She sunk into the hot water and considered her life, shampooed her hair two times. She drained the tub and filled it again, sat in the water for another twenty minutes, until it became lukewarm.
There was still work to be done in the bathroom—molding, a new shower curtain, a vanity, new tile. But that would happen eventually. Time takes time, as Athena was fond of saying.
On the front porch, she smoked a cigarette. Her hair began to freeze in little chunks.
She could hear the engines of four-wheelers on the street outside, dads pulling their children behind them, sleds tied on lengths of rope. This was how you survived the winter in Quinn, thought Rachel. Sometimes you had to let other people pull you.
Fireman’s Ball, 1980
Laverna wore her new dress, and proudly. She felt foxy for a thirty-six year old. Love had caused her to gain fifteen pounds, in all the right places. The dress clung to her; she ordered it from the JCPenney’s catalog, and it was the color of nectarines. She navigated the throngs in the fire hall, one hand clutching the hem of the rayon wrap dress. The volunteer firemen plugged in fans that year, and the room was gusty, in addition to the usual drafts from the barrels of fire. She stomped across the cement in spike-heeled sandals, swiped from her daughter’s closet. She didn’t know why she cared about making such an entrance. Laverna Flood had a man.
Red Mabel waved at her, and Laverna groaned when she noticed that Gene Runkle nuzzled at her best friend’s neck. She was sure Red Mabel dated him out of spite, jealous that Laverna’s attentions had been diverted by a younger man. At the bar, Gene Runkle had confessed that Red Mabel was a cold fish, and only allowed affection when others were watching.
Laverna pumped the keg and filled her plastic cup, as Red Mabel pushed away Gene. She grabbed Laverna with one hand, and steered her against the wall, and began describing her mink traps in excruciating detail.
“There’s no mink in Quinn,” said Laverna. “I asked around.”
“Bullshit,” said Red Mabel. “I know these woods better than anybody else.” Red Mabel pointed across the room. Ginger Fitchett wore her mink, and Laverna watched as a fireman helped ease it from her shoulders. Ginger was a free woman, shedding her husband like another coat. Laverna knew her daughter was involved somehow; the divorce lawyers in the county should pay for Rachel’s college. Underneath, Ginger was wearing a rayon wrap dress.
“Goddammit,” said Laverna. Ginger’s dress looked nothing like Laverna’s—it was clearly not from JCPenney, and it was bright white. It was probably a real Diane von Furstenberg. Laverna had lived in Quinn long enough to grow bored with jealousy, competition. There was nothing she wanted. The women in this town needed something to do with their time. The men of Quinn had once been a sport, but Rachel had changed the rules, and the game wasn’t fun anymore.
Laverna spent enough time worrying about her daughter. She no longer had the energy to break a sixteen year-old vegetarian anarchist with a reputation around town, a reputation that changed depending on the particular bar patron: Rachel worshipped the devil. Rachel slept with an entire punk rock band. Rachel broke up six marriages. As long as the patrons paid for their booze, Laverna would pretend to be interested. Being Rachel’s mother was another full-time job, and Laverna had resigned as soon as she got a man. Laverna was in love for the very first time in her life. Frank had been something, someone, to possess. She stopped watching her figure, watching the clock on the wall of the Dirty Shame. Laverna Flood had surrendered.
Billy Petersen was new in town, a cousin to all of the Petersens of Quinn. Somehow, they had relations in Georgia, and one came looking for work. Billy was bearded, dirty, and a little desperate in the eyes. Like every logger, he was covered in sawdust and his hands were filthy with sap. She had met him at the bar, of course. Laverna flirted with him because he did not look like the other Petersens. He did not look like an Applehaus, or a Pierce, or a Russell, or a Fitchett. He was his own singular creation, twenty-four years old, and cocky. He was the only man in Quinn who wore a necklace, puka shells. He liked red beer, and Laverna served him until he had to be carried out the door by the other members of his logging company.
He came back the next night, sober, still covered in sawdust.
“Well, hello there,” she said, and immediately slid a red beer in front of him. He winked, and downed it in one gulp.
“Been thinking about you,” said Billy.
Laverna was currently reading the only book on astrology the public library owned, and she had been careful to keep it hidden from view of her daughter, the possible devil worshipper.
“What’s your sign?”
“Virgo,” he said. She studied him carefully.
“You’re pretty unkempt for a Virgo.”
“I’m on the Leo cusp.” He had a crooked little smile.
“Do you have any plans on volunteering for the fire department?”