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Show in my father's house/ 157 Chapter Six We arrived in Mountain City, Nevada, after midnight, driving beyond the tiny village and some distance down a bumpy road. A dog barked and a coyote answered as we stepped out of the truck. Later, I came to equate the coyote with our stay in Nevada - its lonely cry symbolic of our yearning, its running, backward stare mirroring our own furtive awareness. We were to stay in long-abandoned miners' quarters. Above us was the silver mine, wheels and chains rusted, its buildings besieged by sagebrush. We moved into the tin bunkhouse, a huge square oven at noonday and a refrigerator at night. Belladonna grew around the privy, twining its slats, and black widow spiders spun webs beneath the wooden seat. Ever since my mother had told me about them, I had been afraid to sit down. We spent our first days exploring, listening for the |
