“You need to be more careful,” said Rachel. “Those women are lunatics. You can’t challenge them to a fight, Jake. Especially not in that suit.”
“Whatever,” said Jake. He faked a yawn. “Overdressed and unimpressed.”
The smell of burning fur had reached Rachel, and she wrinkled her nose. “Let’s talk about this hunting thing.”
“Not my idea,” Jake said, and accepted his drink. “Obviously.”
“Are you even old enough to hunt?”
“I don’t really know,” he said. “This morning, there was a brand-new camouflage shirt and matching pants on the kitchen table. In my size. And one of those horrendous orange safety vests.”
“How awful,” said Rachel. “Do you even have shoes for that sort of thing?”
“Loafers,” he said. “I’m kind of worried about the traction. I’m pretty sure hunting was my mother’s idea. Or maybe Bert’s. Whatever. They’re trying.”
“Maybe things are better.”
Jake lifted his glass and saluted her, just as Tabby came through the front door. The sudden burst of daylight lit the Shirley Temple, and it glowed as he held it in the air. “I owe that to you.”
He took a drink, as Tabby halted, grimaced at the badger. The drape of smoke made the scene even more surreal.
“The miners,” explained Rachel. “Don’t worry. I’ll clean it up.”
Tabby said nothing as she walked behind the bar, tied an apron around her waist. This was the Dirty Shame, and Tabby had apparently seen stranger things. She poured a beer for the outcast, and began to busy herself opening the cash register and counting the till. It was the beginning of another shift.
The outcast, silhouetted by the thick, acrid smoke, whispered something. A prayer, as she poured out the contents of her pint glass. The outcast asked for another beer. She sipped until the embers stopped glowing, until she was certain her friend was no longer on fire.
* * *
Four days before Halloween, and all of the flowers in the garden had been cut down to their nubs. Somehow the clematis continued its march. The vines had overgrown the trellises and wrapped around the planks of the fence. The plant was still blooming, and Rachel let it go. The squirrel kept watch for the first frost of the year.
She had to wear slippers now, and a coat. She could no longer sit outside in her pajamas. For the hundredth time, she thought about quitting smoking. She exhaled, and decided that there were bigger things to think about.
She heard the latch of the gate, and the creak as it swung open.
She turned around to see Jake, bearing a brown envelope and two carefully gift-wrapped packages, dressed in his most ridiculous outfit yet. As threatened, he wore the camouflage pants, a camouflage long-sleeved thermal shirt, and a mesh vest the bright orange of hunters.
“Don’t even start,” he said, gesturing to his clothes. “Just remember that Bert built me a shoe rack. He’s trying.”
“He’s got a long way to go,” said Rachel.
“I’m done with fighting,” said Jake. “Bert isn’t going anywhere.” He pulled up a pant leg, and he was wearing the pinkest socks she had ever seen.
“Thank God,” said Rachel. “You were starting to scare me.”
“Here,” he said, and thrust the envelope at her. “I’ve been meaning to give it to Laverna, but you’ll do.”
Rachel opened the envelope. Jake had compiled the stats for the season, and typed them in his usual, fastidious way. She found her name, and when she saw the numbers, she wished that she hadn’t.
“I’m done with keeping score,” said Jake. “Acceptance,” he said. “I learned that from one of your books.”
He pushed the gift-wrapped packages at her, and she tucked the envelope under her arm.
“Presents?” Rachel was mystified. He had given her enough.
“Not for you,” he said. “I finally finished the uniforms for Bucky and Shyanne. I know it’s late. I made Bucky number thirteen, and Shyanne number zero. Zero is the runway sample size. We’re going to have to work on her diet.”
“Of course,” said Rachel.
Jake flashed his pink socks at her one more time. He tipped his hat to Rachel Flood, and walked up the path, let himself out of the gate.
* * *
An hour later, the Chief came to her house for their weekly meeting. They no longer met on the field, no longer threw a ball back and forth. Softball was over. Now they sat across the couch from each other, and they actually used the literature.
“I wanted to tell you something.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket.
“It better not be bad news,” Rachel said.
“No,” said the Chief. He removed a blue ribbon from his pocket. FIRST PLACE, SCIENCE FAIR, 1961. “Sorry. It’s the only first place I ever got.” He placed it in her hand, wrapped her fingers around it. “As your sponsor, I think you are officially done making your amends.”
“What?” The ribbon seemed to weigh ten pounds.
“You’re done here,” said the Chief. “You can leave this place.”