The Flood Girls versus Eunice Volunteer Dispatch
At the Dirty Shame, Winsome insisted on taking Rachel out to dinner. When she pointed out the lack of restaurants, and the gossip dining in Quinn would create, Winsome was undeterred.
“No chance,” she said. The unspoken rule in AA was to wait a year before having sex, or making any major changes. She had received permission from the Chief. She could not think of anyone in Quinn who was mildly attractive, and it wasn’t worth the gas money to travel for a one-night stand in Missoula.
“I won’t drink around you,” he said. “And I’ve got a hot tub.” Rachel ignored this, continued to busy herself with slicing lemons, but her mind was caught in a familiar place. It was bargaining mode. She remembered the last two years of drinking, sitting in front of the gas station in Missoula, leaving it up to the radio station to decide if she would buy beer. If it was a song she liked, she would drink that night. Unfortunately for Rachel, at that point, she could rationalize almost anything. She would hear Michael Bolton, and decide that she had liked him all along.
“One night,” said Rachel. She had earned sex, had worked hard for it, and Winsome was the only single man around these parts with a human head.
Rachel drove to Winsome’s house when her shift was over. He had only one swimsuit in his house for a woman, despite the many he had entertained over the years, and it was much too large, would have fit Buley. As promised, he behaved like a gentleman, and he stayed sober. She was not breaking the rules, or sidestepping them. This was biology.
She stayed for hours. The hot tub was contained in the backyard, beneath an octagonal gazebo and shielded by aspen trees. She stayed until she could see the stars.
They both got what they wanted. This was her first sober sex, and her feet were rough and her legs stubbly, but none of that mattered. She deserved the release, and he deserved a woman who would not steal his stereo.
* * *
The next game was in Quinn, and Laverna scheduled extra practices. Rachel was determined. Sometimes only four of the Flood Girls would show, but Rachel was always there. This was their rescheduled matchup with Eunice Volunteer Dispatch, and this time, in the last week of June, there was no snow. Rachel sweated in her black T-shirt, emblazoned with a giant smoking pistol, and ripped-up jean shorts. She was going to have to buy a sports bra. Even with the underwire, the lacy black bra from Victoria’s Secret was completely impractical, and her sweat combining with the lace made her itchy.
The Eunice Volunteer Dispatch wore black shirts, the backs a white outline of a police scanner. Rachel knew from her own experience that black was impractical, hoped they were sweating just as much as she.
Rachel warmed up in the infield, played catch with Martha, attempted to throw the ball as hard as she could, as Martha crouched down in her gear. Rachel knew that Ginger’s pitches were lobs, really, but she wanted to show the people in the bleachers that her arm was getting stronger.
Martha was impressed. She stood up and approached Rachel, the ball in her hand.
“You’re getting some heat on those,” said Martha.
“Thank you,” said Rachel. “I’ve been practicing extra with the Chief.”
“I can tell,” said Martha. “Look, there’s something that I need to say. It’s kind of a secret, and I feel really bad about it.”
“Okay,” Rachel said, and stepped closer to Martha. Rachel was certain it had something to do with lesbianism.
“It’s about your friend.” Martha used her thumb to discreetly point at Jake, who was sitting in the bleachers, scorebook carefully prepared as always. Winsome sat next to him, eating popcorn, sober.
“What is it?”
“He gave me some letters awhile back,” said Martha. “For my daughter, Misty.”
“And?”
“Well, he and Misty got into a lot of trouble together.”
“I’ve heard,” said Rachel.
“I never sent them,” admitted Martha. “I guess I was angry. I suppose Jake has been wondering why she hasn’t written back.”
“He hasn’t said anything,” said Rachel.
“I threw them away,” said Martha. “I just wanted somebody to know. Please don’t tell him.”
“That’s really fucked-up,” said Rachel. “You need to tell him.” Martha had an ashamed look on her face as she walked back and crouched down, ready for more catches.