“Interesting,” said Buley. “You are much too vain to be an alcoholic.”
Jake followed Rocky to the rear of the store. For some reason, Buley kept all the self-help books with the hunting clothes. Perhaps she was trying to send a message. Jake bought a big blue book written for drunks, and several paperbacks written for the people who loved them. He didn’t love Rachel, not yet anyway, but he wanted to understand her.
* * *
The sky was a pearly white color, and the snow kept coming. Feet of it; this was an honest-to-God blizzard, not unusual for Montana in April. Jake entered Rachel’s back door, and the winds pushed the snow across her yard in great dunes that rose all the way to the top of the privacy fence. Her back door was almost frozen shut, but Jake managed to yank it open. Inside her house, he pulled the space heater into his sewing corner.
He had made progress. Five of the shirts were completely done, and hidden deep inside his bedroom closet. He worked on these shirts only when Rachel was gone. When she was home, he sewed things for her house, and clothing for himself.
Jake did not turn on the stereo, tried to remain as quiet as possible, just in case Bert was spying. When he heard footsteps on the porch, the sound of boots stomping to dislodge the snow, he dove behind the couch.
Black Mabel entered without knocking. Jake stood up from behind the couch, and she swung a snow shovel at him.
“It’s just me,” he protested, holding up his hands in surrender.
“Oh,” she said, eyes tiny and darting. Jake could tell she was more stoned than usual, and offered no explanation as he returned to the sewing machine. It would only confuse her.
“I’m here to shovel off the roof.” Black Mabel was dressed like an arctic explorer, her familiar black trench coat straining to contain the thick layers of down underneath, goggles dangling from her neck.
“Okay,” Jake said, and tapped at the foot pedal as the needle began to whir.
“I don’t want the roof to collapse. There’s four feet of snow up there.”
“You don’t have to explain to me,” said Jake. “I’ve been watching you do it for years.”
“I made a promise,” said Black Mabel.
“Be careful,” said Jake, knowing that she was reckless. He kept sewing and lost himself in the fifth T-shirt. He listened to the shriek of the wind and the thumps and scrapes of Black Mabel. She had made a promise to Frank, and apparently it stretched through the years, extended to his daughter.
He made an extra grilled cheese sandwich, and waved out the back door until he caught her attention. He didn’t want to shout her name, just in case Bert was listening. She cleared half the roof, had paused to catch her breath against the impotent chimney. She stared at him until he returned with a plate, pointed at her sandwich.
* * *
Above him, Jake could hear Black Mabel continue to shovel. He kept sewing, occasionally stopping to watch out the window as giant drifts came cascading down, until they piled so high that the window was blocked from snow from the roof. He had no fear that Black Mabel would slip and fall. Black Mabel was a capable woman, and if she fell, she would only land safely in the enormous banks of snow.
Mr. Sunshine
Laverna’s casts were removed in the third week of April. She was able to smoke her own cigarettes whenever she wanted to, and enjoy baths by herself. She loved Red Mabel, but she enjoyed having the house to herself. She no longer had to bite her tongue as Red Mabel bathed her; the humiliation of being naked and cradled near her best friend’s armpits was exacerbated by the smell—Red Mabel needed a bath of her own.
There was one visitor who she tolerated; Jim Number Three continued to stop by in the afternoons and read to her. They were three-quarters of the way through Roots, and Red Mabel had taken to calling him Kunta Kinte behind his back.
Laverna bought the property on the river in 1983. She couldn’t live in the house that she once shared with Rachel. Everywhere she went, she saw another reminder of her asshole daughter.
At the time, there were no neighbors. It was a half acre surrounded by aspen trees on one side, and a weeping willow on the other. Behind the house was the river—usually muddy brown, but on good days, green like an old bottle.
She took out a loan to buy a brand-new trailer house, and to place it on a permanent foundation. In Quinn, that made it a real house. Nobody could drive it away ever again.