“But this Madrid is a flyspeck town with the same name in New Mexico. I was tempted at first to give it to the FBI—especially since that man was shot—but she would have been arrested and ended up in prison, so I kept the letter hidden. Not a soul knows. I was too scared to say anything.”
Without a word, Norah patted Mrs. Quinn on the hand and went to the den to retrieve the atlas. The book hid her body from nose to navel, and when she set it down on the table, a puff of dust rose and settled like silt. “There is old York and New York. London and New London. Athens, Georgia, and Athens, Greece. And at least forty-two Springfields,” she recited while turning the leaves. “But who would have thought to look for Madrid in New Mexico?” Finding the vectors, she zeroed in on the spot. “Right exactly in the center of the middle of nowhere.” Norah pointed to a dot on the map roughly halfway between Albuquerque and Santa Fe and read aloud the legend written along the road. “The Turquoise Trail, doesn't that sound beautiful? Now that you know where she is, why don't you go see her?”
“Who knows if she is still there? And who knows if she would even want to see me anymore? She's made no effort all this time. It's enough to know she was there. I can think she's still alive and well.”
“But you're her mother—”
“She doesn't want me. If she hasn't told me to come for her by now, she doesn't want me in her life.”
“But you should go while you can.”
“That's enough for tonight. I only brought it up so that we might get our stories straight. Your supper's getting cold.”
A truce struck, they finished their meal in silence. Later, side by side, they washed and dried the dishes, and after her bath, Norah curled her small body next to Margaret on the couch, and they read together under a circle of light until the bedtime hour. Well after midnight, Norah moved in whispers down the stairs, found the letters tucked inside the atlas at New Mexico, and read each word by starlight. And after she was finished, she tucked them back in place, closed the book, and began to cry. Outside in the moonlight, the one who watched the house drew in the wings of his camel hair coat and walked away.
13
Down in Washington, bitter weather forced indoors the ceremonies surrounding the second inauguration of President Reagan. The television news that evening showed empty streets, wind whipping plastic bags along the sidewalks, the grandstands silent but for the crisp fluttering of bunting. No recitation of the oath at the Capitol portico. No march down Pennsylvania Avenue. No shining city on a hill. Only the desolate cold.
The telephone rang in the Quinns’ living room, a rare enough occurrence any day, all the more strange in the evening. Norah picked up the receiver and said hello.
“I'm sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number,” the voice said.
“Who were you trying to reach?”
“Margaret Quinn. I could have sworn—”
“Oh, she's here. This is the right number. May I tell her who's calling?”
“My name is Diane Cicogna. With whom am I speaking?”
“Her granddaughter. Norah Quinn.”
“Granddaughter?” A long pause on the line. “Tell your grandmother her sister is on the phone.”
Before speaking, Margaret held the phone against her chest, composing what she would say. With a backhand wave, she sent Norah out of earshot to the living room and the rest of the television coverage. “Diane. I should have known you would call to commiserate. It is a sad day. To think they let a little cold spell—”
Norah moved her finger to the screen, aimed to touch Reagan's face, but a quarter inch away, a spark of static electricity leapt and zapped her. She sat back and considered his half smile. He seemed to understand what he was doing and to enjoy some tremendous personal joke on the rest of the people, the catch in his voice and cant of the head, the stardust in his eyes, and the shining pompadour. More pictures of Washington as a ghost town, patriotic theme music trumpeting as the credits rolled.
A quiz show began. Three people received an answer and had to compose the correct question, a concept that appealed to her philosophical nature, until she realized that there was only one solution. How much more interesting if there were a multiplicity of possible correct questions, just as in real life, where every question had an infinite number of likely answers, dependent entirely on where one wished the conversation to go. Margaret stayed on the phone the entire length of the program, and when the quiz was over, Norah turned off the TV to better eavesdrop.
“The reason I never said anything is because it happened out of the blue… No, she just showed up here one night… No, she's not planning on coming home… Of course, I don't mind in the slightest, she's sweet…. I don't know when Erica will send for her, I don't know if she ever will. It hasn't been decided.”
A long pause. Norah could hear a tiny voice shouting through the handset.
“That's fine, that's fine,” Margaret pleaded. “But hardly necessary. No, no, no, I don't mind. Come. You're always welcome. No, great, come. Next month. You'll love her.”