Like Tish, Laverna never played softball. At first, she didn’t even understand the game. She was a born leader, an inspiration, frightening. Coaching was perfect. Laverna paid the fees to play in the league, paid the dues for every single player. When they mouthed off, she held that over their heads.
“Those casts are something else,” said Della Dempsey, the other new recruit, as she took her seat. Laverna regarded Della coolly, the skin on her face tight and pink, like a burn victim. And she didn’t have any eyebrows. She did have a discount at her parents’ hardware store, which Laverna hoped would prove useful. “It looks like you’re getting ready to choke somebody.”
“Fuck up on first base and it might be you,” pronounced Laverna.
It was Saturday, and the silver miners claimed their usual tables around the jukebox, the air around them blue with cigarette smoke. Laverna squinted, and it appeared they were having some sort of cribbage tournament. Shirts versus Skins. Laverna hated the dirty bras but loved the business.
Tish ferried drinks to Laverna’s kingdom of tables, pushed together in a semicircle, arranged around a stool. Laverna perched on this stool like a throne; she used the height advantage to appear imperious. Tish managed two pitchers of beer and a stack of pint glasses on one single tray, returned with the single 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.