When Rachel woke up that morning, it was still snowing. She peered out her window at the billowing curtains, thick as the kinds that hung in theaters, ruffling, changing direction. She knew it was ferociously cold.
The phone call came from Ginger Fitchett at eleven o’clock.
“Game is called,” said Ginger. “As you can tell, there is a blizzard outside, and as much as we hate those ladies from Eunice, we don’t want them to drive here. Nor do we want to take the field. I wouldn’t be able to see the batter’s box.”
Rachel thanked her, and thanked her higher power for sparing her from potential embarrassment. She bundled up in quilts, grateful she could spend the day with Laura Ingalls Wilder.
* * *
The next morning, the blizzard was gone. Rachel left her house shortly before noon, and it had already warmed to the midfifties. This was Quinn in April. Mercurial, stronger than you, full of surprises.
At her AA meeting, they celebrated Mr. Tyler’s sobriety birthday. Even though he insisted, Rachel could not bring herself to call her former biology teacher by his first name, even though they had grown familiar. He was the only old man with enough balls to yell at Rachel for blaming her mother for everything.
When they passed around his three-year coin, Rachel held it in her palm and remembered her first AA birthday. Athena had presented the coin to her at their home group, and had made a speech about how far Rachel had come, and how she had worked for it, really worked for it, and they both had cried. Her coin was passed around the room for everyone to hold, to bless. And then there was cake and ice cream, and immediately afterward, Athena had taken her to another meeting, her version of celebration.
After the AA meeting, Rachel stood outside the library with her old men, and they discussed the prospects of the Flood Girls. She still did not understand their allegiance to her team, but they predicted a winning season.
There was a reason for the softball talk. The Chief returned from his truck and presented Rachel with a box.
She could tell it had been wrapped by his wife. He handed it over, without a word.
Inside the box was a softball glove, brand-new, a pair of black batting gloves, and an actual softball, neon green. The old men lit more cigarettes. She knew they had all chipped in on this purchase, but just like in meetings, they let the Chief provide the explanations.
“I heard you’ve been having some problems,” he said.
“Bucky,” said Rachel.
“Of course,” said the Chief. “Every time you’re not using this bad boy, I want you to put that ball inside the glove, and wrap the whole thing tight with rubber bands. That’s how you break it in.”
“Okay,” said Rachel.
“Get in the truck,” commanded the Chief.
* * *
Rachel and the Chief tossed the ball back and forth across the outfield, the air crisp and the sky completely cloudless, deeply blue.
Sometimes the Chief switched it up and lobbed it straight up into the sky to simulate a pop fly, and she lurched forward and tripped, or stumbled backward and tripped, but she could never get to the ball in time.
“You’ve gotta watch the batter,” said the Chief. “If they are a lefty, the ball is coming to you. Before she even steps into the batter’s box, you gotta move up toward the infield if you know she’s a lightweight, and back the fuck up if you know she’s a slugger.”
“Thanks,” said Rachel. She was still lying in the muddy grass as he gave this advice, exhausted after her last dodge for a pop-up. That one ended with her in the splits, sliding across the field, the ball bouncing three feet in front of her. At least it rolled toward her glove.
The Chief knelt down beside her. “You’re doing all right, kid.”
Rachel ripped up a clump of wet grass and threw it at him. “I don’t want to be doing this at all.”
“Sounds familiar,” said the Chief. “Now we need to talk about putting the glove in front of your face.”
“Okay,” said Rachel.
“Stop with that kind of self-protection shit or I’m going to make you go to Al-Anon.”
“Okay,” said Rachel. Al-Anon was a threat that hung around her weekly meetings. The old men in AA did not care for Al-Anon. All of the men in Quinn went to AA, and the women went to Al-Anon. The -women’s meeting was double in size, and Black Mabel’s father called them the Cookie-Baking Bitches.
“I need to ask you a question,” said Rachel, the knees of her sweatpants soaking wet and caked with mud. This was definitely the time for humility. “I guess it’s more like I’m asking for permission.”
“Shoot,” said the Chief.