“No, ma’am. I’m scared of fires.”
“Good,” said Laverna. “I don’t date them.” She leaned in closer. “Tell me, Billy. Where the hell did you learn how to use a chain saw in Georgia?”
“Horror movies,” he said, and winked again. He moved in a month later, much to Red Mabel’s chagrin. He brought his beloved Husqvarna chain saw and an extra pair of boots. He had nine yellowed T-shirts, three pairs of jeans, suspenders printed with cartoon drawings of marijuana plants, disintegrating socks, and a copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull. He wore no underwear, claimed that all men from the South did the same. She warned him constantly about getting too attached, of making promises he could not keep.
“Be careful with me,” she said, so often that it finally became a joke between them. Laverna Flood was unbreakable, but in this case needed to be held with both hands.
He loved to fish, and Laverna would accompany him, pretend she did not know how to bait a hook. She was only interested in snaring Billy. Laverna’s freezer grew full of his dowry. Laverna wrapped his gifts in freezer paper, found a marker and scrawled the date, his name, and a heart, because she couldn’t help herself.
Tonight, Billy was in Ellis. There was no logging in the winter, and Billy had spent the entire month of February apprenticing at a butcher shop. Laverna looked around the fire hall, at the usual suspects and their boring lives. Judge Matthis held court on the running board of a fire truck, surrounded by sycophants; his snobby wife wiped the dust from the truck with a lace handkerchief before she sat down. Buley Savage Connor danced with her husband underneath a curtain of dangling crepe paper. Laverna admired her fearlessness as she moved her hands as if they held tiny cymbals, her lithe body and rolling hips captivating the crowd. Buley was exotic, had somehow mastered the fine art of belly dancing, the only mystery in another predictably oppressive winter.
Red Mabel continued talking about mink. Laverna pretended to be interested, until she noticed the red marks on her neck.
“Holy shit,” said Laverna. “You have hickeys!”
“I do not,” said Red Mabel.
“Nicely done,” said Laverna. Red Mabel was furious, and attacked Gene Runkle, and punched him in the throat, leaving a mark of her own. Although Laverna had been at the ball for only twenty minutes, she was ready to leave. Red Mabel needed to be escorted from the premises, as there were outstanding warrants, and the judge was fewer than ten feet away.
Laverna yanked at her friend’s hair and nodded at the judge. She held on to Red Mabel’s flannel shirt as she bolted for the door, Laverna sliding across the cement on her daughter’s spiked heels.
Laverna drove them both to her house, knowing there was a bottle of Black Velvet hidden under the seat of her truck. It was the only safe place to keep liquor—Rachel did not have keys to the car.
Billy’s truck was parked outside, and Red Mabel started swearing. She hated to be the third wheel. “Go,” she said. “I’ll just drink in your car.” Red Mabel snatched the bottle from Laverna’s hands. Laverna hardly noticed, so delighted that Billy had returned.
Billy and Rachel were in her bed, the music so loud they did not even notice her.
Laverna grabbed Rachel by the hair, and pulled her backward.
She thought that Rachel had slipped out of her grasp, but then realized that she held a chunk of hair in her hand. Rachel had fallen off the bed and onto the floor, and was laughing at Laverna, clearly wasted, until Red Mabel appeared and shut her up with a slap to the face. Billy lay there, stricken; Red Mabel took advantage of his shock and jumped over Rachel to punch him square in the jaw.
Rachel sat up and fished around on the nightstand for a pack of cigarettes, and regarded her mother and Red Mabel with foggy eyes, clearly stoned on something. Red Mabel snatched the ashtray and shattered it against the wall. Rachel didn’t even flinch. Billy tried to cover himself, but Laverna was suddenly upon him, punching him, yanking at the covers, screaming at the top of her lungs.
The music blared, as Billy kicked through the empty beer cans, trying to find his clothes.
Laverna was screaming in the corner of the room, launching whatever she could grab and throw at Billy. Pillows, a lamp, picture frames, and finally when the stereo was ripped from the outlet, there was silence. That was when Laverna threw the copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull at him, and it clipped him right above the eyebrow, instantly drawing blood.
Billy was dressed now, and he dodged Laverna’s fists as he ran out the bedroom door.
Outside, they heard him start up his truck and roar away.
Laverna stopped screaming, and then she was sobbing. She kicked her daughter in the leg as hard as she could. Rachel made no attempt to cover herself, just stared back at them, her limbs red with carpet burn.