Lately, the distraction of Jake had become the only sane part of her day. The silver mine had closed down for a month, after a section had caved in, and safety inspectors were flown in. They still had not given the all clear, and the lesbian silver miners had become day drinkers. They tipped terribly, and there had been some sort of fissure among them, perhaps a blame game over the cave in, or perhaps a love triangle gone wrong. The miners had divided into two camps. Usually, ten or so would sit in the back by the jukebox, playing the same Anne Murray songs over and over. The other camp was a small one, really just one lesbian who Rachel had always thought was the alpha of the pack, now relegated to sit by herself at the bar, heckled mercilessly, watching in the mirror nervously for the projectiles that were often hurled at the back of her head. The split had been a vicious one. If the outcast tried to use the bathroom, she would be blocked by a flank of surly women. They had matching crew cuts now, to further distinguish their solidarity. The outcast kept her waterfall of crunchy black hair, shaved on the sides, a frizzy tail that fanned out across her shoulders. Rachel stopped herself from forbidding the public urination, and stopped Jake from offering to deep condition her hair. The banishment had caused the outcast to have some sort of breakdown, which was surprising, because every lesbian Rachel had ever known had been a reticent creature. The fistfights were never fair, and always ended up with the outcast on the floor, her former coworkers pouring beer on her. The outcast returned to her barstool, guzzling drinks, only leaving to urinate on the sidewalk.
It was a Friday afternoon, and it had been an odd week. Mrs. Matthis was still drinking, even though lunch had come and gone. She finished two entire crossword puzzles, and the floor beneath her was covered in pencil shavings. In addition to the lesbian psychodrama, Rachel had felt a tangible buzz throughout Quinn, noticed a bloodthirsty look on the faces at the grocery store and at the Sinclair. Tomorrow was the first day of deer-hunting season. Jake was the only normal person in town, and his outfit especially pleased Rachel, even though it was a rare repeat. She adored the smart gray suit, as it hung on him perfectly, and this time he had paired it with a black button-down, the butterfly collar fanning out across his shoulders. She would check his shoes later.
“I’m going hunting tomorrow,” he said, and stabbed at a maraschino cherry with a plastic cocktail sword. For the first time ever, he avoided making eye contact.
“I hope you are talking about the thrift store,” said Rachel. “Please tell me you are stalking the elusive Yves Saint Laurent sweater vest.”
“In this town?” Jake had finally secured the cherry, and popped it in his mouth. He laid the stem delicately across the edge of the napkin. “And that’s not very funny. I really want one of those.”
“Sorry.” Rachel was confused, and the outcast had brought taxidermy with her today, adding to the insanity. The outcast had propped up a -badger on the stool beside her, mounted on a circle cut from the stump of a pine tree. It was a cheap job, the eyes replaced with pure black marbles, much too large, bulging from the sockets. She had staple-gunned plastic Easter basket grass along the edges. The whole thing was unnerving to look at, made worse because something had gnawed off a front paw. Rachel was aghast when the outcast stroked the badger during the lunch rush, but now she almost called her mother, because the alpha had begun to whisper to it.
Jake whispered also. “That is really, really weird.”
Rachel wiped the bottom of the glass before she returned it to the napkin. Jake would say something about a ring of condensation. “I guess you aren’t going to clarify,” said Rachel. She slid the math book down the bar, and leaned on her elbows. “Why on earth would you go hunting?”
“Jesus Christ,” said a gravelly voice. “This is America, sweetheart.” Rachel looked up at the miner, waiting at the bar with an empty glass. She was Laverna’s favorite, and despite her crew cut, she still resembled young Elvis. “Are you some sort of communist?”
“Vegetarian,” Rachel said, and tilted her pint glass, pulled the tap. While it filled, Elvis extinguished her cigarette on the head of the badger, and the outcast said nothing. Elvis squinted at Jake’s drink.
“Is that a fucking Shirley Temple?” Elvis was drunk, and obviously looking for a fight. Unfortunately, she had picked the two most fearful people in Quinn.
“Yes,” said Rachel, reaching for the bar phone.
“They are delightful,” Jake announced, and picked up the plastic cocktail sword, as if he planned on using it as a weapon.
“You should be drinking a Roy Rogers, kid.” The miner snatched the sword out of Jake’s hand and flung it at the outcast, and it stuck, trapped in the static of her hair. “Little boys drink Roy Rogers. Little girls drink Shirley Temples.”
“Thanks for the tip,” said Jake. Rachel winced at the defiance in his voice. “I certainly don’t think you, of all people, should be giving me advice on gender conformity.”
“Speak English,” said Elvis. “This is America!” Mrs. Matthis tried to ignore Elvis, even though she was uncomfortably close. She valiantly sharpened another pencil, and turned another page.
“You’ve already said that,” Jake said, and stood up from his stool. Rachel began to dial her mother’s number, her other hand scrambling in the soapy water of the bar sink, as she tried to find something more vicious than a teaspoon. Elvis stared down at Jake, two feet shorter.
But all at once, the showdown was over. Mrs. Matthis stabbed her in the hand with a freshly sharpened pencil. Elvis screamed; the pencil had been brought down so hard that it continued to stick in her hand, even though she shook it wildly, in pain.
Mrs. Matthis did not react, picked up another pencil and sharpened it nonchalantly. The bar filled with the sound of crickets, as she continued to twist another pencil back and forth, creating an armory.
Elvis screamed as she was rushed out the door by her brethren, on their way to the hospital in Ellis. There would be no retribution—even the silver miners knew Mrs. Matthis still had friends in the court, even though she was now armed and dangerous.
The outcast was delighted by this turn of events, but did nothing to stop the fire that smoldered in her taxidermy.