Free Nightmare Country by Marlys Millhiser

mother’s head at the stained wall. “You looked so old and … tired in there on the bed all afternoon.”
    â€œI probably have a few years left.” Backra had gray hair, but he didn’t look old.
    Russ Burnham had called while Tamara slept, to say that Augie had been to Horse Creek, a nearby settlement with a post office, where the mail to Iron Mountain was delivered. He’d left theirs with Russ. They walked up the limestone road after the chalky air had settled from the departing miners.
    â€œMrs. Hanley says Miss Kopecky is dead,” Tamara said. “No one claimed her furniture, and we should use it.”
    Adrian stopped at the metal gate with the no-trespassing sign and looked over her shoulder. “It’s nice stuff. How come none of the poverty types around here latched onto it?”
    â€œNow that you mention it, I wonder too.”
    They decided to knock on the door of the building with sickly petunias in flowerboxes. One had to work to make the tenacious petunia look that out-of-shape.
    Russ invited them in. A portable TV flickered on the counter next to an empty can of Franco-American SpaghettiOs. A loaf of Wonder enriched white bread and a tub of margarine and a can of Coke.
    Russ wore his usual white dress shirt and Levi’s. He was always polite enough and helpful, yet wary with them. As if closeness would cause the Whelans to become a burden.
    Maybe Gil Whelan watched TV while eating alone. But that’s the way he’d wanted it. She was surprised to feel a touch of compassion for all men who ate alone.
    They left with one letter and a week’s worth of advertising circulars and newspapers.
    â€œNothing from Dad.”
    â€œNo.”
    Iron Mountain was dingy with dark. The encampment at its base looked temporary, like something that might heal over, given time.
    â€œThere’s not going to be anything to do here, Mom.”
    â€œHow about tomorrow we go into Cheyenne and stock up on groceries for the freezer, buy some paperbacks, and catch a movie?” Tamara pictured the silver-haired Backra riding into Iron Mountain on a horse, looking like a cowboy, and talking like Robert Redford.
    Adrian stepped up through weeds to the burned-out foundation.
    â€œCareful. There might be hidden holes or broken glass there.”
    â€œOr boogeymen and monsters.” Forgetting her concern for her mother’s aging state, Adrian stomped across the littered humps that had once been someone’s floor. Balancing papers under each arm, she walked the strip of concrete foundation on the other side and then stopped to stare at Jerusha Fistler’s vine-covered windows. “Do you ever hear a funny noise over there? Sounds like how Great-Grandma Grace breathes.”
    â€œI think it’s something mechanical. Probably her refrigerator or—”
    â€œDo you think that’s Miss Kopecky’s blood on the wall? What they couldn’t wash off?”
    â€œDon’t be a nit. This place is bad enough without making it scary.”
    They went around back to say good night to Alice. Adrian was right, if all there was to do in the evening was say good night to a goat. The few inhabitants of Iron Mountain stayed behind lighted windows. Tamara thought of visiting the Hanleys, but he was not as friendly as his wife.
    Adrian opened their one letter while Tamara checked the latest grocery ads in the Cheyenne paper. “What’s Grandma Louise have to say?”
    â€œThe same old glop about her back hurting and having to put Great-Grandma Grace in the nursing home soon and wondering where she’ll get the money and baking bread and a new kind of cake recipe and …”
    Tamara looked up to see her daughter’s face redden as she read on silently. “And what?”
    â€œI hate you,” Adrian whispered, and water came to her eyes as if she’d been slapped.
    Tamara grabbed the letter and scanned her mother’s very real