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“You sure?”
“Yep. I drove them to the station. They stayed over with Marcus’s aunt. His dad picked them up.”
“Marcus could have gone on his own after that.”
“His dad’s truck was out of action and the train didn’t run in October because of a rockfall. Everyone was complaining about it.” She folded her arms. “Marcus must have got the tattoo from someone here, in Deadhart.”
37
Despite Barbara thinking she couldn’t stomach reindeer, she managed a serving and a half of Rita’s pie with vegetables. And two more beers.
Over dinner, Rita entertained with crazy stories about growing up in Deadhart: trying to shoo a young bear out of the grocery store, and the time a whole family of moose blocked off Main Street. Fun tales of living in the wilderness that Barbara suspected she had honed for visitors. Barbara didn’t mind. She was happy to roll with it for now.
In return, she offered an edited version of her own life story. Not lies, just omissions. Like Rita’s stories about Deadhart, it was a well-worn tale. Reality with the hard edges rubbed off. She didn’t mention her dad or Mercy and she glanced over her relationship with Susan. Which was less than Susan deserved. But talking about her ex still hurt. Love and loss. You can’t have one without the other, she thought.
Rita started to gather the plates. Instinctively, Barbara stood. “Here, let me help.”
“No, you sit.”
“I insist.”
“Okay, well, we can do it together.”
They carried their plates into the kitchen and Rita stacked them in the dishwasher. Distantly, Barbara heard a cry.
“What was that?”
Rita sighed. “Mom.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “I’ll just check she’s okay. You all right to finish here?”
“Loading a dishwasher I can manage.”
Rita bustled out of the kitchen and Barbara finished loading the dirty dishes. Once they were in, she straightened. She needed the bathroom but didn’t want to disturb Rita and her mother. She walked into the hallway. There was a door on her right. She tried it. The door opened.
“Whoah—stop!”
Barbara jumped. Rita stood at the end of the hall, looking alarmed.
“Sorry, I was just looking for the bathroom,” Barbara said.
“A lot of people do the same. But that’s the cellar. No light, and the steps are lethal.”
“Oh, right.”
Rita smiled. “Bathroom’s this way. Much safer.”
Barbara shut the door and followed her. “Thanks.”
The bathroom was tiny and cramped, made more so by the number of mobility aids crammed in there. Seats for the toilet, handles and hoists for the bath. For all Rita’s cheery demeanor, these spoke of a far tougher life here with her mother. Barbara wondered about costs, too. Cancer treatment was expensive.
She washed her hands quickly and joined Rita back in the living room. The mayor had produced a small cardboard box from somewhere.
“I’ll make some coffee while you take a look.”
“Thanks.”
Barbara took a seat back on the sofa while Rita moved around in the kitchen. The box was battered and dusty. It smelt a bit damp too. She opened it up.
“There’s a lot of boring stuff up front,” Rita called from the kitchen. “Council records. Censuses. But if you dig down, you should find plenty of old pictures of the town and the mine.”
