“No more volunteers,” said Laverna, and fired again. The gunshot echoed across the river, and then there was silence, save for the sound of applesauce righting itself, lids sealing themselves shut, the sound of settling.
Feathers
Jake dressed with purpose that morning, had to root through the storage shed to find certain pieces. He decided upon boot-cut black slacks, a crisp white shirt, a black vest with a barely perceptible white pinstripe, black boots, and a black beret. Finally, he was satisfied. This is what a designer would wear.
Misty’s bike still leaned against Martha’s trailer, and Jake borrowed it for his mission today. He was going to need speed as he went looking for Bucky. It was a Friday morning, and he had almost finished Rachel’s house, so Bucky could be anywhere.
Jake cruised around the streets of Quinn, past the sprinklers, a Kool-Aid stand, trucks still parked at the bars from the night before.
He found Bucky drinking coffee outside of the hardware store with Della Dempsey. She rolled her eyes at his outfit, stomped out her cigarette.
“I need to talk to you,” he said to Bucky.
“You’re freaking me out,” said Della. “Are you supposed to be dressed like a French person?”
“This involves both of you, actually,” said Jake. He got off his bike and stood in front of Bucky, digging in his pocket for the envelope.
He passed it to Bucky, who whistled when he removed the five hundred dollars.
“We’re building a float,” said Jake. “Or rather, you’re building the float, and I’m decorating it.”
“Sounds about right,” said Della.
“You get to keep whatever we don’t spend on materials.” He pointed at the hardware store. “That’s where you come in,” he said to Della. “Laverna expects a discount.”
“She always does,” said Della.
In the hardware store, Jake started pointing at things: rolls of chicken wire, two-by-fours, wire coat hangers, ten white bedsheets.
“Does Laverna want us to dress like the Klan?” asked Della.
“No,” said Jake. “This is my vision. And we already have a white supremacist float.”
Jake conferred with Bucky about nails and screws. He filled his basket with cans of baby-blue and gold spray paint.
Della was at the cash register, chewing her gum, which seemed to be a job on its own.
The total was under one hundred dollars, and Bucky loaded the purchases. Jake demanded they drive to Ellis. He threw Misty’s bike in the back of Bucky’s truck.
On the drive, Bucky wanted to talk about Rachel. “Is she done making her amends yet?”
“You’re not supposed to know about that,” said Jake.
“I’m just trying to be supportive,” said Bucky. “Is she leaving soon?”
“Do you know any harpists?”
“No,” said Bucky. “What does that have to do with Rachel?”
“Nothing,” said Jake.
“She’s really something,” continued Bucky. “Does she ever talk about me?”
“Out of your league,” said Jake, not caring if he sounded cruel. “Don’t even think about it.”
At the Ben Franklin, Jake filled shopping carts with rolls of fiberglass and eighty packages of white napkins; even though it was picnic season, the manager had to bring more from the storehouse.
At the fabric store, Jake bought feathers, fifteen yards of gauzy netting, five yards of white chiffon, a case of silver glitter, and cotton batting for pillows. Bucky seemed slightly embarrassed when Jake emerged from the aisle with armfuls of white feathers.
After Jake paid, there was still two hundred and fifty dollars left.
“That’s for you,” said Jake.
“Sweet,” said Bucky.
“But you have to do exactly what I tell you.”
“You’re enjoying this too much, kid.”
Laverna had cashed in yet another debt, and an old flatbed truck from the lumber mill was parked in Diane’s garage. It was a huge space, large enough to park three cars, and Bucky could not stop wondering aloud why a single woman needed such a large industrial space.
“Sex dungeon,” said Red Mabel, who was waiting for them, along with Ginger, Shyanne, Rachel, Della, and Martha Man Hands. Ronda was cooking lunch at the Dirty Shame, and Diane was teaching summer school. The Sinclairs were tending to the gas station. Ginger told Rachel that she had to pay the Sinclairs each twenty dollars to ride on the float. Apparently, their new congregation did not celebrate Independence Day.
Jake unveiled his sketches and his design plan. The Flood Girls agreed unanimously that this was a secret worth keeping.
Bucky framed out the flatbed with two-by-fours. As each section went up, Red Mabel and Rachel wrestled the chicken wire flat, and Ginger attached the pieces to the two-by-fours with the staple gun.
Jake and Shyanne followed behind, stuffing the chicken wire, each hole threaded through with a paper napkin. When the framing was done, and all the chicken wire hung, they sat down on Diane’s cold cement floor. They stuffed themselves when Laverna arrived with greasy boxes of fried chicken and french fries.
Jake approached Red Mabel and took her off to the side. She licked the grease from her fingers, as he asked her to begin a special project of her own.
“You’re the best with a knife,” he said, which she could not deny. “This is like whittling, but not pointless.” Jake found wire on one of Diane’s shelves, and Red Mabel began her assignment.
Eight hours later, the entire frame was stuffed with white napkins. Bucky had built a wall behind the cab of the trailer, had given it the illusion of a curve, with some crafty work with the remaining two by fours and a handsaw.
Diane arrived later with cases and cases of beer, and pop for those underage or sober. Work was stopped for the day; once again, the Flood Girls had something to celebrate.
Before he left, Red Mabel grabbed Jake with her strong arms, and kissed him on the forehead.
* * *
Three months, and Jake had become intimate with the Singer. He grew to love the hum as he stitched. He studied the book and consulted the machine’s instruction manual when he was perplexed. He talked to the machine, and Rachel didn’t think it was strange; she left him alone in the sewing corner. Jake and the Singer produced slowly, but he was determined to master the detail work. So far, he had made four potholders, a skirt for Rachel, and two shirts for himself.
Jake found all his material at the thrift store. In the ottoman, Buley hoarded thread for him, half spools in every color. She set aside a seam ripper, and a pincushion. The pincushion was a turtle, and shone with pins that stuck in the felt shell. Jake and Buley could not believe people were willing to part with such things.
Jake discovered a bolt of cotton fabric, sturdy but sheer, the color of the night sky, a dark blue that was almost black. Perfect for curtains, an easy project, which he was thankful for.
Last week, Jake had to admit defeat and call Diane for help with the shirts. Diane spent an hour at Rachel’s house, helping him stitch the buttonholes, lining them up exactly, showing him what he had been doing incorrectly and passing on a few tricks of her own. Diane also attempted to set Rachel up with one of her exes, but she declined as gracefully as possible.
“I’m not ready to date yet,” said Rachel. “But I appreciate the offer.”
“He’s a catch,” said Diane. “He’s been married twice, but one ran away and one died in a freak accident. Crock-Pot explosion. Can you even imagine?”
“I can,” said Rachel. “But no, thanks.”
Jake was curious. “If he’s such a catch, why aren’t you still with him?”
Diane pointed at the stitching on the hem of Jake’s seafoam-green shirt. “Sloppy,” she said. “I’m not ready to settle down, I guess. I’m not the type of woman who makes things in Crock-Pots.”
“How did . . .” Jake began to ask for the sordid details.
Diane stopped him with one hand. “She was
making a stew. That’s all I know.”
Jake diligently worked on the hem of the second panel of curtains. His family was on a church trip, some sort of pilgrimage, or maybe a picnic, in Boyce Falls. Rachel watched, as she sat on the couch and drank tea.
Jake sewed determinedly, humming to himself, occasionally sweet-talking the machine. Rachel eased herself from the couch and dug through a toolbox beneath the stereo.
“Ha,” she said. Jake did not look up, could hear the squeal of the cassette as it rewound.
Rachel pushed play, and stood in front of the Singer. “Fleetwood Mac,” she announced. “I want to know what you think.”
He did not know why she was staring at him, why his opinion was so important. The music was enjoyable enough, but she was looking at him like she expected him to come unglued.
“Pleasant,” Jake said, and resumed pumping the foot pedal, zipping along the hem.
“Your mother used to love this album,” said Rachel. She returned to the couch, arranged pillows under her legs. Jake could tell she was stiff and sore.
He watched her grimace, as she elevated her right leg on the arm of the couch. This kind of pain was undoubtedly new to her. He removed his foot from the pedal. “Did you ever hurt yourself when you drank? Bert broke his nose once. It was kind of awesome. He fell down our steps and landed on a sprinkler.”
“I broke a rib once,” she said. “But you should have seen the other girl.”
“Did you make amends to her?” Jake had been working his way through the Al-Anon and AA literature. At first, he wanted to help Rachel stay sober, but selfishly, he now wanted her to stay in Quinn.
“I did,” she said. “I found her last year at a strip club. She didn’t even remember me.”
“Who could ever forget you?” Jake slid the material through the darting needle.
“Most of the people I made amends to already forgot about me, or didn’t remember it at all.”
“But you did the work,” said Jake. “That’s the important thing.”
“I think the worst was having to go in front of the entire tribal council in Pablo. I had to make amends to the twenty most important Indians. Apparently, I ruined one of their powwows. I thought I was a jingle dancer.”
“Jesus,” said Jake.
“Athena made sure that I never said sorry. That wasn’t enough. I had to promise that I was doing the work to change, and that it wouldn’t ever happen again.”
“And now you’re a different person,” said Jake. “You’re better for it.”
“I’ll always be an alcoholic,” said Rachel.
“And I’ll always be a hillbilly,” said Jake. “We all have our crosses to bear.” He finished the hem with a flourish.
“I don’t know any hillbillies who can stitch together a miniskirt out of carpet samples.”
“Good point,” said Jake. The miniskirt turned out perfectly, and fit Rachel even better than he had hoped. She claimed that her tips doubled when she wore it to work.
Bucky installed a doorbell without being asked, and when it rang, Jake and Rachel were both startled.
“Come in,” hollered Rachel.
The door opened, and it was the last person Jake had expected to see.
Bert stepped into the living room, carrying a package from UPS.
“This is yours,” he said to Rachel, but his eyes laser focused on Jake. “I signed for it.”
Rachel jumped up and crossed in front of Bert, tried to block his view. She took the package from Bert’s hands. “I ordered some workout videos!” Bert continued to stare, as Rachel yammered. “Still trying to get rid of this beer belly!”
Bert pushed past her and marched to the corner.
Jake took his hands off the sewing machine, and leaned back in the chair. The album continued to play, and all Jake could hear was the refrain. Never going back again.
“Is that yours?” Bert pointed at the machine, at Jake’s vintage Singer.
For the first time, Jake did not want to lie, or make any excuses. He stood up from the chair, and in front of the machine.
“Yes, Bert. It’s mine.”
Bert yanked the power cord from the wall, picked up the machine, and rushed toward the door. The foot pedals and cords drug behind him, as well as the curtain panel that was still stuck in the machine.
Jake and Rachel ran after him. They watched as he threw the sewing machine over the fence, heaved it with all his strength. Jake could hear it land, crack, and he knew it had broken into pieces.
Bert stomped up the shale path. They stood in the newly installed light of Rachel’s front porch and heard him swearing as he crossed the driveway. Inside the house, the music continued, as if nothing had happened.
The curtain had been made from several yards of fabric, and the material snagged on the top of Rachel’s fence, as it launched through the air.
They both watched the fabric, as it danced, moving slightly in the breeze.
The Flood Girls versus Eunice Volunteer Dispatch
At the Dirty Shame, Winsome insisted on taking Rachel out to dinner. When she pointed out the lack of restaurants, and the gossip dining in Quinn would create, Winsome was undeterred.
“No chance,” she said. The unspoken rule in AA was to wait a year before having sex, or making any major changes. She had received permission from the Chief. She could not think of anyone in Quinn who was mildly attractive, and it wasn’t worth the gas money to travel for a one-night stand in Missoula.
“I won’t drink around you,” he said. “And I’ve got a hot tub.” Rachel ignored this, continued to busy herself with slicing lemons, but her mind was caught in a familiar place. It was bargaining mode. She remembered the last two years of drinking, sitting in front of the gas station in Missoula, leaving it up to the radio station to decide if she would buy beer. If it was a song she liked, she would drink that night. Unfortunately for Rachel, at that point, she could rationalize almost anything. She would hear Michael Bolton, and decide that she had liked him all along.
“One night,” said Rachel. She had earned sex, had worked hard for it, and Winsome was the only single man around these parts with a human head.
Rachel drove to Winsome’s house when her shift was over. He had only one swimsuit in his house for a woman, despite the many he had entertained over the years, and it was much too large, would have fit Buley. As promised, he behaved like a gentleman, and he stayed sober. She was not breaking the rules, or sidestepping them. This was biology.
She stayed for hours. The hot tub was contained in the backyard, beneath an octagonal gazebo and shielded by aspen trees. She stayed until she could see the stars.
They both got what they wanted. This was her first sober sex, and her feet were rough and her legs stubbly, but none of that mattered. She deserved the release, and he deserved a woman who would not steal his stereo.
* * *
The next game was in Quinn, and Laverna scheduled extra practices. Rachel was determined. Sometimes only four of the Flood Girls would show, but Rachel was always there. This was their rescheduled matchup with Eunice Volunteer Dispatch, and this time, in the last week of June, there was no snow. Rachel sweated in her black T-shirt, emblazoned with a giant smoking pistol, and ripped-up jean shorts. She was going to have to buy a sports bra. Even with the underwire, the lacy black bra from Victoria’s Secret was completely impractical, and her sweat combining with the lace made her itchy.
The Eunice Volunteer Dispatch wore black shirts, the backs a white outline of a police scanner. Rachel knew from her own experience that black was impractical, hoped they were sweating just as much as she.
Rachel warmed up in the infield, played catch with Martha, attempted to throw the ball as hard as she could, as Martha crouched down in her gear. Rachel knew that Ginger’s pitches were lobs, really, but she wanted to show the people in the bleachers that her arm was getting stronger.
Martha was impressed. She stood up and approached Rachel, the ball in her hand.
>
“You’re getting some heat on those,” said Martha.
“Thank you,” said Rachel. “I’ve been practicing extra with the Chief.”
“I can tell,” said Martha. “Look, there’s something that I need to say. It’s kind of a secret, and I feel really bad about it.”
“Okay,” Rachel said, and stepped closer to Martha. Rachel was certain it had something to do with lesbianism.
“It’s about your friend.” Martha used her thumb to discreetly point at Jake, who was sitting in the bleachers, scorebook carefully prepared as always. Winsome sat next to him, eating popcorn, sober.
“What is it?”
“He gave me some letters awhile back,” said Martha. “For my daughter, Misty.”
“And?”
“Well, he and Misty got into a lot of trouble together.”
“I’ve heard,” said Rachel.
“I never sent them,” admitted Martha. “I guess I was angry. I suppose Jake has been wondering why she hasn’t written back.”
“He hasn’t said anything,” said Rachel.
“I threw them away,” said Martha. “I just wanted somebody to know. Please don’t tell him.”
“That’s really fucked-up,” said Rachel. “You need to tell him.” Martha had an ashamed look on her face as she walked back and crouched down, ready for more catches.
Several of the girls from Eunice Volunteer Dispatch were related to Della. The pitcher and first base were Della’s sisters. The entire Dempsey clan was in the bleachers, and none of them had eyebrows. Jake sat in the front row, surrounded by the seven dwarfs. They had attended every home game, and offered up advice after every AA meeting. Keep your eye on the ball, wait for your pitch, running forward to catch a pop fly was much easier than running backward. Rachel couldn’t help but think these suggestions were also metaphors for sobriety.
The rest of the bleachers were filled with faces that had become familiar, the people of the town. Rachel was thankful Shyanne was here to keep her out of the batter’s box.
The Flood Girls Page 24
