The Flood Girls (16 page)

At nine o'clock in walked Mrs. Matthis, who had once been the judge's wife. Her first name was Erlene, but Rachel addressed her formally, as did everyone else in town. The judge died ten years prior, pneumonia that he just couldn't shake, a bad rasp that turned into a death rattle. After he died, Mrs. Matthis immediately took to drinking, as if she had always been waiting for the opportunity, determinedly, a little desperate, vodka and tomato juice every half an hour. She always kept her composure, and left before the lunch crowd. Mrs. Matthis sat far away from Gene Runkle—she did not engage in his rumormongering. Every day, Mrs. Matthis worked a book of crossword puzzles, sold at the Sinclair, new at the end of every month. She never asked for help with answers but was obviously not certain, for she used a pencil and brought her own pink eraser and pencil sharpener. She left the curls of shavings in neat piles around her purse. When Mrs. Matthis sharpened her pencils, it sounded like the scratchy chirp of crickets. Mrs. Matthis was the puffy kind of drunk, swollen hands and face, cheeks chapped red, pink hands clutching at the pencil so hard her joints turned white. Despite this, she erased carefully, almost daintily. The crossword puzzle books were cheap and the paper tore easily. She erased often, and Rachel suspected the boxes were filled with gibberish. Mrs. Matthis's mind was obviously pickled, and there was no way she could recall the largest of the great lakes, or the famous college football coach from Alabama.

Winsome Shankley walked into the Dirty Shame for his red beer at ten o'clock. She knew him from high school, the bad boy, the kid with money and the only new car in the parking lot. His parents moved to Quinn from California, determined to keep Winsome out of trouble. He owned the Booze and Bait, a bait shop and liquor store, and he kept dilettante hours, just afternoons, and sometimes, not at all. He was still cute enough, with the same floppy brown hair and the same sad eyes. He was handsome, because he didn't look like a local. He had originated from a completely different gene pool. Not that Winsome didn't do his best to share his DNA with the women in Quinn, and the surrounding county.

This was her morning routine. Today was Thursday, and at ten o'clock she poured Winsome's beer, and waited. Winsome was already half-lit when he walked through the door. She could tell he was drunk because he was grinding his teeth, something he unconsciously did after his fourth or fifth drink. Every drunk had a tell like a bad poker player.

“Fuck,” Winsome said, and rubbed his eyes as he staggered before her. Gene Runkle kicked a stool toward him, and Mrs. Matthis bent over her crossword, her tongue poking out as she concentrated.

“Fuck is right,” said Gene Runkle.

“I saw your mom outside,” said Winsome to Rachel. “She's peeking through the window right now.”

Rachel turned her head, and sure enough, saw the flash, the white of the casts. She expected Laverna to barge through the door, but nothing happened. Her mother was a terrible spy, had always left the espionage to Red Mabel.

“I bagged some broad from Ellis last night,” said Winsome. “When I woke up, she was gone. So was my stereo.”

“Lesson learned,” said Rachel. “Shop local.”

“She wasn't even that cute,” said Winsome. “And I can't file a police report. I don't know her name, and I can't remember what she looks like.”

“All those Ellis girls look the same,” Rachel said, and poured Winsome a beer and a tomato juice. The girls in Ellis had mean mouths and clumpy mascara, big Swedish noses and extensive scrunchie collections. Flannel shirts tied in knots right below their breasts, tight jeans so new and stiff they resembled deep vein thrombosis. The girls in Ellis all wanted to be blond, but none had discovered toner, and as a result, they were easily distinguishable by the orange in their ravaged hair, corralled by the scrunchies manufactured by the hundreds in their home economics class.

He slid a five-dollar bill across the bar.

As if she could smell the money from outside, Laverna decided to make her entrance.

“Winsome!” Her mother stood in the doorway, the snow swirling around her feet and onto the floor. Red Mabel held the door for her. The casts made Rachel think of the zombie dance from Michael Jackson's “Thriller.” Laverna's hands hung out in front of her, as if she were permanently waiting for her nails to dry.

“Fuck,” said Winsome, once more.

Laverna and Red Mabel took the stools on either side of Winsome. Her mother sniffed at the air. “Jesus, Rachel. It smells like a high school girl in here.”

“I put potpourri on every table,” said Rachel. “Ambience.” She was proud of the little dishes, filled with pine needles and cinnamon sticks and dried lavender.

“It looks like witchcraft,” declared Laverna. “Give me a cigarette.”

Red Mabel stuck a lit cigarette in her mother's mouth, her beefy arm knocking against Winsome's beer. It sloshed over the brim. Rachel grabbed his pint glass and wiped underneath it.

Laverna was squinting. Smoke drifted directly into her eyes.

“Where's that war whoop?”

“Ronda doesn't come in for another hour,” said Rachel. “You know that. Can I get you ladies some coffee?”

“We were just stopping by,” said Laverna. “I'm still on vacation.”

“Sure,” said Rachel.

“Your mama has never taken a vacation in all the years I've known her,” said Red Mabel. “She's earned it.”

“Spying isn't much of a vacation,” said Rachel. Winsome hunched and cowered over his beer, as if Red Mabel was going to smack him at any minute.

“Don't worry,” said Laverna. “We've got other places to be.” She stood up stiffly—the cigarette still perched in place. She gave Rachel a long, hard look. “I'll be stopping by, from time to time. Nice to see you, Winsome. Hands off my daughter.”

“Okay,” said Winsome.

Laverna and Red Mabel slunk out the door, and Rachel exhaled. She poured herself another cup of coffee, and listened to Winsome grinding his teeth.

When she got home, it was already dark.

Bucky's truck was not in her driveway, neither was the special truck the Chief drove.

She was nervous when she stepped inside her house. The living room carpet had been pulled, and the floor was a patchwork of old and new lumber. Bucky had fixed the soft spots. Her thoughts drifted to what color of carpet she should choose, until she remembered the bathroom.

Tears came when she saw the bathtub, exactly where a bathtub should be. The fixtures gleamed, and a leftover Christmas bow was scotch-taped to the new faucet. A bottle of cheap bubble bath rested on the seat of the toilet. Krystal had somehow succeeded in hiding this expense from Bert.

Rachel said a prayer of gratitude and stripped off her clothes.

She sunk into the hot water and considered her life, shampooed her hair two times. She drained the tub and filled it again, sat in the water for another twenty minutes, until it became lukewarm.

There was still work to be done in the bathroom—molding, a new shower curtain, a vanity, new tile. But that would happen eventually. Time takes time, as Athena was fond of saying.

On the front porch, she smoked a cigarette. Her hair began to freeze in little chunks.

She could hear the engines of four-wheelers on the street outside, dads pulling their children behind them, sleds tied on lengths of rope.
This was how you survived the winter in Quinn, thought Rachel. Sometimes you had to let other people pull you.

L
averna wore her new dress, and proudly. She felt foxy for a thirty-six year old. Love had caused her to gain fifteen pounds, in all the right places. The dress clung to her; she ordered it from the JCPenney's catalog, and it was the color of nectarines. She navigated the throngs in the fire hall, one hand clutching the hem of the rayon wrap dress. The volunteer firemen plugged in fans that year, and the room was gusty, in addition to the usual drafts from the barrels of fire. She stomped across the cement in spike-heeled sandals, swiped from her daughter's closet. She didn't know why she cared about making such an entrance. Laverna Flood had a man.

Red Mabel waved at her, and Laverna groaned when she noticed that Gene Runkle nuzzled at her best friend's neck. She was sure Red Mabel dated him out of spite, jealous that Laverna's attentions had been diverted by a younger man. At the bar, Gene Runkle had confessed that Red Mabel was a cold fish, and only allowed affection when others were watching.

Laverna pumped the keg and filled her plastic cup, as Red Mabel pushed away Gene. She grabbed Laverna with one hand, and steered her against the wall, and began describing her mink traps in excruciating detail.

“There's no mink in Quinn,” said Laverna. “I asked around.”

“Bullshit,” said Red Mabel. “I know these woods better than anybody else.” Red Mabel pointed across the room. Ginger Fitchett wore her mink, and Laverna watched as a fireman helped ease it from her shoulders. Ginger was a free woman, shedding her husband like another coat. Laverna knew her daughter was involved somehow; the divorce lawyers in the county should pay for Rachel's college. Underneath, Ginger was wearing a rayon wrap dress.

“Goddammit,” said Laverna. Ginger's dress looked nothing like Laverna's—it was clearly not from JCPenney, and it was bright white. It was probably a real Diane von Furstenberg. Laverna had lived in Quinn long enough to grow bored with jealousy, competition. There was nothing she wanted. The women in this town needed something to do with their time. The men of Quinn had once been a sport, but Rachel had changed the rules, and the game wasn't fun anymore.

Laverna spent enough time worrying about her daughter. She no longer had the energy to break a sixteen year-old vegetarian anarchist with a reputation around town, a reputation that changed depending on the particular bar patron: Rachel worshipped the devil. Rachel slept with an entire punk rock band. Rachel broke up six marriages. As long as the patrons paid for their booze, Laverna would pretend to be interested. Being Rachel's mother was another full-time job, and Laverna had resigned as soon as she got a man. Laverna was in love for the very first time in her life. Frank had been something, someone, to possess. She stopped watching her figure, watching the clock on the wall of the Dirty Shame. Laverna Flood had surrendered.

Billy Petersen was new in town, a cousin to all of the Petersens of Quinn. Somehow, they had relations in Georgia, and one came looking for work. Billy was bearded, dirty, and a little desperate in the eyes. Like every logger, he was covered in sawdust and his hands were filthy with sap. She had met him at the bar, of course. Laverna flirted with him because he did not look like the other Petersens. He did not look like an Applehaus, or a Pierce, or a Russell, or a Fitchett. He was his own singular creation, twenty-four years old, and cocky. He was the only man in Quinn who wore a necklace, puka shells. He liked red beer, and Laverna served him until he had to be carried out the door by the other members of his logging company.

He came back the next night, sober, still covered in sawdust.

“Well, hello there,” she said, and immediately slid a red beer in front of him. He winked, and downed it in one gulp.

“Been thinking about you,” said Billy.

Laverna was currently reading the only book on astrology the public library owned, and she had been careful to keep it hidden from view of her daughter, the possible devil worshipper.

“What's your sign?”

“Virgo,” he said. She studied him carefully.

“You're pretty unkempt for a Virgo.”

“I'm on the Leo cusp.” He had a crooked little smile.

“Do you have any plans on volunteering for the fire department?”

“No, ma'am. I'm scared of fires.”

“Good,” said Laverna. “I don't date them.” She leaned in closer. “Tell me, Billy. Where the hell did you learn how to use a chain saw in Georgia?”

“Horror movies,” he said, and winked again. He moved in a month later, much to Red Mabel's chagrin. He brought his beloved Husqvarna chain saw and an extra pair of boots. He had nine yellowed T-shirts, three pairs of jeans, suspenders printed with cartoon drawings of marijuana plants, disintegrating socks, and a copy of
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
. He wore no underwear, claimed that all men from the South did the same. She warned him constantly about getting too attached, of making promises he could not keep.

“Be careful with me,” she said, so often that it finally became a joke between them. Laverna Flood was unbreakable, but in this case needed to be held with both hands.

He loved to fish, and Laverna would accompany him, pretend she did not know how to bait a hook. She was only interested in snaring Billy. Laverna's freezer grew full of his dowry. Laverna wrapped his gifts in freezer paper, found a marker and scrawled the date, his name, and a heart, because she couldn't help herself.