She could see Jake in the bleachers, a coat draped over his head and the scorebook. The very sight of him was reassuring. A raincoat, dark blue with violet lining, surrounding his face like a cowl, the rest of him bedecked in varying shades of denim. Her seven dwarfs dug into a giant cooler, unlike the rest of the crowd, it was not filled with beer. Rachel suspected that the chief’s wife had made all the sandwiches, as it was something an Al-Anon wife would do.
Rachel had grown accustomed to right field. It was a lonely place, but she crouched down into ready position every single time, even if the batter wasn’t left-handed. Most of the action went to left field, but Rachel wanted to appear prepared.
Bucky called out, and Rachel watched her mother come to the -pitcher’s mound for the coin toss. The coach for the Methodists was wearing pink but had spent too much time in the tanning beds in Boyce Falls.
From the dugout, the Flood Girls stopped gossiping long enough to witness the nut-brown coach stop Bucky with one hand, kneel down to pray before he could flick the coin into the air.
“For fuck’s sake,” said Laverna. “That’s cheating.”
“You could pray if you wanted,” said Bucky. The coach rose to her feet to applause from her team. The Flood Girls had a reputation in the league, and the Methodists feared evil was contagious.
“I don’t need Jesus,” said Laverna. “I’ve got Diane.”
It was true. Diane had adopted her mother’s maiden name, Savage, and for good reason. Her vertical leap was the stuff of legend, and in the first inning, she leaped in the air, almost as high as Tabby’s breasts, and snagged a ball destined to land in front of the statue of Ronda. A line drive peeled off the bat and nearly knocked out Ginger’s teeth, who dove to the ground just in time, as her dental work was expensive. Diane darted behind her, scooped up the missile before it could land. Like Red Mabel, Diane was a beast, but she had been raised with good manners. She helped Ginger to her feet, brushed the dust from their pitcher’s perm.
Diane was the type of woman who swung at everything, on and off the field. Fearless, she reached for an errant pitch, tapped it straight down the foul line, and Bucky had to squint and stammer until he finally called it good. By the time he had made this decision, Diane was on third base. Unfortunately, Della followed their cleanup hitter, and she was also the type of woman who swung at everything but never succeeded.
“WAIT FOR YOUR PITCH!” Laverna screamed as Della attempted to hit a ball that cruised two feet outside the batter’s box. This is how it had been every game. Laverna instructed Della not to swing at anything, and to step in front of a ball if necessary. A walk is as good as a hit, Laverna reasoned, and Della might as well sacrifice her body for the team. Della refused to be a patsy, and continued to swing away, hopelessly. Rachel had no fear of throwing herself in front of a pitch. Rachel had been thrown on the hood of a Nissan Maxima, had been beat with a garden hose by a gang of drunk Russian women. A softball was nothing, and Rachel kept this contingency plan in the back of her mind, just in case.
In the third inning, the Methodists were up by twelve. Their husbands were afraid of the bleachers filled with the rough-and-tumble sinners of Quinn, and lined up against the chain-link fence behind the dugout. The husbands were also devout. Rachel ascertained this by studying their outfits. Short-sleeved button-down shirts and ties, a combination that had always made her cringe. Slacks worn without belts, their hair parted so severely, Rachel watched the white flesh redden as the sun emerged. As the air warmed up, so did the Methodists, and they batted through their entire lineup before Diane unleashed another trick from her arsenal. Diane was not a sneaky person, but she had perfected a fake out, pretending to throw the ball to first base, only to tag out the unsuspecting runner who had sprung from second.
“JESUS WEPT!” Laverna screamed from the dugout as Diane ended the slaughter and the Flood Girls returned to bat for the top of the fourth inning. Klemp had joined Laverna on the bench, as if she expected to be subbed in. The girl was as grim as always, and apparently an agnostic. Red Mabel bolted to her truck and drove over the railroad ties that framed the parking lot, parked right behind the dugout. While the Sinclairs and Tabby inched around the bases, Red Mabel formulated a plan. Klemp sat in the driver’s seat, instructed to play “Hells Bells” by AC/DC over and over, rewinding gleefully, doing her part. Thankfully, Red Mabel had stolen a decent stereo system, and the bass rattled the beer bottles collecting around Martha Man Hands.
The Methodists protested to Bucky, during the fifth inning, as the song blared for the ninth time. Rachel could hear him shouting over the music, telling the coach to call the police, as he was only in charge of the actual softball field, and Klemp was a minor who had gone rogue.