hear Krystal giving the baby a bath. He removed the duffel bag beneath his bed and examined his work. He was nearly done, still had to finish two shirts, and he had decided to stitch all the collars and sleeves. He only worked on these shirts at Rachel’s house, when she was not home. He slid a chair in front of his bedroom door, just in case.
He lost himself, caressing the familiar fabric, the thick stitching, but Jake felt different. He realized that he had forgotten to take any pictures. He returned everything to the safety of the duffel bag. As he collapsed on his bed, he realized that pictures weren’t necessary. Some things would stay inside you until the day you died.
The Flood Girls versus Ellis Methodist Church
Rachel slept in, and when she woke, she said her prayers and reminded herself that this was just softball. She had no control over the outcome, but she could control her effort, and her outfit. Outside, it was raining lightly. The game was scheduled for noon. She took a bath, and meditated in front of the brick altar. She was in a Zen state when she picked out her clothes.
Rachel pulled up to the field thirty minutes before the game, as instructed. Laverna rolled her eyes at Rachel’s choice of clothing: jean shorts that had been dyed black and hung with ripped fringes of hem, over neon green spandex, and a giant black T-shirt with a bloody skull on it. She and Jake had gone shopping for cleats in Ellis, even though they both despised entering a sporting goods store. She bought the first black pair in her size, but then Jake had found neon green laces at the cash register, which at least made them unique. She had practiced with the Chief in her Doc Martens, but even with two pairs of wool socks, she still ended up with blisters.
The T-shirt was actually appropriate. Rachel wished that she wore her pentagram necklace, something she bought for a Judas Priest concert in Missoula that she was kicked out of. This game would be played against the Methodists from Ellis.
All the other girls paired for the warm-up, leaving her to toss a ball back and forth with Ronda. She watched the opposing team, all in matching uniforms: pink T-shirts with tiny gray crosses above the right breast, gray sweatpants, pink socks. In her previous life, Rachel would have beaten them up on sight.
Laverna recited the batting lineup in the dugout, and even though it was raining, she removed a clothespin from her pocket and attached the paper to the chain-link fence. Rachel watched as the ink began to run.
She could see Jake in the bleachers, a coat draped over his head and the scorebook. The very sight of him was reassuring. A raincoat, dark blue with violet lining, surrounding his face like a cowl, the rest of him bedecked in varying shades of denim. Her seven dwarfs dug into a giant cooler, unlike the rest of the crowd, it was not filled with beer. Rachel suspected that the chief’s wife had made all the sandwiches, as it was something an Al-Anon wife would do.
Rachel had grown accustomed to right field. It was a lonely place, but she crouched down into ready position every single time, even if the batter wasn’t left-handed. Most of the action went to left field, but Rachel wanted to appear prepared.
Bucky called out, and Rachel watched her mother come to the pitcher’s mound for the coin toss. The coach for the Methodists was wearing pink but had spent too much time in the tanning beds in Boyce Falls.
From the dugout, the Flood Girls stopped gossiping long enough to witness the nut-brown coach stop Bucky with one hand, kneel down to pray before he could flick the coin into the air.
“For fuck’s sake,” said Laverna. “That’s cheating.”
“You could pray if you wanted,” said Bucky. The coach rose to her feet to applause from her team. The Flood Girls had a reputation in the league, and the Methodists feared evil was contagious.
“I don’t need Jesus,” said Laverna. “I’ve got Diane.”
It was true. Diane had adopted her mother’s maiden name, Savage, and for good reason. Her vertical leap was the stuff of legend, and in the first inning, she leaped in the air, almost as high as Tabby’s breasts, and snagged a ball destined to land in front of the statue of Ronda. A line drive peeled off the bat and nearly