Diane pointed at the stitching on the hem of Jake’s seafoam-green shirt. “Sloppy,” she said. “I’m not ready to settle down, I guess. I’m not the type of woman who makes things in Crock-Pots.”
“How did . . .” Jake began to ask for the sordid details.
Diane stopped him with one hand. “She was making a stew. That’s all I know.”
Jake diligently worked on the hem of the second panel of curtains. His family was on a church trip, some sort of pilgrimage, or maybe a picnic, in Boyce Falls. Rachel watched, as she sat on the couch and drank tea.
Jake sewed determinedly, humming to himself, occasionally sweet-talking the machine. Rachel eased herself from the couch and dug through a toolbox beneath the stereo.
“Ha,” she said. Jake did not look up, could hear the squeal of the cassette as it rewound.
Rachel pushed play, and stood in front of the Singer. “Fleetwood Mac,” she announced. “I want to know what you think.”
He did not know why she was staring at him, why his opinion was so important. The music was enjoyable enough, but she was looking at him like she expected him to come unglued.
“Pleasant,” Jake said, and resumed pumping the foot pedal, zipping along the hem.
“Your mother used to love this album,” said Rachel. She returned to the couch, arranged pillows under her legs. Jake could tell she was stiff and sore.
He watched her grimace, as she elevated her right leg on the arm of the couch. This kind of pain was undoubtedly new to her. He removed his foot from the pedal. “Did you ever hurt yourself when you drank? Bert broke his nose once. It was kind of awesome. He fell down our steps and landed on a sprinkler.”
“I broke a rib once,” she said. “But you should have seen the other girl.”
“Did you make amends to her?” Jake had been working his way through the Al-Anon and AA literature. At first, he wanted to help Rachel stay sober, but selfishly, he now wanted her to stay in Quinn.
“I did,” she said. “I found her last year at a strip club. She didn’t even remember me.”
“Who could ever forget you?” Jake slid the material through the darting needle.
“Most of the people I made amends to already forgot about me, or didn’t remember it at all.”
“But you did the work,” said Jake. “That’s the important thing.”
“I think the worst was having to go in front of the entire tribal council in Pablo. I had to make amends to the twenty most important Indians. Apparently, I ruined one of their powwows. I thought I was a jingle dancer.”
“Jesus,” said Jake.
“Athena made sure that I never said sorry. That wasn’t enough. I had to promise that I was doing the work to change, and that it wouldn’t ever happen again.”
“And now you’re a different person,” said Jake. “You’re better for it.”
“I’ll always be an alcoholic,” said Rachel.
“And I’ll always be a hillbilly,” said Jake. “We all have our crosses to bear.” He finished the hem with a flourish.
“I don’t know any hillbillies who can stitch together a miniskirt out of carpet samples.”
“Good point,” said Jake. The miniskirt turned out perfectly, and fit Rachel even better than he had hoped. She claimed that her tips doubled when she wore it to work.
Bucky installed a doorbell without being asked, and when it rang, Jake and Rachel were both startled.
“Come in,” hollered Rachel.
The door opened, and it was the last person Jake had expected to see.
Bert stepped into the living room, carrying a package from UPS.
“This is yours,” he said to Rachel, but his eyes laser focused on Jake. “I signed for it.”
Rachel jumped up and crossed in front of Bert, tried to block his view. She took the package from Bert’s hands. “I ordered some workout videos!” Bert continued to stare, as Rachel yammered. “Still trying to get rid of this beer belly!”
Bert pushed past her and marched to the corner.
Jake took his hands off the sewing machine, and leaned back in the chair. The album continued to play, and all Jake could hear was the refrain. Never going back again.
“Is that yours?” Bert pointed at the machine, at Jake’s vintage Singer.
For the first time, Jake did not want to lie, or make any excuses. He stood up from the chair, and in front of the machine.
“Yes, Bert. It’s mine.”
Bert yanked the power cord from the wall, picked up the machine, and rushed toward the door. The foot pedals and cords drug behind him, as well as the curtain panel that was still stuck in the machine.
Jake and Rachel ran after him. They watched as he threw the sewing machine over the fence, heaved it with all his strength. Jake could hear it land, crack, and he knew it had broken into pieces.
Bert stomped up the shale path. They stood in the newly installed light of Rachel’s front porch and heard him swearing as he crossed the driveway. Inside the house, the music continued, as if nothing had happened.
The curtain had been made from several yards of fabric, and the material snagged on the top of Rachel’s fence, as it launched through the air.
They both watched the fabric, as it danced, moving slightly in the breeze.