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