They walked toward the tavern, the dogs jostling at their sides, with Diane watchful every few steps when one brushed against her leg. As Maya fished for the keys, the dogs stared at the doorknob, waiting for the magic, and then in they scooted like toddlers through the opening and moved through the dark table-cluttered room without so much as a single bump or scrape. The lights buzzed and flickered on, revealing a great mirror behind a bar that ran the length of the room. She was surprised by her own reflection and fixed her hair as Maya puttered behind the bar.
“I got the first dog twenty years ago when this was truly the Wild West. There were coyotes in the parlors in a couple tumbledown houses. Thought a wolfhound would be great protection, you know, they're bred to chase out the wolves. Called my first fella Cuchulainn after the great hero of Ulster, and he was a lamb. Never had a one since then, and I've had seven altogether, that's so much as snapped at a person drunk or sober, though Micky here will chase jackrabbits, flush a pheasant or quail, and Finn will tag along behind it. But he doesn't know what he'd do if he ever managed to catch one, isn't that right, you great Irish doofus?” With both hands she ruffled the wiry scruff of his big head. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Black.” The inside of the Mine Shaft Tavern was nearly as dark as the real thing, wood discolored by age and abuse, the walls littered with broadsides for old and new plays and variety shows, a John Ford Film Festival, a buffalo's head, whimsical signs and notices to the customers: Ladies, mind your purses; No Expectorating; a painting of coal miners greeted by an angel holding a banner which, in Latin, read, “It is better to drink than to work.” At the far end of the building a small stage had been set, props of wagon wheels and beer barrels, and a sepia-toned photograph of a woman in whiteface with ragged sheets, a theatrical ghost, announcing the upcoming melodrama. Through the window, morning cut the dimness, threw lines upon the floor. The dogs sought out the warm patches near her feet, the older hound curled into a compact ball of fur.
Dust danced in the sunbeams, shifting as the clouds outside sailed across the sky. The interplay of light and shadow reminded Diane of the August shore with her parents and Margaret, lolling away the afternoon, watching the light cross the beach-worn rugs and pine floors. Her parents napping on the deck, the heat-stricken house seemed to drowse, and they were quite alone, a quiet yearning, safe with her parents nearby. The rise and fall of the ocean, the breeze off the veranda, the quiet and unplanned time all leading to daydreaming of the future. They shared their big plans for husbands and travel, to see the world, take a turn on the stage, Sunday paintings, a book to write. And children of their own to take to this same place, to give to those imagined sons and daughters what they had been given. Now, Diane wanted desperately to bring back her sister's child.
Maya set a mug in front of her and joined her at the rail. Finn snored from below.
“How many people live here in town?” Diane tried to feign a disinterested air.
“Madrid proper, or up in the hills? Not many. Fifty-sixty households, many hermits and evacuees from reality. Maybe ninety souls in all. It was a ghost town or nearly so when I came here in the Sixties. Seemed like a good place to escape the madness.”
“Crazy times. Vietnam.”
“The whole thing, sister. JFK, Malcolm, Bobby, Martin. Water hoses and beatings on the bridge. Riots in the streets. Tune in, turn on, drop out. Some of us dropped pretty far.” Maya set her elbows on the counter, leaned across to Diane. “If they live in these parts, I know ‘em.”
“Then you'll know my granddaughter.” The lie possessed its own life. “Norah Quinn.”
Maya frowned and tried to bring life to the name. “I don't think I know a Norah Quinn. There's not that many kids in these parts, barely enough to keep the school going.”
“She's about nine. Blonde hair, glasses. Lives with her mother here, or at least, up until this past January.” She leaned forward and whispered. “There was a fight. My daughter and her husband.”
From the floor, Mick whined, shook his head, then shimmied from haunches to tail and paced to the front door as quiet as a cat.
“Quinn, you say?”
“Erica is her name. My daughter.”
Mick barked at the door, having heard something stir outside. For a moment, Diane expected a knock and a visitor: Erica, Norah, legions of heavenly hosts. But the dog lost interest and retreated to his hot spot on the floor.
“I'm sorry to say, there's no Erica Quinn in this town.”
Diane's hand rummaged through the purse, found the photograph. “Are you certain you haven't seen this girl? It's an old photo from high school but—”
Delight crossed Maya's face as she scrutinized the photograph. “Not Erica,” she said, and tapped the image with her fingernail. “Different hair, but same eyes, that same look if I'm not mistaken. She lives out in the hills.” A little belly laugh from a little belly. “That's Mary Gavin.”
7