“Dance?” His voice was deeper than expected. His face was bare of any whiskers or stubble, his sloe eyes lashed heavily, and for a split second, she wondered if she was being propositioned by a lesbian.
“Absolutely not,” she said, and stared at him. He looked frightened, and then he extended his hand.
“My name’s Bucky,” he said.
“Of course it is.” She looked past him, toward her mother’s cabal, to see if they were watching all this unfold. She was reminded of the piles of mousetraps, rotting in every corner of the room. If this kid was bait, they could have done better.
“I’m a Petersen. I think you went to school with my older sister.”
“Jesus Christ,” she said. Rachel did remember her. The Petersen girl had been a chain-smoking cheerleader who got knocked up their sophomore year. She had been unfortunate looking, a giant head and a moon-shaped face, legs like stumps, the unshakable base of every cheerleading pyramid. This bucktoothed creature did not mention his cousin Billy, and Rachel was thankful.
“My sister warned me. She said you were a real piece of work. She didn’t tell me you were hot as hell.” He winked. She shuddered.
“Stop,” she commanded. She considered lecturing him about feminism, or sexual harassment. “Stop, or I’m going to kick you.”
“Can I get you a drink?” He gestured to the kegs, bobbing like buoys in the melting ice water. “You need to loosen up, lady.”
“How old are you?” Rachel didn’t really want to know the answer; she just wanted to steer the conversation away from alcohol.
“Nineteen,” he said proudly. He was so eager. “So can I get you a drink?”
“No,” she said. “But you can bring my mother a message.” She pointed at Laverna, just as her mother belched and leaned into the softer parts of Red Mabel. “Go tell her to come talk to me, or I’m leaving.”
“Why don’t you go tell her yourself?”
“Red Mabel wants to kill me,” she said.
“Oh,” he said. “She wants to kill a lot of people. She’s a real angry person.”
“Go,” she commanded, and he did.
She watched as he skulked away, clearly terrified, and she turned her attention to a red-faced couple attempting a lazy jitterbug, moving at half time, because the song was a ballad. They were the only dancers, although there was some movement from a few drunkards leaning up against the wall, slightly swooning, heads bobbing like sloppy metronomes, eyes closed.
Rachel closed her own eyes but opened them quickly, sensing a threat.
Here was her mother, clutching her plastic cup of beer and looming dangerously, so close that Rachel could smell the Oil of Olay and the cigarettes on her fingers. Too close, especially after all these years.
“What?” Her mother’s voice was still the same, imperious and scratchy. “You’d better get out of here before Red Mabel sees you. There’s guns here.”
“I know,” said Rachel. “I bought raffle tickets.”
“You’d better start saving your cash, Miss Big City. That trailer house is a goddamn money pit.”
Rachel had received a slim letter. This was how she found out her father had passed away, this official notice from a lawyer naming her the sole beneficiary. She had barely known her father but still felt something inside her tear when she ripped open the thicker envelope that had arrived two days later—papers to notarize, two keys, a typewritten list of the things of value: a 1970 Fleetwood trailer house, a small lot in a trailer court measuring ninety-eight by two hundred feet, a Stihl chain saw, a 1980 Toyota Corona, and a checking account containing exactly $2,034.08. She immediately called her AA sponsor and proclaimed it a sign.
“No,” her sponsor had said. “Not a sign. It’s estate law. That’s how it works.”
“I can’t help but think of it as fate,” Rachel had insisted. “It means something.”
“You don’t have to accept every gift you’ve been given,” her sponsor had said, somewhat coolly. “I suspect this one might have some strings attached.”
And it did. The strings were in her face at this very moment, and they had hot beer breath. Her mother extended a finger and poked Rachel in the chest. Rachel took a deep breath. This encounter would be unpredictable, a teeter-totter.
“The last time I saw you at a Fireman’s Ball, they had to scrape you off the floor. Could’ve used a giant fucking spatula.”
“I don’t drink anymore,” said Rachel.
“That’s what you keep telling me,” muttered Laverna, her shadow fifteen feet long, wobbling in the heat.
“I never told you that. You returned all my letters. I haven’t talked to you in over nine years.”
“Word gets around,” said Laverna, somewhat ominously.
“Well,” said Rachel. “I’m excited about the house.”