stuck, no matter how much he shook his hand.

“I need you to have a conversation with your nephew.” Jake watched the ball in his uncle's throat as he swallowed nervously. Buley pointed at the rug next to Jake, and Rocky sat without a word. “Jake has some questions. And if you want meat loaf for dinner, you're going to give him some answers.”

“Yes,” said Rocky once more.

“Um,” said Jake, looking at Buley for permission. She nodded, pulled a twinned pair of silver kittens onto her lap, as if she was the one who was seeking comfort.

“He wants to know about his mother.”

“Krystal,” said Rocky.

“That's the one,” said Buley. She reached for a pack of grape Bubblicious on the counter and threw it at Rocky. He unwrapped two pieces and offered one to Jake, who refused. Rocky filled his mouth—Buley was trying to comfort her boyfriend, as well.

“I just want to know what happened,” said Jake. “I just want to know when she became ashamed of me.”

“Yes,” said Rocky. He chewed his gum, attempted to fold one of the wrappers into a painfully tiny paper airplane.

“Rocky,” commanded Buley. “Talk to him.”

“She did the same to me,” admitted Rocky. He handed the paper airplane to Jake, and the wings were no wider than a match, and the folds shook with his pulse. “My sister is real good at moving on.”

“She never left,” said Buley. “She's still there. You're not.”

“Why did you leave us?” Jake took a deep breath, closed his eyes, waiting for the crush of the answer. A question he had never dared ask.

“Trouble,” said Rocky. “She couldn't stay away from it.”

“I was just a baby,” said Jake. “I don't remember anything.”

“That's why I left,” said Rocky. He remained silent, and began to fold the second gum wrapper. Buley nudged him with her ankle, the silver bells on her skirt tinkling, causing the twinned kittens to peer around nervously.

“Rocky,” said Buley. “He's the only flesh and blood you've got.”

“Didn't want you to remember,” said Rocky. “Couldn't stay there and let her screw you up. Like I said. She did the same to me.”

In his bedroom, Jake unzipped the duffel bag. Four shirts left, and without the Singer, the sewing was tedious, secreted away from the eyes of Rachel or his stepfather. Counting stitches, just as he used to count rosary beads. He bit his tongue in concentration, lost in darting through the embroidery hoop, again and again. Couching. Buley called it couching, this gold work, the thread was silk and expensive, and he could not afford a mistake.

These T-shirts were jersey knit, not meant for such detail, and he tried to remain as calm as possible. One false move, and the cotton would stretch. Jake admired Rachel's rituals of sobriety, and alone in his room, he cultivated his own spirituality. When he embroidered, he lit one candle on his thrift store candelabra, the cheap brass paint flaking off in great chunks, littering his dresser in glittering piles. He lined up the books and magazines on his bedside table, pleased at the culture: the AA books, two curling issues of
Vogue
from 1978, the copy of
Cannery Row
, and last year's
TV Guide
cover of Susan Lucci, ripped and glued in a frame of construction paper. He dressed in satin pajamas, lime in color, and forced himself to ignore the missing buttons. That was a sewing project for another day. He sprayed his quilt with a bottle of Lady Stetson perfume, another thrift store find, the contents stretched with tap water. And he listened to the same song, sometimes for hours, if it was a good night, and he was left alone.

Shyanne had given him the cassette single, and that was another portent of good luck. He had gone to the Sinclair for his mother, as milk was cheaper at the gas station. Shyanne washed all the windows every spring and fall, because Martha Man Hands was sloppy and the Sinclair sisters insisted on using vinegar. Shyanne used Windex, legs so long that a ladder was not necessary. She removed her headphones when she saw Jake.

“Here,” she said, and gave him the cassette straight from her Walkman. “I already have the whole album.” It was true—Ginger could afford ten thousand copies of
The Immaculate Collection
. Krystal flat out refused, thwarting Jake's Christmas list once again.

“Are you sure?” Jake tried to give her the milk money in exchange, but she refused.

“I'm sick of it anyway,” she said, and removed another cassette from her coat pocket. “Garth Brooks,” she announced.

“I'm sorry,” said Jake, and returned home with his new prize.

The cassette single was part of the ritual. “Justify My Love” was exactly four minutes and fifty eight seconds long. The B-side was the Shep Pettibone remix of “Express Yourself,” and clocked in at just over four minutes. He counted stitches, and listened to Madonna, forced himself to rise each time to flip the tape. The breaks were necessary; if he got too caught up, he got sloppy with the needle, and veered outside of the ribbing on the crew neck and sleeves. Embroidery was the work of perfectionists, and Jake the type of boy who had always colored inside the lines. He saved artistic expression for his wardrobe.

Thirty-five minutes passed, time disappeared as magically as the baby blue. Glacially, the embroidery spread, millimeter after millimeter stitched with tiny darts of gold thread.

Jake heard Bert's truck, and leaped to stuff the T-shirt and embroidery hoop under his bed. He plucked the inch-long bits of gold thread that snaked, snagged in his carpet, at least a dollar's worth that he snipped with every new row. He wished he could tie them back together, return them to the spool.

He managed to remove the evidence by the time Bert knocked. He was allowed to close his door now, Bert's wedding present to his new stepson. He still entered without being asked inside. Jake stopped the cassette as Bert crossed the threshold. Jake sat down on the bed, surrounded himself with the quilt.

His stepfather looked around the room, suspicious as always. The candelabra was still lit, the only sign of possible homosexual activity. Maybe not.

“Smells like a rodeo whore,” said Bert. “Excuse my language.”

“Stetson,” said Jake. “Aftershave.” Jake was nowhere near shaving, but Bert said nothing. At least it wasn't concealer. For the first time ever, Bert sat down on Jake's bed.

“I want to make things right,” said Bert. He made eye contact with Jake, and his gaze wasn't glazed by booze, framed with bloodshot. He cleared his throat and continued. “I want to say sorry for hitting you and for ruining your sewing machine.”

“So you want to make amends?” Jake looked away. He still did not trust Bert, and probably never would. This seemed like his mother's doing.

“Yes, I do.”

Jake took a deep breath. The power dynamic had shifted, and he was going to take full advantage. He resumed eye contact with his stepfather. “Lately, I've become sort of an expert on these things.” Jake pointed at the AA book on his nightstand. “I've learned that just saying sorry isn't enough.”

“What the heck do you want me to do, kid?” Bert stood up and crossed his arms, frustrated. “All I can do is say sorry.”

“Amends means trying harder, and living better.” Jake's voice quivered at first, and then grew more certain, as he continued. “Amends is something you demonstrate.”

“What do you want?” Bert sighed and uncrossed his arms.

“I want you to build me a shoe rack,” said Jake.

W
hen Bucky and Black Mabel arrived to do the last of the work on the trailer, Jake came out to help. Rachel was nervous—it seemed improbable that this trailer house could survive being lifted without splintering into pieces.

Bucky drove a giant flatbed, loaded with cinder blocks. Rachel and Jake carried one at a time through the gate, Bucky and Black Mabel carried two each. When the truck was unloaded, Bucky went to the dump for yet another load, and when he returned, they resumed in earnest. Rachel couldn't help but watch Bucky's back, straining with the load, surprisingly muscular.

She watched as he placed the jacks under the listing north end of Rachel's house, saw Black Mabel disappear underneath to begin stacking the cinder blocks. Eventually, Rachel gathered enough bravery to bring Black Mabel more, despite the spiders and centipedes that skittered around the pieces of skirting that had been unscrewed, propped up in the yard. Jake refused to go under the trailer house, because of his outfit, and because of his fear of the pale insects.

Despite the heat, Black Mabel kept her long leather jacket on, and Rachel was amazed that she didn't sweat. Bucky was drenched. They kept at it until all of the cinder blocks were in place, Bucky working from the edges, until he finally reached Black Mabel, pinned beneath the pipes underneath the bathroom.

Finally, one-third of the house rested on cinder blocks, and Bucky removed the jacks.

Rachel and Jake helped them screw the skirting back into place, but Bucky and Black Mabel refused the twenty dollars that Rachel pulled from her pocket.

There was work to be done, finishing touches. They had grown to love this house.

They painted the kitchen cabinets. She had allowed Jake to pick out the colors, and he had chosen a butterscotch yellow. The linoleum on the counters had been replaced with a dark brown tile, and he was adamant that the colors worked perfectly together.

Rachel removed all the cabinet doors and placed them on sheets of newspaper on the kitchen floor. Jake unscrewed all of the knobs carefully, and he painted the doors while Rachel painted the faceless cupboards.

“I hope you're going to line those shelves,” he said.

“Of course,” said Rachel. “I suppose you want to pick out the shelf paper.”

“I trust you,” said Jake.

“You never told me what you thought about
Cannery Row
,” said Rachel as she stood on her tiptoes and dabbed at a corner of the cabinetry.