“Too much work,” said Laverna. “It’s beer or nothing. I’m in mourning.” Laverna sighed again. Frank’s death was recent enough for her to get away with such a statement. They had been divorced for two decades, but Laverna would capitalize on any grief to get out of making a mixed drink. Frank rarely crossed Laverna’s mind. He had already become a ghost, as fleeting as wood smoke, long before he died. She always knew he would derail, but there was no conductor asleep at the wheel, no negligence. Frank had crashed his own train.
She had met Frank at her first and last yard sale. This is what he bought: A toy logging truck missing a wheel. A Pat Boone album. A mountain lion carved from a piece of cottonwood tree. A boot warmer. Laverna’s bowling ball, bowling shoes, and wrist guard.
Frank had held the bowling ball, palmed it like a thick-knuckled -fortune-teller, and smiled shyly.
“Now that’s a sweet thing,” he said, and paid with cash. They were married four months later. He was a stranger in town, a precious thing. Laverna was not going to let him get away. She was surprised that her daughter had shown up to claim the inheritance. Laverna thought of Rachel the same way she thought about the time her appendix had burst—sometimes things could come from inside your body and suddenly betray you, nearly killing you.
Once upon a time, Laverna trusted her daughter to work at the Dirty Shame, found a lucrative use for all of that lasciviousness. Rachel brought in her own crowd, and the local cops looked the other way, ignored the fact that she was only fifteen. Rachel was a terrible bartender, but fantastic at playing the ingénue cocktail maker, at flirting with her hair. -Laverna’s weekend numbers tripled in size. Now it remained a dead zone, and Laverna couldn’t care less. Her daughter had burned her, set her life ablaze. There would be no forgiveness, only ashes.
Red Mabel turned around on her stool and launched a cue ball at a group of dusty women who were playing truth or dare. The ball smashed into the pint glasses, shards and liquid flying everywhere.
Cackling, the miners responded by hooting and grabbing at their crotches. The miners were more feral and violent lately, and if the rumors were true, emboldened by drugs. Laverna didn’t care what they were buying from Black Mabel, as long as they continued to spend money at the bar. Red Mabel’s fits only exacerbated their recklessness. The miners were itching to fight someone their own size. Laverna threw the bar rag at her best friend.
“Those bitches are out of control,” protested Red Mabel. “You should make them clean it up.”
“I really wish you’d stop breaking things,” said Laverna. “I’m in mourning.”
Black Mabel staggered through the front door, eyes unseeing, bombed on pills. As usual, she had embraced her nickname, wore a black T-shirt underneath a pair of inky work overalls. She wore that cursed leather duster, dark as night, and much too big for her. She wore it every day, even in the summer. It swept across the floor, filthy with old mud splatters, the hem soaking wet from the snow. Black Mabel’s feet were invisible, and as usual, she seemed to be levitating. Her face was shockingly white, surrounded by the massive collar and lapels she turned up against the wind. While Black Mabel dressed to instill fear, Red Mabel would just as soon punch you in the face. Red Mabel guzzled the rest of her drink and left in disgust. As she passed Black Mabel, Red Mabel elbowed her in the arm, but she didn’t seem to notice.
The bar was more rowdy than usual. One card game had dissolved into arm wrestling in bras, and Laverna saw two of the women pass a green olive to each other on their tongues. The men from the highway department cheered at this. Laverna sent Black Mabel over to admonish the women, and watched as she ducked a shower of peanuts the drunkest silver miner threw. When Black Mabel returned, Laverna gave her a piece of beef jerky.
“I always wanted to be a miner,” slurred Black Mabel. “My mother was a miner, and both my cousins.” Laverna took a drink of coffee, and raised an eyebrow. This was a story she had heard many times before. “I couldn’t cut it,” continued Black Mabel, looking over at the table of exhibitionists as they draped themselves over the jukebox.
“Mining is hard work,” said Laverna.
“I’m claustrophobic,” said Black Mabel. “I went down the shaft on my first day and burst into tears.”
By eight o’clock, Laverna had officially lost control of the crowd. She called Tabby for backup, because Tabby was always hungry for tips and lived only a block away. The rest of her barmaids were probably unconscious somewhere.