Tabby returned to the tables, and Tish took deep breaths behind the bar. Laverna watched her daughter study the list. Rachel’s hair did look bouncy, sporty—blonde locks athletic as they moved. Laverna nearly asked Rachel what kind of conditioner she used but, thankfully, was stopped by a ruckus in the back. A cribbage board slammed into the door of the men’s bathroom. The miners were competitive, and violent. It was too bad they were dismissive of organized sports.
Della and Rachel were the wild cards. Diane Savage Connor, the shortstop, was the best player on the team, and a legend in the league. Diane was a math teacher at the high school, and was renowned for her fast reflexes, as she snatched up grounders and all the bachelors in the county. Tabby was a surprisingly adept second base player, although she was short and missed most anything that flew through the air. Working at the Dirty Shame had taught her how to stop things, however, and transferred the fearlessness from breaking up bar fights into launching herself into the path of women who dared run to third base. She was so sweet that the umpires always believed the tackles were accidental. If runners made it to third base, they encountered Red Mabel, a beast on and off the field. (This was another reason Laverna had depended on Krystal—her nursing skills came in handy when there was carnage.) Ginger Fitchett pitched, always consistent and calm, attributes the rest of the Flood Girls sorely lacked. At catcher, Martha Man Hands just had to sit on her ass and be Ginger’s target, both things she was born to do. Laverna’s outfield was always a cluster fuck. Ronda played rover, but barely. On the rare occasions she moved, she was painfully slow, and Laverna suspected that Ronda did not like participating in yet another white person’s game. The Sinclairs tripped over their cursed jean skirts, refusing to wear shorts or sweatpants, and would not dive for balls, claiming modesty. To top it all off, Martha Man Hands decided last summer that she would no longer run past first base, despite how far and deep she smashed the ball. Unfortunately, Martha had decided this in the middle of a game, and the first-base coach (Red Mabel) cursed her and pushed her off the bag. Martha declared she would walk to second base, if necessary. Of course, Laverna was apoplectic, but Ginger offered up her teenage daughter as a designated runner. Shyanne Fitchett upped their beauty quotient, could hit the shit out of the ball, and filled in whenever Red Mabel was in county jail.
Laverna’s own offspring was currently examining her makeup in the mirror of a small compact.
“I think all of you know my daughter,” said Laverna. “Or at least you’ve heard of her.” There were nods all around.
“You screwed my older brothers,” said Della. Her tight face and lack of eyebrows made it hard for Laverna to figure if Della was angry about it.
“Probably,” said Rachel.
“Drive-in movie,” said Della.
“AMC Pacer and Chrysler Cordoba,” said Rachel. “I remember that.”
“Engine Number Three,” said Ginger.
“Excuse me?” Rachel clutched at her turtleneck.
“My husband,” said Ginger. “You fucked my husband in a fire truck.”
“Oh,” said Rachel. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be,” said Ginger. “He left town. I should buy you a drink.”
Laverna was impressed by all of this teamwork.
“I’m putting Della at first,” announced Laverna. “She says she can handle it.” Laverna’s former first-base player moved to Spokane to open a tanning salon. Laverna couldn’t begrudge her for it, as she believed in the power of women in small business. “Krystal quit the team.”
“Where I’m from, quitters get scalped,” said Red Mabel. In response, Ronda moved her chair away from Red Mabel, silent as always.
“You were born in Pasadena,” pointed out Laverna, sighing. “I’m going to be blunt,” she said, although this was hardly necessary. Laverna was always blunt. “Rachel has never played a sport in her life. She’s in right field for a reason.”
Rachel smiled, not realizing that her mother was insulting her. Behind Rachel, lesbian Elvis put another miner in a headlock, took her down to the floor. This was common when there was cheating, at cribbage or in relationships. Laverna ignored it and continued. “And we have another problem. Ellis is fielding a new team this year,” said Laverna. “High school girls.”
“Athletic little bitches,” said Red Mabel.
“Exactly,” said Laverna. “So that makes an even eight teams in the league.”
“We should send Winsome Shankley over there to fuck them until they’re crippled,” offered Red Mabel, met with toasts and cheers from Martha and Ginger.
“Enough,” said Laverna, and the cheering stopped. “They are teenagers, and that is disgusting.” She leaned forward and whispered to her team. “I made a deal with the Ellis cops. If those goddamn little princesses get caught with beer, they’re out. I’ve already arranged a kegger in the woods.”
The cheering began again. Red Mabel stood and helped their coach sip more whiskey through the pink straw.
“The tournament is in Missoula this year,” said Laverna. “We just need to win half of our games. I have faith.”