“Hello, Rachel.” She had feared there would be an edge to their chorus, but there was not.
“Thanks for the topic, you asshole.” The men laughed, and Rachel knew that she had officially broken the ice, earned her chair in the room. “I’m back in Quinn because of my past. I’ve been sober for over a year, and I’ve worked all the steps, but I haven’t found peace. I certainly haven’t found joy. So, I’m back.” The men nodded their heads, and the Chief stared at her curiously. He did not seem like a man who had ever involved himself in town gossip. “You all knew me as a little girl, and then a teenager. I still get sad when I think about what I did to this town. I think about all the wives of the men I slept with, think about their children. I think about my mother, and Red Mabel.” Larry Giefer grimaced as Rachel mentioned the name.
“After I left, things got even worse. I went to college, and I should have been discovering who I really was, and who I wanted to be. Instead, I discovered that I could black out if I drank enough. It was the cure to the pain, I guess. I set my sights on being the prettiest girl at every punk rock show. If not the prettiest, the wildest. I thought I was hot shit. Tried to be my own parent, and sucked at it. But I kept going.” Rachel stopped, took a sip of her cold coffee, looked Larry Giefer directly in the eye. “And then I wasn’t the prettiest girl at the punk rock shows anymore. People stopped writing graffiti about me. I thought I had all these friends. All I had was a bad reputation and a bunch of venereal diseases. I failed out of school, and took a bunch of shitty jobs, and kept drinking. Nobody could tolerate my bullshit, so I drank by myself. And I kept drinking. I didn’t want to clean up the mess I made, so I kept drinking. I was scared. And finally, I ended up in these rooms.” Rachel paused and made eye contact with the Chief. “I came back here to make things right with this town. It took me until now to realize that I need to make things right with myself. Thanks.”
“Thanks, Rachel.”
She used the ladies’ room after the meeting and regarded her reflection in the mirror. She combed her fingers through her hair and applied lip gloss.
Outside the library, the men were smoking, as eddies of dustlike snow swirled in the street.
Mr. Tyler had a cigarette waiting for her. Even though she had a pack in her purse, she accepted it gratefully, leaned in as he cupped his hand around the flame. He did not seem surprised to see her. Rachel wondered if she had given off a future-alcoholic vibe in biology class—she had refused to dissect things but would tear herself apart later in life.
The Chief spoke first. “Them Clinkenbeards ever pay your mother?”
“No,” said Rachel.
“Big mistake,” said Pat Garrison.
“We’re all big fans of your mother,” said John.
“He’s lying,” said the Chief. “Your mother scares the shit out of us.”
“I know the feeling,” admitted Rachel.
“You did something right,” said Larry Giefer. “You joined our favorite team.”
“The Flood Girls?” Rachel blew her smoke toward the street. “Why are we your favorite team?”
“My brother don’t support Ginger,” said John. “I figured I could.”
“He talked the rest of us into it,” said Larry. “And we keep coming back, every year.”
“Thanks,” said Rachel.
“Nobody plays ball like the Flood Girls,” said the Chief. “It’s never boring.” Rachel didn’t know what to think. “Young Bucky says you need a plumber.”
“Word gets out fast,” said Rachel.
“Stay away from Bucky,” said the Chief. “He’s too tenderhearted. I need him for chimney fires.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Rachel.
“Listen,” said the Chief. “I know a few things about plumbing. Be happy to help you out.”
“I just got a job,” said Rachel. “I won’t be able to afford it for a while.”
“I know,” said the Chief. “You don’t need to worry about paying me. I’m happy to be of service.”
“He is,” said John. “He’s so happy that we all hate him most of the time.”
At this, all of the old men laughed. Rachel couldn’t help but smile. She had found her people. She said a silent prayer of thanks, took another drag.
Hustle
After a long, cold winter, Laverna knew the softball field was still frozen in spots, where the bleachers provided shadows during the day. The usually muddy field was full of unyielding ruts. There would be no sliding. There wasn’t supposed to be sliding anyway, league rules, but sometimes the ladies on the other teams had a little bit too much to drink and just tried to get to the bags any way they could, occasionally headfirst.