“PLAY BALL!” Laverna cried, wiggling her thumbs, her casts pointed toward home plate.
Laverna studied her team as they shook off the winter. This year, the Flood Girls were going to be ready. Rachel would have to do for now. At least Red Mabel had not run to the outfield and punched her in the face. In that case, putting the glove over her face might have offered Rachel some actual protection.
Twenty minutes later, it was time for batting practice. Tabby warmed up, swinging the bat in circles that dizzied Laverna. Bucky replaced Tabby at second base. Laverna needed a runner.
She called out his name, and Jake looked up from his sketchpad. “I need you to run for me, kid.”
“I don’t run,” Jake said, and pointed at his outfit. “And I’m wearing a suit.”
“I’ll give you twenty bucks,” said Laverna.
“I don’t think so,” Jake said, and returned to drawing.
“Twenty-five,” said Laverna. “Only because I’m hammered.”
“Okay,” agreed Jake.
With Jake at first base, Tabby hit a ball directly at Bucky, which he caught easily. He lobbed it to Della, once again ill prepared. Della watched it sail past her shoulder. Laverna yelled at Jake to run to second, as Della chased after the ball.
In his stiff little suit, Jake pranced to second. He had plenty of time. The ball rolled all the way to the concession stand. Laverna watched as Diane commented on Jake’s pocket square and reached up to catch the ball at the same time.
Laverna looked out at the Flood Girls, at Della trying to catch her breath, at the gay kid on second base, at the princess in right field. She swore silently.
Singer
Buley Savage Connor owned the thrift store, and she also owned Rocky Bailey. It was unclear what a sixty-year-old, morbidly obese woman would do with Rocky, but she kept him. He lived in her house, and despite the thirty-year age difference, and the gap in mental facility, it worked. Jake did not know his uncle Rocky very well, but knew that Buley kept him busy.
“My darling boy,” said Buley. “We’ve been waiting for you.” Buley rarely rose from the giant, overstuffed chair that loomed next to the front door, her lap and shoulders covered in white cats, climbing all over her massive frame. She had one in her armpit as Jake entered the store. Buley’s hair was as thin as her body was thick. What remained stood up in white curlicues around the circumference of her head, a crown of white tufts.
“As always,” said Jake. He stomped his feet, dislodging the snow from his moon boots. He leaned down to kiss the back of her hand. Her arm emerged from her enormous silken gown, the meat underneath her forearm sagging, her fingers puffy but immaculately clean. This was their ritual, his tribute to her grandiosity. She behaved like a queen, a real queen, not bossy like Laverna, but innately royal and kind.
“Reverend Foote continues to poach Catholics, and you continue to reap the rewards.” Buley pointed to a velvet pouch on the counter. Jake squealed with delight. “Go ahead, my boy. I left them there for you.”
Jake snatched the pouch and stood before Buley, holding court. She smiled as he untied the tasseled rope, slid the rosaries out with a shaking hand. He held them up to the low light of the lamps that surrounded Buley, five lamps in all, perched on low tables and crowding the cash register. Buley did not believe in overhead lighting. Jake dangled the rosaries from one hand, and Buley raised her reading glasses and peered through them like a magnifying glass: pearly pink beads and a crucifix of careworn gold, mahogany beads and a crucifix carved from a green stone. Worn in spots from the oil from many hands, the weight of thousands of prayers spoken, and hopefully heard.
“They take my breath away,” proclaimed Jake.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” said Buley. She reached around the cat, revealing more of her fleshy white arm as she pointed to the velveteen ottoman where she stored things for Jake. The ottoman had once been white but had yellowed over the years; the embroidered peacocks and the delicate brass hinges remained vivid. The legs were long lost, and it took on a new life as an upholstered box, Jake’s favorite box in the world.
Jake sat on the edge of the thick rug underneath Buley’s throne, placed the box between her puffy ankles and her silver slippers, covered in tiny bells. This was another ritual. He opened the box, and removed each item, and held it up for Buley to see. Even though Jake shopped at the thrift store weekly, Buley pretended to forget the things she directed Rocky to pull from the boxes and garbage bags of donated clothing left at the back door.