“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 the field with sasquatch Red Mabel.
“Right field,” insisted Krystal. “It’s not really a sport.”
“I don’t run,” said Rachel. “I mean, I’ve run from cops and stuff, but I don’t really remember it.”
“Take my spot,” said Krystal. “It’s the least you can do. If you leave us alone, I’ll buy you a new bathtub. But you can’t tell Bert. I can’t stand seeing you dirty. I mean, I’m not a complete bitch.”
“Are you really that scared of my mom?”
“Yes,” said Krystal. “Consider it a housewarming gift.”
“Fine,” said Rachel. Jake heard the faint rumble of Bert’s truck.
“The first practice is in a few weeks,” said Krystal. “Maybe you should start jogging or something.” Krystal slid the window shut and drew the curtains.
* * *
Jake worked on the laundry basket, folding the load he had removed from the dryer. He washed all of the laundry for the household because he was the best at it, and because he insisted. When Bert finally came through the door, he ignored Jake and his piles on the living room floor. Bert sat quietly on the couch. He held no beer in his hand and did not ask Krystal to fetch him one. Jake hoped that Bert had an infection from the cut on his hand, that he had a rare blood fever.
Krystal wiped down the kitchen table and plucked the baby from her high chair, placed her carefully inside the playpen. Bert continued to stare out into space. Bert took pills for his blood pressure, so Jake ruled out a stroke.