The Flood Girls (40 page)

Laverna had never seen such a sorry lot. She felt fear in her throat as they caravanned, and the other Flood Girls were visibly nervous as they parked in the complex of the softball fields. These greens were actually green, not polka-dotted with knapweed and spotted with gopher holes. Today, there would be no invasion of white-tailed deer, tumbleweeds of pollen, gales of blizzard, or riots over Rachel. Three separate fields, flanked by grandstands, and an enormous tiered structure of restrooms, concessions, and a perch for the announcers. She saw the microphones and the PA system, and said nothing. The fields, divided by tall white clapboard, glittered as the automatic sprinklers ratcheted and stopped, sinking back into the earth. The Flood Girls trudged and dragged duffel bags, sought similar refuge in the cool of their cement dugout. The infield collapsed on the freshly painted bench. Martha vomited, and the noise of the splatter sent Della into dry heaves, revealing yet another weakness. Laverna's outfield was in better shape, but white-faced with nerves.

Although she was not hungover, Rachel appeared the most battered. She had bruises on her throat, and her eye almost completely swelled shut. A long and thin cut, crusted with blood, just below her eyebrow. Laverna looked down at her ring, Black Hills Gold, set with a tiny ­sapphire, the prongs of which had done the most damage. Laverna double-checked to make sure the stone was still there. She couldn't care less about Rachel's face.

Diane appeared as she had disappeared ten hours before, mysteriously, stoned out of her mind.

“I'm really high,” she apologized, avoiding eye contact with Laverna.

“No shit,” said Laverna. Diane whimpered, skittish and cotton-mouthed, whispered to Della for gum and fled to the farthest corner.

The bleachers began to fill, even though the game would not begin for an hour. Laverna saw the cluster from Quinn—Bucky cooed to Frank, Rachel's old men studied the tournament programs, and the Chief crossed his arms, stoic as always. Rocky held a bursting picnic hamper on his lap, sandwiched between Buley and Athena, oversized and overdressed. All of their costume jewelry sparkled and dazzled, alit in the summer morning. Laverna, amazed that her daughter had somehow grown a fan club, blinked back tears. Her hands shrunk into tight fists, fingernails dug into palms; she refused to acknowledge these new emotions, feared they were a harbinger of menopause.

Angered at the thought, pissed that they still had an hour to kill, Laverna erupted, screamed at her girls. She needed to feel normal again. “This is the big dance! Get your shit together right now! For Quinn! For the love of the game!” She realized that these were all sports clichés, and that made her even angrier. The infield sat upright but then cowered against the cement wall, as Laverna began kicking dirt at them.

She was restrained by Athena, and could not free herself from the lock of meaty arms and massive breasts. She continued to kick dirt until the great wall of Buley rose up to shield Diane.

An umpire poked his head into the dugout, clearly concerned. “Is everything okay in here?” He stared closely at Rachel's battered face.

“That's just her way,” said Rocky, carrying a sagging cardboard box. Undoubtedly, the umpire had seen worse, but never from a woman.

“Warm up in ten, coin toss in twenty.” He left with a smirk, a tip of his hat.

“Fuck him. Go warm up now,” said Laverna, never one to follow directions. “Shake it off, ladies.” The Flood Girls took to the field, making sure to give their coach a wide berth.

Athena counseled Laverna, massaged her back, as the Flood Girls tossed the ball back and forth. Across the field, Laverna watched the Ellis Talc Miners roll on the grass, stretch luxuriously, like lionesses that had just devoured an antelope.

After ten minutes, Laverna called in her team, and tried to ignore their various states of undoing. Martha's color was high, her temples sweating and beet red. If Martha had a stroke, Laverna would rip off her man hands and beat her to death.

Without a word, Rocky ripped open the box and consulted a list in Jake's perfect handwriting. One at a time, he delivered each T-shirt like a precious bundle.

Thankfully, Laverna was too dazzled to cry. The uniform of the Flood Girls, a baby-blue T-shirt, the collar and sleeves embroidered in gold. Across the chest, gold thread outlined by dark blue:
TFG
, and above the three letters, a foreshortened halo, also gold and dark blue. She turned the T-shirt to find a glittering gold iron-on number, the 1 seemed to be flying on hand-sewn angel wings, crisp white and carefully detailed with dark blue stitches, intricate feathers.

“Save your tears, ladies,” said Laverna. “We've got a game to play.”

The Flood Girls were utterly shameless, and changed into the new shirts in the open air of the dugout. Most of the girls wore sports bras, but the Sinclairs wore strange brown camisoles, and Laverna was proud of their new lack of modesty. Red Mabel was completely topless. Bucky let out a wolf whistle from the bleachers, and Red Mabel bowed toward him, breasts sagging. At this, Rachel's old men applauded.

“He asked for a team photo,” said Rocky.

“He insisted on it,” said Buley, and removed a boxy Pentax from her purse. Athena arranged the Flood Girls in different permutations—by height, by age, by bra size, and by batting average. Buley clicked away, until Athena was satisfied.

“Our first team picture,” declared Laverna, pinching at her thigh to ward off the weepiness. First uniforms, first picture, first tournament. Laverna, the back of her uniform displaying the number one, couldn't help but beam as she posed for every single shot.

Laverna walked to the pitcher's mound for the coin toss, joining the umpire and the coach from the Talc Miners. She could hear the Flood Girls arguing about the significance of the numbers. Some claimed the digit corresponded with the batting lineup, some declared they were chosen at random. Della was happy to point out that she had one more number than everybody else. But Laverna knew. The boy had ranked the women in order of their importance.

Laverna lost the coin toss, and the Talc Miners chose to bat last. Laverna returned to her team, just as the PA system startled them with a squeal of feedback, the volume sending Della into dry heaves once more. The bleachers had filled to capacity. Laverna, as usual, had not paid attention to the umpire's instructions, and the national anthem burst forth from the speakers. She pushed her confused girls onto the field. The recording had reached the second verse before the Flood Girls finally stumbled into place, and presented themselves to the crowd, hands over hearts.

After the anthem, the girls started to walk back to the dugout, but the announcer's voice blared out again, and in the echo Laverna barely distinguished the name of her team. She rushed out onto the field, but her commands weren't needed. Thankfully, Rachel still adored the limelight, and when her name was called, she stepped forward and waved at the crowd, despite her mangled face. She tossed her blond hair, and her old men stomped and whistled, and she blew a kiss in their direction. Laverna rolled her eyes but knew Jake would be proud. Rachel had earned the number two on her back.

Number three was Diane, who was obviously still stoned. When her name was called, she tripped on her cleats but still managed to stumble forward. Number three because of the sewing machine, surmised Laverna, as Ginger was announced as number four. Jake respected Ginger's age and her status, probably assumed he would get free corn dogs at the Sinclair. Five was Martha, waving her giant hand, chosen fifth just because she had birthed a bad girl. Red Mabel had grown into a bad woman, number six, and she spit on the ground as she stepped forward. Seven and eight were Ronda and Tabby. The taller Sinclair was bashful when number nine was called, and then called again, for the shorter Sinclair. The announcer seemed confused by the two number nines, but Jake had never been one to care about regulations. Della was number ten. Jake shared Laverna's distrust of redheads.

The Ellis Talc Miners absolutely annihilated them, seven to four. The girls played terribly, bobbling the ball, missing throws, swinging at pitches they had no business swinging at. At the top of the fifth inning, Martha threw up in her catcher's mask. After the game, the Ellis Talc Miners shook their heads, disappointed at their former competition.

Next in the tournament bracket were the Mother Truckers, a team from the Tri-Cities. The early-afternoon sun broiled the fields. Bucky scouted their competition in the morning, and was terrified. He forced the Chief to drive him to a gas station. Bucky returned to the field with a case of Gatorade, three bags of ice, two copies of the same
Cosmopolitan
magazine, a bottle of aspirin, and for some reason, an air freshener shaped like a pine tree. Laverna removed it from the package and tied it above Red Mabel.

She was bone-tired, and maudlin. “This is it,” Laverna said, her hand on Della's shoulder. “No matter what, I'm proud of you.”

“Bullshit,” said Ronda. Jaws dropped, not because Ronda had back-talked the coach, but because Ronda had talked at all.

“Fine,” said Laverna. “We lose this, and we're done. First team out of the tournament.”

“Awesome,” muttered Martha, still not recovered.

“Jesus Christ,” said Red Mabel. She side-armed a beer at Martha, who nearly broke her fingers catching it. “Hair of the dog.” Red Mabel crossed her arms and stood in front of Martha, forced her to down the whole can. Now Martha belched in between dry heaves, but at least she was smiling as she opened her second beer.

The Flood Girls stretched on the grass, rubbing sore muscles in the roasting sun. Ginger did not leave the dugout, and looked up at Laverna helplessly.

“I'm on fire,” she said. Laverna fanned Ginger with one of the magazines, but it provided no relief. Her pitcher could barely catch a breath. Laverna shouted over the country music that thundered from the PA system, until Athena heard her.

“Hormonal supplements,” Ginger admitted weakly, as Athena took her pulse.

“I turned into a werewolf,” said Athena, and dug in her enormous purse. “Menopause hit me and I thought I had been cursed by gypsies.” She removed a battered cellophane bag, the bottom sagging with an inch of green powder.

Laverna snatched it away from her. “No more marijuana!”

“Herbs,” said Athena. “Maybe you should take some, too.”

“I'm still too young for that shit,” said Laverna, and hoped it was true. Athena dumped the powder into a bottle of Gatorade, and when she shook it, the flecks swirled around ominously. Despite this, Ginger drank it eagerly, and Laverna sat with her until the umpire called her away for the coin toss.

Laverna lost, and the Flood Girls would bat first. As she headed back to the dugout, she spotted her daughter, sitting quietly on the bench. Laverna was not the only Flood Girl to ignore her today. She marched past her team, and pulled her daughter to her feet. Tabby gasped, expecting another assault. Instead, Laverna reached her arms around Rachel, pulled her close, rubbed the embroidery on the back of her new uniform. This time, she let the tears come.

They embraced for seconds, wordlessly.

“Play ball!” The umpire's call came, and Laverna stretched on her toes, to kiss Rachel on the cheek.

“I'm sorry,” said Laverna.

“I deserved it,” said Rachel, and now she was crying, too.

“Damn straight,” said Red Mabel.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” said Laverna. “Get out there and cream those bitches.” Red Mabel was first at bat, and took to the field.

Red Mabel pounded home plate with her bat and spat at the catcher's feet. The umpire yelled at her, but Red Mabel pretended it was an accident. She swung at the first pitch, and it flew in an arc above the infield. She launched it so far up into the air, the center fielder could not distinguish it in the blinding sunlight. The Flood Girls whistled as Red Mabel tore around first base. She got caught between second and third, the two Mother Truckers throwing the ball back and forth over her head. Finally, Red Mabel charged, bloodthirsty and frightening, hell-bent on taking third base. The woman whimpered and leaped back from the bag, and missed the toss. Red Mabel was safe. She beat her chest and growled at the coach of the Mother Truckers, and Laverna knew the momentum was now firmly in their favor.

When her team took the field, Martha caught a pop-up at home plate, for the first time ever. The ball winged off the bat and shot straight up into the air, and Martha stood on creaky knees and caught it easily. In the bleachers, the fans from Quinn attempted to do the wave, but the Chief refused to stand every time. Diane hit homers in the second and fifth innings, both times the bases stacked. The herbs calmed Ginger significantly, and she threw with precision, despite the sweat running down her face. She struck out two batters in a row. Rachel ran past the foul line and dove for a pop fly, caught a ball even the umpire had written off. The Sinclairs were so eager to win, they crashed into each other, leaving the taller Sinclair with a bloody lip. Continuing to surprise everyone, Martha actually ran to second base.

“Shit yes!” Martha stood on the bag, and shook her fist in the air. She was drunk again.

During the top of the sixth inning, the Flood Girls batted through their entire line up. The pitcher was exhausted and she lobbed meatballs, right in the sweet spot of the batter's box. Everyone but Della made contact. After Ronda nailed the white clapboard in center field, Laverna studied the roster. With two outs, Rachel was on deck. Her daughter removed a rosary from the pocket of her sweatpants and kissed the cross before she pulled on her batting gloves. Rachel's higher power blessed her with a blistering grounder that tore past the shortstop.

Laverna did not know who Rachel had prayed to, but the divine intervention went on to help the Flood Girls beat the Mother Truckers ten to eight. They would be back to play in the morning.