Ashes by Anthology Page B

there wasn’t much difference between the hole and what it was supposed to be covering up. But I wouldn’t know where to find clothes even if I wanted them.
    There in the early days, before I settled down to this notion of just what “forever” means, I’d go off half-cocked. More rightly, I’d either be floating around three feet off the ground, trailing some see-through innards where my belly got sawed in half by a set of steel wheels, or else my legs would be walking around with nothing to guide them. Not that they got much guidance even back when my brains was attached, considering I spent most of my breathing life balanced in the cab, shoveling like I was feeding the devil.
    “What do you suppose it’s like out there?” she says.
    She’s looking out the mouth of the tunnel, down to the north fork of the Hughes River . A soft fog rises from the water, seeping into the gold-and-red forest. Beyond the trees, a collection of lights are winking on, one after another, like dead fireflies pinned against the horizon. Over time, the number of lights have doubled and tripled, and I reckon that’s as good a way to mark the years as any, because the stars have pretty much stayed the same. Back in my day, Cairo was the glass marble capital of the world, and sometimes I think those marbles are not toys but eyes, looking back from the forgotten past like a mirror.
    “Same as always,” I say, as if I possess the wisdom granted by age. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, but try not to dwell on, it’s that foolishness never dies. Otherwise, I’d be in one piece and rotting away quiet in a pine box somewhere.
    “Do you think they’ll like me?” She touches her hair again.
    You can see how this dance has played out over the years. She’s lost her confidence, and that’s an awful thing in a woman. Sure, I’m a little beyond gentlemanly judgment, and my coarser nature somehow uncoupled when the boxcars between my skull and my private parts jumped the tracks, but, Christ damn it, a man’s still a man. “You’ll be the belle of the ball,” I say.
    I reach for my pocket watch. The chain got crushed in the accident, and the watch is stuck on seven minutes before twelve, and I can never figure if that’s noon or midnight. Either way, I reckon I’ll never reach it, so it don’t matter which.
    “Almost time?” she asks. She asks a lot of questions. That’s women for you. You can lop off their heads and still they keep yakking.
    “Pretty soon now,” I say, which is as safe a bet as any.
    And it probably will be soon. The sun still rises and falls regular, just like it did when I was in one piece, and right now it’s settling against the rounded hills, throwing a punkin-colored light across the trees. The horseshoe curve of the tunnel opening, at least on the sundown side, is outlined with light, and out beyond is all the promise of laughter, love, and life. That’s probably the worst trick of this condition, knowing there’s another way. Maybe there are folks like us out yonder cavorting and cutting up around graveyards and such, just drifting to hell and gone, whichever direction the wind blows. But me and her, all we got is Silver Run and time.
    The people usually come from the east end, where it’s darkest, but of course a tunnel runs both ways. I used to think life was just one long rail, running on and on, and all I had to worry about was raking chunks of coal from the tender, pushing the boiler gauge to the red, blinking cinders from my eyes. You don’t think much about the end of the line, and when you do, you usually picture it as a nice, easy rolling stop, engine chuffing and wheels creaking as you come up on a comfortable station with lots of friends on the platform to welcome you home. You don’t expect to trip over your big toe at full throttle and go ass-over-teakettle between the cars.
    But a fellow gets used to the notion, bye and bye. Leastways, I have. Or so I tell myself. What choice do I