The Flood Girls (20 page)

J
ake found himself awake at three in the morning. This had been happening for a week. He would lie there, still as a corpse, for two hours, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the alarm clock until 5:00 a.m., when he would just give up and put on his headphones.

Jake didn't dare turn on a lamp. When Krystal worked the night shift, he made himself as unobtrusive as possible. He didn't want a lecture about Jesus, so he stayed in his room, in the dark. When he could see the glow of the kitchen light under the door, Jake knew that Bert was distracted with eating breakfast, part of the new righteous routine.

Yesterday, his English teacher had made a remark about the circles under his eyes, said that Jake looked like the mother of a newborn.

While he applied his hair wax, he studied his reflection in the mirror. This morning, he resembled someone who had barely survived being lost in the woods.

He stared in the mirror, and his teacher's remarks made him determined. He opened the cupboard below the sink and fished around for his mother's concealer.

He opened the tiny jar, and ever so carefully, began to dab a bit under his eyes. He made sure to rub it in as much as possible—he knew that he had to make it look natural.

Jake believed that he looked well rested, but just as he was applying a tiny bit more, Bert burst into the bathroom in his typically cloddish way.

Bert made a strange sound, almost a growl. He yanked Jake out of the bathroom and carried him to his bedroom.

Jake lay across his bedspread and listened as Bert yanked the drawer in the kitchen completely free. Jake could hear the clatter of cooking utensils as they spilled out on the linoleum, hear Bert cursing until he found the wooden spoon.

The sting of the spank had dissipated by the time he arrived at school, but his face was splotchy from scrubbing it with a washcloth. He didn't care. His homeroom was taught by a woman who despised him and rarely looked at his face.

Ms. Bray was ostensibly a science teacher, but he had decided she was a complete idiot the first month of school and had stopped paying attention when he realized she lectured directly from the textbook. In October, she had declared war on Jake when she had caught him reading a paperback behind his science book. She couldn't believe that he dared find a paperback more interesting than her lecture. She had ordered Jake to the front of the class to tell his classmates what his book was about, and why it was more important than cellular division.

Jake was flame-faced as he stood there, holding up his copy of
Lady Boss
. He showed the book to the class, careful to cover Jackie Collins's name with one hand.

“I'm currently reading a book entitled
Lady Boss
, and it is about how hard it is for women in the workplace. I think it might also be about capitalism, but I'm not sure.”

He returned to his seat, and she had hated him ever since. He'd had teachers in the past who found his advanced reading skills precocious and worthy of praise. She was not one of them.

After school, Jake walked outside into the new snow that was slowly falling, back and forth like a feather. He knew of other places in America where they had things called snow days. These did not exist in Quinn.

It was only three o'clock, but already the sky outside darkened with the threat of another snowstorm. It took him fifteen minutes to descend the hill and cross the streets to the library, which was irritating, considering a person could walk through the entire town in under ten minutes during the summer. He slogged his way through the snowbanks, perspiring under his hat.

At the library, Peggy Davis pretended to roll the dates on her stamper. Upon closer inspection, her fingers were black with ink, so maybe she wasn't pretending. She didn't like Jake, either. He never turned in a book past the due date, but she remained suspicious, scandalized by his salacious choices in reading materials. Jake combed through the catalogs and filled out the forms to request books from the bigger cities in Montana, but he never got his books. He suspected that she threw away his requests, as if she were embarrassed to obtain Erica Jong's
Fear o
f Flying
from Absarokee, the only library with a copy in the entire state. He hated Peggy Davis because she destroyed Quinn's best chances for a feminist revolution. Plus, she once asked him to leave during a John Birch Society meeting in the back room, even though the library was open. Jake hoped that one day she would be replaced by a young woman with a mysterious past, who wore only black and had an active sex life, just like the librarians in the books he read.

Jake left the library with two Stephen King books, and skidded his way up the snow-packed streets to the Sinclair. He knew that Martha Man Hands was working. One of the Sinclairs mopped the beer aisle. He wasn't sure which one it was. All he could see was a long braid and an even longer jean skirt.

He had written Misty five letters, and bundled them with a rubber band. He had found a half-used box of cream-colored stationery at the thrift store—the paper was thick, and flecked with dots of lavender. Misty would hate it, but Jake didn't care. He asked his mother for stamps and carefully wrote his return address on the envelopes, even though he and Misty grew up in the same trailer court. The doctors at the detention center could be giving Misty electroshock therapy like Frances Farmer, so he didn't want to risk it. He was concerned about the weight of the paper, so he used two stamps for each envelope.

He handed the stack to Martha. As usual, she was preoccupied by the police scanner. It was chimney-fire season, and Martha, like all the other residents of Quinn, listened for her own address.

“You know where the post office is, kid.” She pushed the envelopes back across the counter with her giant hands.

“I don't have an address for her,” he said. “I know we got in some trouble, but I would greatly appreciate it if you could send these to her. She must be lonely.”

“They've called me four times already,” said Martha. “Sounds like she's already running the joint. She lit some girl on fire.”

“That sounds about right,” said Jake.

“I'll send them,” said Martha. “But just this once.”

“Thank you,” said Jake. “Have you been sending her care packages?”

At this, Martha cackled, and when he left the Sinclair, she was still laughing.

L
averna insisted that Red Mabel dress her in layers. Dressed in a pantsuit and a mock turtleneck and a scarf, she was ready to cause chaos among the patrons at the Dirty Shame. It was officially the first day of spring.

Ginger and Martha sat at poker machines, drinking wine coolers.

Laverna waited until Ginger cashed out, and Martha lost whatever she had put in, then gestured to a table with her casts.

Tabby approached the four women at the table, bearing baskets of peanuts.

“I've decided that this is a team meeting,” said Laverna.

“There are only five of us,” pointed out Ginger.

“We're the most important five,” said Laverna. “Your drinks are on the house.”

“I guess that means I'll be right back,” said Tabby, and she returned with more wine coolers and another pint of beer for Red Mabel. Tabby sat backward on a chair and reached over to touch Laverna on the shoulder.

“She's useless,” said Tabby.

“She's worse than Krystal,” said Ginger.

“We don't have any other options,” said Laverna, as Red Mabel lit a cigarette and stuck it in her mouth. She exhaled, and Red Mabel plucked it out and set it in an ashtray. “We are stuck with her.”

“Are you sure?” Ginger took a deep swallow.

“Yes,” said Laverna. “Patty said no, thanks; she's joined a book club. Maggie joined another team, or so she says. Maybe we have a bad reputation.”

“Excellent,” said Red Mabel.

“Can we make Ronda move faster?” Ginger was being serious.

“I pay the lady,” said Laverna. “I can't get her to move fast at her regular job.”

“Why is Rachel so afraid of the ball?” Tabby took a drink out of Ginger's bottle.

“She has a pretty face,” said Martha. “She takes after her mother.”

At this, they all laughed, even Laverna.

“I think she's afraid of life,” said Ginger.

“When did you get so profound?” Laverna asked the question and nodded at Red Mabel for another drag.

“She used to not be afraid of anything,” said Tabby. “I watched her pierce her ear in the middle of algebra class.”

“I remember that,” said Laverna. “She put a goddamn fishing tackle in the hole.”

The door opened, and in came the silver miners, off shift, covered in the powder of vermiculite. The women had somehow captured a baby mountain lion, leashed to a length of clothesline. Laverna did not allow animals at the bar, but she was too intrigued to argue.

“When did she get so scared?” This question came from Red Mabel, of all people. The silver miners took their customary spot beside the jukebox. Tabby excused herself to pour some pitchers.

“Dunno,” said Laverna. “I don't care if she doesn't catch the ball. I just don't want her covering her face like that. The other teams will die of laughter.”

“Take her glove away,” offered Martha.

“Against the rules,” said Red Mabel. Laverna watched as the silver miners fed the mountain lion pieces of beef jerky from their pockets. She watched as the dirtiest silver miner reached into her heavy coat and removed a can of Fancy Feast.

“We need to get her drunk,” said Ginger.

“She doesn't do that anymore,” said Laverna. “Or so she claims.” The lid was removed from the Fancy Feast, and the silver miners whistled when the cat hissed out and swiped a paw at the can, which they kept out of reach.

“Crazy bitches,” said Red Mabel, as they all turned to watch the silver miners and the cub. The tiny mountain lion looked as tough as the silver miners. They were ferocious, desperate, and wild-eyed women. They drank too much, and had too little to do.

“She's sober,” said Laverna. “I think it's a good thing. You all have heard what she's capable of.”

“She fucked the entire volunteer fire department,” said Red Mabel.

“Not all of them,” said Laverna. “That's a lie.” Red Mabel put the cigarette back in Laverna's mouth, as Tabby deposited the pitchers of beer in front of the silver miners, making a wide berth around the mountain lion.

Tabby returned to their table, shaking her head. “They'd better tip extra tonight,” she said.

“Let's find her a man,” said Martha. “Some dude who will help her take the edge off. Somebody to distract her.”

“She has one,” said Red Mabel. “He's a twelve-year-old little pansy.”

“I don't like that word,” said Ginger. “It's not appropriate. They like to be called gay now. I know these things.”

“How?” Red Mabel demanded. “How do you know these things?”

“I can afford cable, you bitch.” Ginger's tone had an edge to it, and Laverna couldn't help but wonder about Ginger's son, who had fled to California after graduation, never married. The silver miners were clapping now, as the cat sat up on her hind paws, balanced on her tail, coiled in a tough little spring.

“Enough,” said Laverna. “Do we know any eligible bachelors?”

“Bucky,” said Martha.

“Bucky,” said Tabby.

“What?” said Bucky, who, unbeknownst to them, had entered the bar, in the sneaky way he always did. Bucky was underage and had an irrational fear the cops would bust him, even though volunteer firemen of any age were always absolved, and he only drank soda anyway. “Can I get a drink?”

“Have a seat,” said Laverna. “Tabby, get him whatever he wants.”

“Diet Coke,” he said.

“Diet Coke?” asked Red Mabel. “What the fuck is happening to this town?”

Bucky sat down next to Laverna. He looked more nervous than usual, surrounded by women who were obviously scheming.