The Flood Girls (31 page)

“Neither are you,” said Bucky. “You don't know what Bert is capable of.”

“That,” said Rachel, pointing at Jake, curled up into a ball, sobbing.

Rachel jumped up Krystal's steps and let loose on the door.

Bert opened it and stared at her silently.

“Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

“Yes,” said Bert. “I do.” He moved to shut the door, but Rachel put her foot in the way.

“What's wrong with Jake?”

“Everything,” said Bert, not red-faced or sweating, strange for a man who had just been shouting at top volume. Behind him, the baby was crying.

“I'm not leaving until you tell me what you did,” said Rachel.

“He's the one that did something. And you don't have any right to talk. I know all about . . .” He stopped himself. “You're not a good person.”

“I'm calling Krystal,” she said.

“I already did.”

“You can't yell at him like that.”

“You need to get off my porch. Right now. I've got a baby who's crying, and I don't give a fig what you think.”

“Did you hit him?”

“Lady, if you don't get off my front porch, I'm gonna go get my shotgun, and maybe that will make you shut the fuck up.” Now his face was red. “Sorry for swearing.”

“I'm calling the cops.”

“Go ahead,” said Bert. “Get gone.”

Rachel stepped backward as Bert slammed the door in her face.

Rachel ran around the trailer, just in time to see Jake sliding into Bucky's hands. She stopped when she saw Bucky pull the boy close, Jake still sobbing, Bucky holding him as if he weighed nothing. Jake was small for his age, but Bucky had volunteer fireman muscles.

He carried Jake into the house, and Rachel picked up the phone as Bucky deposited him onto the couch.

Rachel called the volunteer dispatcher.

“Quinn Dispatch. What's your emergency?” Rachel didn't recognize the woman's voice, but she recognized the disinterest. It was an epidemic in this town. Laverna was right about volunteers.

“I need the police. A child has been abused.”

“Is this Rachel Flood?”

“Jesus,” said Rachel. “Yes. Can you please send somebody? Do you need my address?”

“We all know where you live,” said the woman.

“That's fucking creepy,” said Rachel. “Send them now, please.”

Twenty minutes later, the police had not arrived. Bucky sat down next to Jake, who leaned into him. Bucky had his eyes closed, and tapped his foot nervously.

Jake stopped crying and pulled the sweater back. One eye was swollen shut.

Bucky swore and stood. He paced, eventually standing in front of the window. He pulled back the curtain.

“The cops just got here,” he reported. “And Reverend Foote.”

“Why didn't we hear sirens?”

“I don't know,” said Bucky. “I'll go find out.”

“Please,” said Rachel.

Rachel retrieved ice from the freezer, and wrapped it in a washcloth.

They sat there in silence, Jake holding the ice to his eye. Rachel listened to car doors opening and car doors closing. Another car arrived. Rachel could tell from the brakes that it was Krystal's.

Jake started talking then. Bert confronted him, had ordered his stepson not to hang around Rachel, but Jake had not listened. Bert had proof that it was not the first time. He spied the day they planted flowers, and that night, he watched them dance in her living room. Jake admitted this, and admitted he had been coming over more often than that. Jake had the nerve to quote from the Bible: “But who are you to judge your neighbor?” To make matters worse, Jake recited the chapter and verse, James 4:12.

That was when Bert smacked him.

Krystal opened the door without knocking. Her eyes were dry, but her face was white, her lips set in a tight line.

Krystal sat down on the couch, and pulled Jake to her.

“Why are you wearing my sweater?” Krystal asked him this quietly, and examined his eye, while she waited for his answer. Rachel stood in front of them, arms crossed, holding her tongue. Finally, she could take it no longer.

“Where are the cops? I want to make a report.”

“I sent them away,” said Krystal.

“Bert threatened to shoot me,” said Rachel. “I'm going to call them back.”

“Please don't,” said Krystal.

“Don't you even tell me that you're worried about your fucking wedding,” said Rachel.

“No,” said Krystal. “Right now, I'm worried about Jake.”

“We've known each other for fifteen years,” said Rachel. “I can still tell when you're scared. And I can definitely still tell when you're lying.”

“I'm fine,” said Jake.

“This is fucking ridiculous!” Rachel grabbed the washcloth from Krystal's hand.

“Bert is sorry,” Krystal said, and hugged Jake again. “He's very, very sorry, and he's going to make it up to you.”

“You always say that,” muttered Jake.

Krystal turned to Rachel, pleading. “I'm not a bad mother.”

“I didn't say that,” said Rachel. “You were the most loyal friend I ever had. Why can't you be loyal to your own son?”

“I am,” said Krystal huffily.

“Then take his side for once,” said Rachel. “He comes here because he doesn't feel safe.”

“Our home is safe,” said Krystal. “Jake likes to be dramatic.”

“Bert hit him,” said Rachel. “Did you leave your baby with that dirtbag?”

“Mrs. Foote has the baby, and the reverend took Bert for a drive.” Krystal smoothed Jake's hair. “Bert's not going to be home when you get there,” she said.

“You're afraid of him, too.” Rachel wanted to hear the words come out of Krystal's mouth, wanted her to admit it.

Instead, Krystal began crying, but Rachel could tell these were selfish tears, the tears of someone overwhelmed. Krystal cried out of hopelessness, not out of concern for her son.

“Okay,” said Krystal, after she regained her composure. “I will tell Bert to lay off. Jake is welcome to come over here anytime he wants. As long as it's okay with you, and as long as he lets somebody know.”

“Thank you,” said Jake.

“But you need to mind your own business,” said Krystal, addressing Rachel. “Stay out of my marriage. Don't forget that I've known you for fifteen years, too. And I've seen you ruin plenty of relationships.”

Rachel said nothing as Jake left with his mother. As usual, Krystal didn't get it. Rachel was angry all over again, and went into the yard, where she kicked at the tiny tufts of grass, and the bare spots where the new soil and seed had yet to take root, until Bucky restrained her.

“She's not pressing charges,” said Rachel.

“I know,” said Bucky.

Although she knew it was a private ceremony, Rachel still found herself begging Bucky to be her date. He made excuses.

“I've only got one suit,” he said. “It's black. And I need to save it for funerals. I get a lot of mileage out of that thing. Especially around here.”

Instead, he promised that when she got back, he and Black Mabel would have the rest of the siding installed.

The church was so new that it smelled like plastic wrap and carpet glue. It was a small space, with room for fifty: ten pews on each side, every seat taken.

Rachel did not see one familiar face. She was wearing a simple gingham sundress and uncomplicated brown sandals, but she still felt overdressed and inappropriate.

The congregation sat in their rows and whispered lowly to each other at her entrance. She took a seat, and stared back at them, boldly.

The men were in identical suits, purchased at Pamida. Every woman wore a long jean skirt, with panty hose visible at their ankles, and each had a white long-sleeved blouse that Rachel recognized as a Simplicity pattern. She shuddered.

The front of the church was bare, except for a freshly built platform, and a tall, freestanding candelabra. None of the candles were lit.

Krystal walked down the aisle without a veil, without bridesmaids, without flowers. Rachel couldn't help but think she deserved it.

At least she got to wear the wedding dress she had chosen months before, when Bert was still a heathen. Thankfully, she had the foresight to choose a dress that was long-sleeved and demure.

The ceremony was insanely boring, endlessly polite. Rachel kept her eyes on Jake, who stood up front, and off to the side. He kept the swollen eye out of sight, so he stood at a weird angle. Most of the time, he looked down at his shoes.

She was shocked at his outfit. No flair whatsoever. Brown slacks, brown jacket, white shirt. No tie, no pocket square, no hat, no shoes with platform heels. Plain loafers, the kind with no tassels.

The reception was held outside. Rachel found Jake immediately, and they sat together in the grass, watching the line of people lay out hot dishes and cold salads on folding card tables.

Bert glared when he saw them together, and Rachel met his eyes without fear. Jake's hand reached up to touch his eye.

Reverend Foote approached them, and Jake busied himself with blowing the tiny stars from dandelions gone to seed. Rachel knew that this was how dandelions spread, multiplied, and hoped they would infest the entire church property.

“Reverend Foote,” he said, and held out his hand.

“Paula Sherwood,” said Rachel, and shook.

“I'm pretty sure that's not your name,” said the reverend.

“It's the name my satanic cult gave me,” said Rachel. “I know it sounds awfully pedestrian. We like to remain inconspicuous.”

“Thank you for coming.” He pulled his hand back and reached down to touch Jake's head. Rachel put an arm around Jake as he flinched, narrowed her eyes at the reverend.

“I'm here for Jake,” said Rachel. “And the macaroni salad.” Rachel flashed devil horns on her right hand, until the reverend left, stammering. They continued to watch the wedding party, and Rachel lost herself in counting shoes with Velcro closures.

“Why isn't Rocky here?” Rachel assumed he would have been invited.

“Bert says we've already got one freak in the family.” Across the lawn, Bert was kneeling in the grass, deep in prayer, as the parishioners filed past him. Instead of wedding gifts, they dropped baskets of food as they passed. A tradition for the man of the family, perhaps, cheap plastic weaves straining to hold the cans of beets and green beans. It was up to Krystal to thank them, as Bert remained in prayer.

“We're not poor,” said Jake, as he watched this parade of cheap dress clothes, offering up dusty cans from their pantries. “We don't even go to the food bank.”

“This church is weird,” said Rachel. Bert continued to kneel, and Reverend Foote placed his hands on Bert's shoulder blades, a blessing. Rachel could see Bert's forehead, sweating with the calisthenics of prayer. He was shaking now, and the parishioners shouted out glad tidings as they continued to pile the food around him.

“If he starts speaking in tongues, I'm kidnapping you,” said Rachel. “This is some fucked-up church.”

“I think I caught him speaking in tongues at home,” said Jake. “Or he was choking on a piece of steak.”

Rachel pulled a dandelion from the grass and held it in front of Jake's face.

“Your mom didn't get her flowers,” she said. “But I think you need a corsage.”

Rachel took the dandelion and slipped it through the buttonhole of Jake's jacket. They watched the wedding guests milling about, until the reverend's wife announced that it was time for pictures.

“Aren't you going to go up there?”

“No,” said Jake. “I refuse. I don't want to be in any of the pictures. Because of this.” He pointed at his eye, still swollen, ringed with a circle of yellow and blue bruises.

Jake's absence didn't seem to bother Krystal or Bert. They held the baby and stood with the pine trees proud and sturdy behind them.

The reverend's wife gave them directions on posing, something Jake should have been doing.

Bert held the baby while Krystal leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

“My family!” He announced this to applause as the camera flashed.

Rachel could not bring herself to look at Jake. She sat in the grass and reached for his hand.

L
averna drank her coffee, until her reverie was interrupted by Red Mabel, pushing her way into the house, holding a box of yellow cake mix.

“It's my birthday,” said Red Mabel. “I share this day with Joan Van Ark and Geronimo.” Red Mabel pulled two unbroken eggs from her coat pocket, and gifted these as well.

“I'm not going to make you a cake,” said Laverna. “I've got shit to do.” She handed the eggs back to Red Mabel, who pitched them into the sink. Red Mabel left, and Laverna stared at the eggs, cracked and dripping all over the dirty dishes.