The Flood Girls (9 page)

Inside the warmth of the bathroom, Jake dressed quickly but took extra time on his hair, which he shellacked with wax until it gleamed like gold.

Satisfied, he made coffee and took it outside. The sun was rising over the mountain, and Jake could hear the rumbles of trucks warming up all around the trailer court.

He had ten minutes before he would have to walk to school. He always left time for these ten minutes.

Quinn had flocks of winter birds, strange and colorful. Jake had found a book at the thrift store and could identify them all: snow buntings, waxwings, black-capped chickadees, red-breasted nuthatches, brown creepers. They were fast and beautiful, and like Jake, they were constantly aware of threats. As far as he knew, Frank's feral cats had never caught a winter bird. The cats caught the occasional robin or sparrow in the spring, but never these creatures.

He scattered seed and stepped back as the birds came swooping down.

Jake stood in the front yard and waited for the fashion show, the colors of the birds bright against the dirty gray sky and banks of snow.

When he got home from school, Bert was gone, but a weight remained in the trailer house, a heaviness in the air, as they waited for his return. Krystal cleaned silently and furiously, checked the kitchen window every fifteen minutes.

Now that Frank and Misty were gone, Krystal was Jake's only friend. Before Bert, she had attempted all sorts of things to get him involved with other kids, but he had refused Little League, Cub Scouts, church camp. His mother was his peer group. Krystal was allergic to any kind of pet, so for Jake's ninth birthday, she bought him sea monkeys, and they waited for the tiny kingdoms to materialize just like in the advertisements, all that activity in a cheap green aquarium. The sea monkeys had died together in a clump; his new friends turned out to be nothing more than suicidal brine shrimp.

Krystal was a flighty, chatty sort of woman; years of being a nurse in a small hospital had made this worse. She talked to fill up space, narrated every activity, even though Jake was right there and had no need for her bedside manner. She remained silent on the story of Jake's biological father, a man she never spoke to, even to demand child support. He probably didn't know that Jake existed. There was only one story, and he had heard it since he was three years old, so he just accepted it. His mother was not smart enough to be a liar. Jake's father had been a physician visiting from the East Coast, flown to the hospital in Ellis to consult on a special case. Somehow, in the three days he had been in town, he managed to both seduce and abandon her. At least Jake knew from where his excellent time-management skills had been inherited.

Like his mother, Jake devoured books, and when they read, the chattering stopped. For a time, they shared novels. Jake was a precocious reader. Eventually, he discovered Jackie Collins, while his mother switched to terrible Southern romances. Krystal was drawn toward stories of debutantes overwhelmed with lust, and she talked incessantly about sweet tea, fans, tiny purses, and grand cotillion balls. Her own son was the closest thing to a prissy debutante in the entire town.

Krystal found her own terrible romance, and she waited for him now. It was too early for Bert to be at the Dirty Shame, so there was no telling where he had gone. Jake lay on the couch and worked his way through
Valley of the Dolls
. In the kitchen, Krystal smashed potato chips to adorn a tuna fish casserole.

When the knock came, Jake looked up at his mother. Bert did not like visitors, did not like his wife to answer the door. Krystal's hands were covered in shards of Ruffles, and she stared at Jake helplessly. She was usually the one who told people to go away. Jake dropped his book, just as the baby started crying in her high chair, and Krystal pivoted on her feet, back and forth, unsure of what to do. Jake rolled his eyes.

Standing on the front porch was the woman from next door. He knew she was Frank's daughter, because gossip in the trailer park moved fast, and because he had spied on her from the roof.

A towel hung over her shoulder. She held a shower caddy in one hand. He hadn't been able to ascertain if she was pretty when he had spied on her, but up close, she was dazzling. Under the towel, she wore a tight black T-shirt. Her legs were shackled in the tightest acid-washed jeans he had ever seen. She smelled like fried food. He approved of all of this.

“Hello there,” she said, and leaned down to shake his hand.

“Hi,” said Jake.

“I saw you on the roof,” she said. “You seemed like a good omen, so I came here.”

Jake had never been called an omen before, but he liked it.

“Welcome,” he said. Krystal emerged from the kitchen, the baby in her arms, still crying. Jake watched as his mother stared at the blonde in shock, and shoved Jake back from the door with her free arm. She had never pushed him before, but the look on her face kept him from protesting. Maybe this was his mother's true bedside manner.

“Krystal!” The woman on the porch was genuinely excited to see his mother, but Krystal responded by handing him the baby and shutting the door until it was just a crack. He could hear his mother whispering, and the woman laughed. Krystal shut the door, and Jake could hear the blonde stomping her feet as she left the porch.

Jake held the baby as Krystal anxiously checked out the kitchen window, carefully wrapped the casserole dish in tinfoil, and slid it into the oven. He watched as she took a deep breath, attempting to gather herself. This was amazing to him, this side of his mother. When Bert freaked out, Krystal did not react, because she knew better.

Krystal drew back the curtains and opened the living room window. The winter air blasted through, and Jake could see the blonde in her own yard, waiting for Krystal, peering up over the fence.

“You have some nerve,” said Krystal.

“Didn't you get my letter?”

“No,” said Krystal, and Jake knew she was telling the truth. Only Bert was allowed to get the mail, and he had probably thrown it away.

“I tried to apologize,” explained the woman. “I owed you that much.” Jake wondered if the woman had taken the rosary he had left on her doorknob and what she had thought of it. In this town, it could be considered a warning.

“Bert told me not to talk to you,” said Krystal. “He warned me you were back in town.”

“Jesus,” said the woman. “We used to be friends.”

“Rachel Flood, we were never friends. You just used me for my car.”

“That's not true,” said the woman, apparently named Rachel, and apparently related to Laverna. He shivered as the winter air invaded the living room. He did not want to miss any of this, and he pulled the baby closer and snuck up behind his mother.

“Listen for his truck,” said Krystal. “Bert cannot see this.”

“What happened to you? We used to have fun.”

“You ruined everything,” said Krystal. “I haven't worn lipstick in nine years. Do you have any idea what that's like?”

“I just wanted to take a shower,” said Rachel. “My bathtub seems to have fallen underneath my house.”

“Gross,” said Jake quietly. Rachel stepped back from the fence and held up her shower caddy. Again, he studied her. Until five minutes ago, Jake had thought that his mother was the prettiest woman in town. But here was a specimen who stared back with defiance and held herself with perfect posture. Supermodel style—chin up, tits out.

Jake considered his own outfit—he changed his clothes when he came home from school, every single day. This afternoon he had dressed in black slacks, a black sweater vest over a white button-down.

“No,” said Krystal. “Why are you always trying to get me into trouble?”

“Fine,” said Rachel. “I'm in town to make amends. You were on the list anyway. How can I make it up to you?”

Krystal was silent. Jake watched Rachel, stomping her feet in the cold, waiting for an answer. He wondered what kind of coat she would normally wear and was lost in this reverie when his mother's answer came, short and certain: “Softball.”

“What the hell?”

“I've been living in fear of your mother for nine years,” said Krystal. “Lying to her makes me a nervous wreck. It's your turn.”

“No way,” said Rachel. “I don't play sports.” Jake was delighted, and pretended to read his book. He could not imagine this woman playing softball. She did not deserve the indignities of sweat and constantly swirling dust, sharing the field with sasquatch Red Mabel.

“Right field,” insisted Krystal. “It's not really a sport.”

“I don't run,” said Rachel. “I mean, I've run from cops and stuff, but I don't really remember it.”

“Take my spot,” said Krystal. “It's the least you can do. If you leave us alone, I'll buy you a new bathtub. But you can't tell Bert. I can't stand seeing you dirty. I mean, I'm not a complete bitch.”

“Are you really that scared of my mom?”

“Yes,” said Krystal. “Consider it a housewarming gift.”

“Fine,” said Rachel. Jake heard the faint rumble of Bert's truck.

“The first practice is in a few weeks,” said Krystal. “Maybe you should start jogging or something.” Krystal slid the window shut and drew the curtains.

Jake worked on the laundry basket, folding the load he had removed from the dryer. He washed all of the laundry for the household because he was the best at it, and because he insisted. When Bert finally came through the door, he ignored Jake and his piles on the living room floor. Bert sat quietly on the couch. He held no beer in his hand and did not ask Krystal to fetch him one. Jake hoped that Bert had an infection from the cut on his hand, that he had a rare blood fever.

Krystal wiped down the kitchen table and plucked the baby from her high chair, placed her carefully inside the playpen. Bert continued to stare out into space. Bert took pills for his blood pressure, so Jake ruled out a stroke.

Finally, Bert asked to speak with Krystal privately. Jake gathered the laundry and fled to his bedroom. He turned on his stereo so he would not have to listen to their conversation.

Bert did not allow Jake to shut his bedroom door completely. Krystal appeared in his doorway, fifteen minutes later. She didn't have the baby, which meant she wanted to discuss something serious.

She sat down on his bed, in the clear space among the stacks of his clothes. She examined a vest that was black and had a dark purple backing, and pretended to admire it.

“This is nice,” she said, and neatly folded it.

“You hate it,” said Jake.

“It's not my style, honey.”

“I'll put it in the storage shed,” he said.

“Have you made any new friends?”

“No,” he said.

Krystal did not respond, clearly distracted. “I have good news,” she said, clasping her hands together.

Jake carefully considered this. “But you just lost the baby weight.”

“Jake, you have to stop reading women's magazines. Did you notice something different about Bert?”

“Are you kicking him out?” Jake's heart leaped in his chest.

“No, honey. Something happened.”

“Okay,” said Jake as he folded a fitted sheet. He was the only member of the household who possessed this ability.

“He almost died. He's a different man now.”

“I've heard that before,” said Jake. “And nobody even shot at him. It was an attempted robbery.”

“Oh, Jake,” Krystal said, and sighed.

“Whatever. You are always coming in here and making promises that he's changed his ways, and that things are going to be better. And that lasts a couple of hours until he gets pissed off at me.”

“He's been saved,” whispered Krystal.

“From what?” Jake handed her the properly folded fitted sheet.

“Saved,” repeated Krystal. “Like in a spiritual way.”

At this, Jake guffawed. Krystal glared but remained calm. She smoothed the sheet with the flat of her hand.

“I figured that's what you meant,” he said, and stopped grinning. He knew his mother's face and could see the pain it caused her.

“He's in a better place now,” she said. “He has all sorts of plans for the future. I haven't seen him like this since we started dating.”

“He's been in a bad mood for two years,” said Jake. “Does this mean he's going to get a job?”

“Like it or not, we have a baby now. He's the head of this family,” said Krystal. “He's had a hard life.” Jake turned away from her and pretended to examine his closet, because there were tears in his eyes. He was sick of all of the excuses. “Honey, I promise you. Everything is going to change around here.”

“That's what you said about the baby,” said Jake.

“Bert's getting baptized next week,” she said. “He really wants you to be there.”

“Did he say that?” He turned and addressed her directly. “Did those words really come out of his mouth?”

“No,” said Krystal.

“That's what I thought,” said Jake.

“You will be the best-dressed person there,” said Krystal. “I just know you have a baptism outfit somewhere in here.”

“Of course I do,” snapped Jake.

Krystal handed him a stack of shirts, and Jake hung them, waiting for his mother to leave, for this conversation to be over.

“I'm not getting baptized,” said Jake, still refusing to look at her.

“This is about Bert.”

“It always is,” Jake said, and continued to stare into his closet until he heard his mother leave.