The Flood Girls (43 page)

The outcast, silhouetted by the thick, acrid smoke, whispered something. A prayer, as she poured out the contents of her pint glass. The outcast asked for another beer. She sipped until the embers stopped glowing, until she was certain her friend was no longer on fire.

Four days before Halloween, and all of the flowers in the garden had been cut down to their nubs. Somehow the clematis continued its march. The vines had overgrown the trellises and wrapped around the planks of the fence. The plant was still blooming, and Rachel let it go. The squirrel kept watch for the first frost of the year.

She had to wear slippers now, and a coat. She could no longer sit outside in her pajamas. For the hundredth time, she thought about quitting smoking. She exhaled, and decided that there were bigger things to think about.

She heard the latch of the gate, and the creak as it swung open.

She turned around to see Jake, bearing a brown envelope and two carefully gift-wrapped packages, dressed in his most ridiculous outfit yet. As threatened, he wore the camouflage pants, a camouflage long-sleeved thermal shirt, and a mesh vest the bright orange of hunters.

“Don't even start,” he said, gesturing to his clothes. “Just remember that Bert built me a shoe rack. He's trying.”

“He's got a long way to go,” said Rachel.

“I'm done with fighting,” said Jake. “Bert isn't going anywhere.” He pulled up a pant leg, and he was wearing the pinkest socks she had ever seen.

“Thank God,” said Rachel. “You were starting to scare me.”

“Here,” he said, and thrust the envelope at her. “I've been meaning to give it to Laverna, but you'll do.”

Rachel opened the envelope. Jake had compiled the stats for the season, and typed them in his usual, fastidious way. She found her name, and when she saw the numbers, she wished that she hadn't.

“I'm done with keeping score,” said Jake. “Acceptance,” he said. “I learned that from one of your books.”

He pushed the gift-wrapped packages at her, and she tucked the envelope under her arm.

“Presents?” Rachel was mystified. He had given her enough.

“Not for you,” he said. “I finally finished the uniforms for Bucky and Shyanne. I know it's late. I made Bucky number thirteen, and Shyanne number zero. Zero is the runway sample size. We're going to have to work on her diet.”

“Of course,” said Rachel.

Jake flashed his pink socks at her one more time. He tipped his hat to Rachel Flood, and walked up the path, let himself out of the gate.

An hour later, the Chief came to her house for their weekly meeting. They no longer met on the field, no longer threw a ball back and forth. Softball was over. Now they sat across the couch from each other, and they actually used the literature.

“I wanted to tell you something.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket.

“It better not be bad news,” Rachel said.

“No,” said the Chief. He removed a blue ribbon from his pocket.
FIRST PLACE, SCIENCE FAIR, 1961
. “Sorry. It's the only first place I ever got.” He placed it in her hand, wrapped her fingers around it. “As your sponsor, I think you are officially done making your amends.”

“What?” The ribbon seemed to weigh ten pounds.

“You're done here,” said the Chief. “You can leave this place.”

“Where am I supposed to go?” Rachel felt frantic. She assumed she would know when she was done, that there would be an obvious conclusion.

“I think you've made peace. You can go wherever you want to go,” he said.

Rachel began crying, and the Chief was quick to hold her.

“It's all so overwhelming,” she said.

“I know,” he said.

She never thought she would feel reluctance at leaving Quinn. Just months ago, she had barely endured each day. Once upon a time, envelopes returned to her, unopened. The people of her hometown marked them
RETURN TO SENDER
, and now Rachel Flood wrote her amends so wholeheartedly no envelope could contain them. No words were necessary; she would let grace and humility end this story.

If she wanted, she could go create a whole new tale, leave this chapter far behind, put the book on the shelf. If she wanted, she could go back to Missoula.

She could wait there. In four years, Jake would be old enough to join her.

J
ake's stomach was growling. He hadn't had a chance to eat breakfast, and it took Bert nearly an hour to pack his truck. Jake felt obligated to stand and watch, because it seemed respectful. All Bert needed was a gun and their lunches, but it was all for safety's sake.

Mrs. Foote arrived in her station wagon, said something encouraging to Bert, but Jake paid no attention to her. Waiting for Bert was painful enough. Mrs. Foote left with the baby, and Bert cleaned his rifle, even though Jake was certain it had been taken apart the night before. Krystal placed their lunches behind the driver's seat and kissed her husband good-bye. Saturdays, she worked the day shift. Jake peeked inside the paper bags as Bert finally turned the key in the ignition. Bologna sandwiches, potato chips, and a pudding cup.

Lunch was all Jake could think about as Bert drove toward the mountains.

It began to rain, softly at first, and then picked up until Bert had to put his wipers on. The wipers were the only sound in the truck. They did not make conversation. The silence became a tangible thing after Jake crossed his leg, and Bert caught a glimpse of Jake's pink sock.

Jake could tell Bert was angry by the way his stepfather clenched the steering wheel. Bert flicked off the heat in the truck so hard that Jake thought the switch would break in his hand. Jake wished they could turn on the radio, but Bert did not believe in popular music anymore.

The rain kept up, and the truck got colder as they wound their way up the mountain and turned off onto a logging road. They had been driving for an hour. Jake had no idea where they were. The geography of the mountains that enclosed Quinn never interested him. All Jake could think about was the lunch his mother packed and getting home as quickly as possible.

Bert was a deer hunter. The freezer in Krystal's trailer was a testament to this. Jake pretended to look for deer in the brush, but he was secretly rooting for them, and would not have let on, even if he did spot one.

Twenty minutes up the logging road, Bert pulled the truck into a gravel turnaround and parked.

“This will do,” he said. These were the first words he had spoken all morning.

It was still raining, and Jake cursed Bert silently for making him get out in all of this wetness. At least Jake didn't care about these clothes.

Bert grabbed his rifle from the rack above the seat, and Jake reached for the cooler sitting next to him, hoping they were bringing the lunches with them, but Bert shook his head.

It was drizzling as they began to descend into the thickness of white pines. They slid their way down a shale embankment. He tried to follow Bert's path, because he was a man who knew what he was doing in the woods, and Jake did not want to be left behind.

Jake's mind was preoccupied with his plans for the homecoming dance. He was trying to figure out how to create a giant papier-mâché castle facade. He had no doubt that it would work out exactly as planned, but it would require some assistance from the teacher of the shop class.

The rain became less of an issue when they reached the deeper woods. The giant pines provided shelter and as Jake inhaled, the glorious smell made him feel better about all of this. They rose up so tall that they became the sky. The gray sky was barely visible through the canopy.

They kept going, deeper into the forest, Bert stopping occasionally, and holding up one hand. Jake knew to stop moving when Bert did this, just as he knew not to talk, not that there was a chance of conversation. The rain changed to sleet, and Jake shoved his hands deep inside the pockets of his jacket. He did not have gloves.

He moved his fingers along the rosary in his right pocket. He no longer wasted his time thinking about his fifty-nine enemies. He had finally stopped keeping score.

Madonna had a new album, and he had enough money to buy it. He knew Rachel would take him to Ellis, make a special trip. They were both tired of
Like a Prayer
. He continued to move his fingers along the chain of beads. He kept the rosary hidden from view, because it felt good to have a secret. There was Catholicism going on inside Jake's pocket, and Bert would never know.

They passed through a brief opening in the trees, a tiny meadow, the tall grasses brown after summer. Full of rain, the vegetation soaked the legs of Jake's pants.

Bert held up a hand and Jake stopped obediently in the middle of the meadow. He was starting to shiver. He saw other hunters during their descent, saw the flashes of orange. This was the first day of hunting season, so that was to be expected. But they hadn't seen any hunters for a while, and Bert looked around and cocked his head, listening for sounds in the brush.

Jake stood still, patiently, thinking about a movie that Laverna might actually enjoy, something that had men with mustaches. Definitely not a musical.

There was a rustle in the brush, and then the flight of birds, their bright colors as they took to the sky. His winter birds. A flock of black-capped chickadees. A burst of yellow as a trio of cedar waxwings hopped from limb to limb, wearing their robber masks.

Jake watched the birds, until a doe stepped into the meadow. The deer did not notice them. Jake remained so still that he could hear the doe chewing, the sound of grass ripped from the soil.

Bert turned suddenly, his face just as expressionless as always.

He looked to the right, and raised his rifle.

Thank God
, thought Jake. Maybe they could be done with this.

And Bert turned, just as the sleet began to fall in heavy sheets, and Jake could hear the patter on his shoulders as Bert aimed the gun at him.

Jake didn't have time to realize what was happening.

A flash, and then nothing.

R
achel finished reading the forty-ninth book of the Nancy Drew series,
The Secret of Mirror Bay
. She could finish these books in a few hours, figure out the villain within the first fifty pages, and unravel the mystery within the first seventy-five. This brought her comfort—despite the mystery of her own future, at least she was always a step ahead of the girl detective. Perhaps that was where her future lay; Rachel was still young enough to be a police officer.

She listened to the rain for an hour and thought about her future.

Eventually, she got up from the couch and called her mother.

“Jake and I are coming over,” she said. “I just wanted to warn you.”

“I appreciate that,” said Laverna. “I'll make dinner. I've got some steaks in the freezer.”

“That's not funny,” said Rachel.

“Sure it is,” said Laverna. “It's not my fault you have a crappy sense of humor.”

“It might be,” said Rachel. “There's a good chance it might be genetic.”

“I refuse to tangle with you,” sighed Laverna. “Athena told me not to engage when you bait me.” She hung up the phone, and Rachel laughed. Her mother was full of surprises. Apparently, Laverna was also full of Al-Anon.

Rachel filled the sink, and stacked dirty dishes under the running water. She turned on the stereo, and the cassette whirred to life. Madonna blasted through the kitchen, rattling the speakers. She did not hear the knocking.

The music stopped. Rachel spun around, and the Chief was standing in front of the stereo. She waited for him to speak, and kept her hands in the soapy water. She heard Bucky's truck pull up in the driveway.

“Rachel,” said the Chief. “There's been an accident.”

Rachel's mind went many places, all of them dark. “What do you mean?”

“It's Jake,” he said. “There was a hunting accident.”