It took Laverna a few minutes to count two thousand dollars, all singles and fives.
“From the Clinkenbeards,” said Jim Number Three proudly. “An electrical fire in the middle of the night. Strangest thing. Told them I was pretty sure it was pack rats. I was happy to help rewire their shack. Expensive as shit.”
He waited for acknowledgment, but Laverna brushed past him, kicked the vase of roses. The water drained between the boards of the porch.
She tucked the envelope into her purse and gave him the finger. She had no more words for Jim Number Three. She locked the front door and watched out the window until he drove away. Laverna counted to one hundred, brought the roses inside. Laverna Flood was a practical woman. It was Red Mabel’s birthday, after all. Tonight, she would receive flowers, probably for the first time in her life.
At nine o’clock, the sun had not set, and it made Laverna restless. She removed bags of apples from the freezer. Red Mabel picked them last year in the fall, and they spent an afternoon peeling and coring, stuffing them into freezer bags. Laverna filled her kitchen sink with hot water, and left them there to thaw.
While she waited, she took a cup of coffee onto the back deck, and sat and smoked and watched the enormous suckerfish on the edges of the bank. The river was running high, and the suckers wended their way around the tall grass and the buttercups that were now submerged.
Laverna spent the next few hours making applesauce, boiling down the apples in a giant pot, smashed them into pulp before she added Red Hots, the cinnamon candy that was her secret ingredient. She filled the mason jars, and sunk them in a cauldron of boiling water.
Laverna went into the house and returned with a rifle. She flicked at the safety with her thumbnail.
She fired at the suckerfish. They seemed unaffected by the splash, by the sound. They continued to scuttle along the bank. Laverna fired again, and her hair was the only thing that moved.
“I am through with this bad luck,” said Laverna, to no one in particular.
Through the screen door, she could hear the pops and snaps of mason jars rattling in their cages.
“No more volunteers,” said Laverna, and fired again. The gunshot echoed across the river, and then there was silence, save for the sound of applesauce righting itself, lids sealing themselves shut, the sound of settling.
Feathers
Jake dressed with purpose that morning, had to root through the storage shed to find certain pieces. He decided upon boot-cut black slacks, a crisp white shirt, a black vest with a barely perceptible white pinstripe, black boots, and a black beret. Finally, he was satisfied. This is what a designer would wear.
Misty’s bike still leaned against Martha’s trailer, and Jake borrowed it for his mission today. He was going to need speed as he went looking for Bucky. It was a Friday morning, and he had almost finished Rachel’s house, so Bucky could be anywhere.
Jake cruised around the streets of Quinn, past the sprinklers, a Kool-Aid stand, trucks still parked at the bars from the night before.
He found Bucky drinking coffee outside of the hardware store with Della Dempsey. She rolled her eyes at his outfit, stomped out her cigarette.
“I need to talk to you,” he said to Bucky.
“You’re freaking me out,” said Della. “Are you supposed to be dressed like a French person?”
“This involves both of you, actually,” said Jake. He got off his bike and stood in front of Bucky, digging in his pocket for the envelope.
He passed it to Bucky, who whistled when he removed the five hundred dollars.
“We’re building a float,” said Jake. “Or rather, you’re building the float, and I’m decorating it.”
“Sounds about right,” said Della.
“You get to keep whatever we don’t spend on materials.” He pointed at the hardware store. “That’s where you come in,” he said to Della. “Laverna expects a discount.”
“She always does,” said Della.
In the hardware store, Jake started pointing at things: rolls of chicken wire, two-by-fours, wire coat hangers, ten white bedsheets.
“Does Laverna want us to dress like the Klan?” asked Della.
“No,” said Jake. “This is my vision. And we already have a white supremacist float.”
Jake conferred with Bucky about nails and screws. He filled his basket with cans of baby-blue and gold spray paint.
Della was at the cash register, chewing her gum, which seemed to be a job on its own.
The total was under one hundred dollars, and Bucky loaded the purchases. Jake demanded they drive to Ellis. He threw Misty’s bike in the back of Bucky’s truck.
On the drive, Bucky wanted to talk about Rachel. “Is she done making her amends yet?”
“You’re not supposed to know about that,” said Jake.
“I’m just trying to be supportive,” said Bucky. “Is she leaving soon?”
“Do you know any harpists?”
“No,” said Bucky. “What does that have to do with Rachel?”