“I had hoped you would be a reasonable woman,” said Reverend Foote.
“Keep praying,” said Red Mabel. She pointed at the Sinclairs, who had stepped out onto the porch, the wind whipping the jean skirts tight against their legs. “You two had better have your shit together today. We’ve got some holes in the outfield.”
“Amen,” shouted Laverna as Red Mabel shut the door behind them.
* * *
The Sinclairs made the mistake of arriving early. Laverna made them run laps around the chain-link fence, despite the cold wind. They would pay for bringing that terrible man to her house. Red Mabel warmed up where third base would be, jumping jacks, unencumbered by a bra.
Red Mabel’s breasts became problematic when the parents began to drop off their children. The mother of one Little Leaguer covered his eyes with her hands.
“Cut it out, Red,” shouted Laverna. She grasped the shoulder of the child, in full uniform, pinstriped, real baseball pants and cleats. Little League began in June, but he was ready. “Why don’t you go toss the ball around?” She shoved the kid at Red Mabel, and he spit in the dirt, stomped to third base. Red Mabel looked him up and down, and began throwing grounders.
The little girls arrived in one minivan. The driver barely slowed down; the van door rolled open and the girls leaped into the gravel, landed on their feet. They moved in a pack, into the away team dugout, whispered when they saw Bucky, who had materialized beside Laverna, silent as always. This had always unnerved her.
The Sinclairs rounded home plate, red-faced.
“Keep running!” Laverna leaned against the dugout, and the little girls stared at her casts and at Bucky. Boys continued to arrive, bedecked in team uniforms, avoiding the girls at all costs.
The remaining Flood Girls arrived in groups, Della carrying a wildly struggling dog.
“Found him on the street,” said Della proudly. “I aim to keep him.”
“That’s how you ended up married twice,” said Laverna. Della and Tabby tied the small brown dog to the bench of the dugout with the removed strings from their hooded sweatshirts. The young girls took the field, still traveling in a pack, giggling at the oblivious Bucky. Laverna could not believe the amount of makeup they were wearing, and considered saying something, until her own daughter entered the dugout with Jake. Rachel’s face was fully made up, the flesh around her eyebrows red from a fresh plucking. Laverna was certain that Jake had something to do with this.
“What are you staring at?” Rachel pulled on her borrowed mitt with trepidation, as if there might be spiders inside. She wore a black leather jacket over a black lingerie top, and ripped black jeans. And those cursed boots.
Jake carried a sketchpad, a case of colored pencils. He beamed at Laverna, and pointed to Rachel’s face. “Your daughter has the most incredible cheekbones!” Indeed, her cheeks were emblazoned with a maroon blush, and her eyes drooped from the weight of the mascara. “I was trying to make her look just like Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, but we decided that she couldn’t play softball in a blazer with shoulder pads. Plus, it’s really cold.”
“I’m glad you chose something practical,” said Laverna, noting the small silver spikes dotting the lapels of the leather jacket. “And she gets those cheekbones from me.”
“They all have uniforms,” said Jake, pointing at the children on the field. He sat down on the bench and flipped open his sketchpad. “How come the Flood Girls don’t have uniforms?”
“Shut up,” said Laverna.
The last child arrived, a roly-poly little girl, braids tucked under a low-slung cap. She carried a T-ball stand over one shoulder, and acknowledged Laverna grimly. Tammi, the T-ball coach, struggled to keep up with the girl.
“This is our most ferocious player,” said Tammi. “She really should be playing in an upper league.” Tammi patted the girl on top of her baseball cap. “Take care of her.”
Laverna called her players into the center of the field. Martha and Ronda held lit cigarettes.
“Put those out,” demanded Laverna. Her catcher and rover ground the butts into the dirt.
“Hey,” said Bucky. “Respect the field, ladies!”
“Yeah,” said one of the little girls. “Not cool.”
“This is a scrimmage,” continued Laverna. “The Flood Girls need to work on their fielding.” She pointed to the dugout, and the girl dragged her T-ball stand, the other children following her across the infield.
“Play ball,” said Bucky, halfheartedly.