can of Diet Coke requested for Rachel. Tish looked anxiously at the tables, trying to figure out where to place it, finally deciding that Rachel would most likely sit as far away from her mother as possible.
As the team arrived, Red Mabel stood and helped Laverna sip at a double Canadian Club, even though the pink straw was shameful. Laverna looked at her watch. It was ten past three. They heard the truck slide into the gravel of the parking lot. Rachel burst through the door—she had curled her hair, and wore black slacks, a black turtleneck, a black blazer, and three-inch heels.
“This isn’t an art opening,” said Laverna. “Why in the hell are you dressed like that?”
Rachel didn’t answer. She saw the empty chair and the can of Diet Coke, and took her seat. Laverna seethed in her sweatpants and a giant white T-shirt. Rachel’s outfit filled her with rage, clearly some passive aggressive move to remind Laverna of her beloved armor, her layers.
Tish argued with a silver miner at the bar. The miner was a regular, one of Laverna’s favorites, because she resembled Elvis Presley. Tish’s voice raised as she accused lesbian Elvis of trying to pass a counterfeit bill.
“Go tell your sister to take her medication,” said Laverna, and Tabby leaped from her seat and began to dig through Tish’s purse. Red Mabel gave Tish a nickname once, but “Twitch” had not stuck. Laverna, in a rare moment of kindness, declared it too on-the-nose.
Laverna pointed to the stack of papers in front of Red Mabel, who had broken into the elementary school to use the town’s only mimeograph machine. “Pass those out,” she commanded.
Dutifully, Red Mabel handed out the smudged copies of the roster and contact information. Laverna believed in phone trees, demanded the infield call the outfield the morning of every game and practice. The Sinclairs did not have a phone. They lived in a strange compound behind their namesake gas station, four trailer houses arranged in a square, surrounding a garden and massive compost pile. More than three mobile homes were considered to be a trailer court in Quinn. There were many Sinclair children and many Sinclair husbands, and a goat that stood on top of a doghouse at all times, despite the weather. The sisters played left and center field, because Ginger, their employer, made them.
Tabby returned to the tables, and Tish took deep breaths behind the bar. Laverna watched her daughter study the list. Rachel’s hair did look bouncy, sporty—blonde locks athletic as they moved. Laverna nearly asked Rachel what kind of conditioner she used but, thankfully, was stopped by a ruckus in the back. A cribbage board slammed into the door of the men’s bathroom. The miners were competitive, and violent. It was too bad they were dismissive of organized sports.
Della and Rachel were the wild cards. Diane Savage Connor, the shortstop, was the best player on the team, and a legend in the league. Diane was a math teacher at the high school, and was renowned for her fast reflexes, as she snatched up grounders and all the bachelors in the county. Tabby was a surprisingly adept second base player, although she was short and missed most anything that flew through the air. Working at the Dirty Shame had taught her how to stop things, however, and transferred the fearlessness from breaking up bar fights into launching herself into the path of women who dared run to third base. She was so sweet that the umpires always believed the tackles were accidental. If runners made it to third base, they encountered Red Mabel, a beast on and off the field. (This was another reason Laverna had depended on Krystal—her nursing skills came in handy when there was carnage.) Ginger Fitchett pitched, always consistent and calm, attributes the rest of the Flood Girls sorely lacked. At catcher, Martha Man Hands just had to sit on her ass and be Ginger’s target, both things she was born to do. Laverna’s outfield was always a cluster fuck. Ronda played rover, but barely. On the rare occasions she moved, she was painfully slow, and Laverna suspected that Ronda did not like participating in yet another white person’s game. The Sinclairs tripped over their cursed jean skirts, refusing to wear shorts or sweatpants, and would not dive for balls, claiming modesty. To top it all off, Martha Man Hands decided last summer that she would no longer run past first base, despite how far and deep