The Woman

"Maybe I'll dream of a girl" the boy thought, settling into sleep."One that looks of caring, and of warmth and intelligence, and of generosity , and feels of all of those. Who holds me and smiles." But the boy, closing his eyes, could only think of one girl, or rather he made himself to think of only one , or rather again, he felt there was only one, and she so far from holding him and smiling. Nevertheless, his thoughts were warmed, and from there, was his body, and he drifted, enraptured, off to sleep. And his dreams were secreted away to him, as all dreams are, but let us hope that they were of he and her, this warm girl, and of love shared, and of fulfillment. As we drift off to soft fantasies secreted away to ourselves. And when we wake then, let us also draw ourselves up in reception to the possibilities of realization, rub the sleep thick from our eyes, and submit without loss of illusion , to routines. And so, when the boy woke , this is what he did.

He scratched his chest three times on his way to the shared bathroom, took two gulps of faucet water from cupped hands, spat the third back down the drain and splashed the fourth into his tired eyes, rubbing. Looked up into the mirror, met the reflection's gaze, felt vain for looking at all, dried his face in a towel and, tossing it haphazardly aside, shuffled down the dim main stairway and out the front door. Here, he lit three cigarettes in succession and dragged them to their butts. Midway through his first, he opened his mouth and said something. "The morning feels the same." He thought , aloud. He had no reason at all to think it would change so suddenly in a day, to something somehow different than morning. Nor had he wished it to change, nor had he believed it ever would. The thought had just been there. Speech had plucked it and expelled it on clouds of smoke from between his lips, into the pale morning. Here, it fell as a whisper on his own ears and was lost among trees and grass and street and sky, finding no other ears to run about in. The Boy was thankful. He could stand all but the sounds of his own malaise echoing in the ears of present or passerby. The other two (and a half) cigarettes he exhaled in a half-forced silence. Somewhere near the filtered end of his third cigarette he dragged hard, and hearing the crackle of burning paper, flicked it spinning into the wood, turned on a heel, opened the door with a fleeting thought that this might somehow start a fire, and stepped in, not caring if it did.

November had wrought its chill on everything the boy could see out of his second floor window. Trees that shined in summer, full of leaves and of soft sounds and majestic movements, seemed now as ghosts of themselves, which shook in the cold breezes of morning, shivering and clattering dead branches together. Without glancing down, he turned the hot plate to "full heat" and set a small sauce pan of water upon it. From his closet, beneath the draped shirt, he produced the small metal box, and from it, removed two of the three eggs. These he dropped gently into the water and watched collect tiny bubbles, which rose from the bottom and clung to their brown shells. He turned, satisfied, and from the armchair retrieved his coveralls, laying them gently on the bed. Next to these he sat as he slid on work pants, thermal shirt, mended suspenders that didn't look as if they could hold up anything at all, and grey and black argyle socks. He paused for several moments in almost perfect silence, for now the pot was frothing audibly, shook him self back to reality, and carefully, so that his pant legs and shirt sleeves would not bunch, put on his coveralls. Half-silence now, again. His arms clenching his front, he slowly zipped his zipper as if hypnotized by the sound. He finished, and staring off into space solemnly sank his arms to his sides, placing palms flat against the bed. Then, he rose.

"Mustn't let the pot boil over."

He returned to the sill and found the eggs boiled. Removed them from the water with a coat hanger, which served only this purpose, and placed them in a waiting cloth, where they sat, cooling. Now he remembered something, as he turned about to view the emptiness of his room, and it pained him silently. He gathered the eggs, placing them in a paper napkin he'd taken from a delicatessen some weeks earlier, slid them into his tin lunch box and clasped the catches closed. Then he made his bed. Sliding into his boots, he tied them in double-knots, stood, opened the door, and before pulling it closed, glanced behind him at the clean straight lines of the large bed, the undisturbed pillows, and then around the room, into the half empty closet. The light on, he could see wire hangers perched in a neat row on the rod, quite still. He crossed the room and reaching in, pulled the string which dangled, then shut the door on the darkened cavity. Crossing the room again, he softly whispered to himself. "Goodbye."And then again, audibly, echoing in the room."Goodbye."He shut the door behind him. Stepped down the dim main stair, and flung himself out the front door. Outside, a howling whistle sounded in the distance.

On the way to work, he stopped at the grocery next to the bus stop. He bought a hard roll, a glass bottle of lemonade which the label had called "Fresh-Squeezed," and three stalks of celery. These he packed into his tin lunch box, and found that the glass bottle would not fit.

The bus rattled along the dirt road, and the boy slid uncomfortably about on the leather seat, trying hard to steady himself by clenching the seat back in front of him. He bumped and slid and jumped the whole way up the long dirt road , and struggled harder still to stay in the seat as the bus came to an abrupt stop at the turnout. Here the boy stood and exited, as the whistle sounded a second time. He took his place in line and never looked up.

At the supply locker he took a crowbar, pick, and helmet a size too large, checked its lamp on the palm of his hand, and satisfied all was in working order, signed each out on the equipment roster. Then he took a card from the slot which bore his name, stamped it in the time clock, replaced it, placed his lunch box in a cubby below, and walked across the yard, into the shaft elevator.

As the elevator bore him down into darkness, "Like closing my eyes," he often thought, he remembered something someone had told him, sometime. He had told the man that he had got a job, and the man had asked him where he had, and he had told the man where, and the man had chuckled. In warning the boy, the man said

"It's nothing but dead ends down there." The boy had listened, but ignored, because he had thought then, and many times since, that it was something else for him entirely. Not at all "Dead ends." In fact, he regarded it "No ends at all," and "Rather like making my own way."

A third of the way down the shaft, the pale daylight had all but pinched out entirely. And here, the boy clicked on his helmet lamp. Small chips of stone and blackness danced about the toes of his boots, and he could feel the rattle of the elevator in his back and knees. More and more darkness passed outside of the light of his lamp. And he rode the elevator further and further downward. It hummed and rattled and shook, and he rode it downward, and it shook, and finally, it stopped.The boy gathered his pick and crowbar and shuffled out of the elevator, into the tunnel. With quickening steps he passed the hoses which squirted water from pinhole leaks, trying in vain to dodge what streams of flying water he could, and was wet anyway. He moved on with the marching silhouettes, passed the turning drill, lept over the cart path swiftly between cars, and paused, squinting through clouds of billowing dust, remembering he had forgotten his safety goggles. These he retrieved an extra pair of from the emergency box, and then, with unobstructed vision, found his dig.

Here he slung for three and a third hours, over and again with his pick . Then wiped his neck with his sleeve, shoveled what bits of brittle black he could into the waiting cart, and took again to picking. At three and a half hours, he lifted his pick with both arms, pausing at the apex of his swing, and brought it down with an unusual force. The pick fell awkwardly here, and with a cracking noise clattered off the wall , twisting the boy's wrists in trying to keep it straight, forcing difficult maneuvers to keep the pick from escaping his grasp entirely. He gathered himself, regrouped, straighted his grip, and repeated the gesture. Now, he was met by a clear ringing and reverberation, like a tiny bell sounding in the vast clamor of the shaft. The boy felt the echoes in the joints of his arms, and stopping , he stared at the wall in silence. Around him picks fell and drills turned, and all about was noise. He stood and wiped his brow, breathing heavily. Then he placed the pick on its side and kneeled before the wall. His helmet lamp burned a yellow circle of light, and clearing away what dust and debris he could, he saw in harsh relief the obstacle, which shone out a clear white in the black wall. It was matte, not at all shiny, perfectly smooth, and for what limited examination a few moments pause could give him, flawless in complexion. As he kneeled marveling, A whistle sighed.

The boy ate the two eggs and three celery stalks in silence, washed the hard roll down with lemonade from the glass bottle, which did not taste "Fresh-Squeezed," and lit a cigarette which he dragged on while eyeing two others in the paper pack. A grey sky had gathered in afternoon and the biting cold whistled past on the swift wind, stinging the boys face. He squinted, sucked at the cigarette from between numbing fingers sullied with dirt, took another gulp of lemonade from the bottle, and corking it, placed it back into the cubby, alongside his tin lunchbox. Then he stood, stomped out the cigarette and walked to the bathhouse. The tiled bathroom was bitterly cold even without wind, and the boy ran hot water to warm his hands. He soaped them from the greying bar on sink, and as he plunged them back under the scalding water, glanced upward to the mirror.

Black dust encrusted his upper lip in two stripes, each below a nostril. His mouth was encircled with it, and it gathered thickly about his eyes, blackening his eyebrows to smudges, highlighting every wrinkle and crevice. As he scrubbed his face vigorously, he thought of the perfect white stone, unblemished. Untouched by the black.

"Beautiful."

The thought escaped his lips. He scrubbed harder, and when he had scrubbed his face raw, looked again, wildly into the mirror. His reflection stared back an irritated red, wet and glistening. He turned from the mirror and took a paper towel. Drying his face thoroughly he pitched the used towel into the wastebin and without a glance backward, pushed through the door. The wind met him on the outside of the bathhouse , and cut around him. He took several paces out into the yard and stared at the dead grass that paled under his feet. After a time, the whistle screamed behind him.

In the elevator with his helmet on, he smiled as he heard the sliding door lock. The boy jumped as the elevator shook loose lowering itself down the shaft. He delighted in the gathering darkness. The bits of rock and black danced around his boots with excitement. The elevator shook at every foot closer to bottom. He closed his eyes.

At bottom he stepped out and fastened his helmet tightly about his chin. Slipping the safety goggles about his eyes, he moved to his dig. As he arrived, he saw the white stone peering from the black wall. With great care he began to chisel bits of rock from about it's sides with his crowbar, and chiseled, and again. And with each bit the stone grew and it's white expanse emerged from the black. Pausing, the boy looked at the shape. It was ovoid, and familiar, in the light of his helmet lamp. It was a face, but not any face, a woman's, and at that, the most beautiful carving he had ever seen. Smooth with soft lines, a woman's face with closed eyes. And every inch a perfect smooth surface. He could not find a single blemish. In the lamplight, he wiped his hands on his chest, and with shaking fingers, brushed it clear, admiring it's beauty. And then with vigor, he took up his crowbar again, and in great strokes he began to take large chunks from about the face. The pieces fell with clattering noises in a pile of gathering size at his feet. Soon a hand, with slender fingers. More stones. A neck that met the shoulders with strength and soft grace. Her open arms. The stones reached his knees now. Her subtle smile. A reassuring concern. And when the cart came for stone he piled them in. But never did his focus waiver from revealing the figure. He worked with enormous intensity, and sweat dripped from his forehead and soaked the coveralls down his chest, and he did not notice the whistle howl, or the sounds of picks stop, or the drills stop turning. He only saw his lamplight and the white stone face of the woman. What passed by him outside the light of his helmet lamp, was separated by clouds of obscuring dust, and also by his focus. It did not exist.

When he had finished a woman stood, revealed, he turned to ask for help in removing her from the wall and found he was alone, in darkness. His lamplight flickered. He sat. exhaustion over came him. Slumped in the dim light of his helmet lamp, the boy looked at the face of his alabaster woman. It was cold in the tunnel, and quiet. He folded his arms and stared intently on her. Her eyes were closed and try as he might, he could not help but think of how cold it was in the damp dark. She listened. Looking about quickly, he pulled the cigarettes from his breast pocket. The woman held out her arms. As he went to light one, he realized his surroundings. He put the lighter back into his pocket. The helmet lamp flickered. The alabaster woman seemed to blink in the dark. He sat holding himself for warmth. The helmet lamp flickered again. The was silent. Four hours. He could not bear to abandon his stone beauty. Four more hours He stood, shook himself, and danced for warmth, staring at her calm face. Eyes closed, arms outstretched, robes hung from her arms in draped lines, fragile wrists shown through bits of garment. Her smile. He exhaled, shivering.

"Waiting in silence."

He mumbled through trembling lips. He bent over and picked up his helmet, placed it atop his head and fastened the chin strap. The light grew dimmer still. He felt for his cigarettes. He stood shaking, staring. His lungs hurt, the cold air and the damp and the dust and smoke hurt them. He danced again. And again. The pain grew to an ache. He clutched his chest and tried to massage the ache away. The woman did not look. The ache stayed. He danced again and panted heavily. The helmet lamp flickered. He wanted a cigarette. The cold air burned his nostrils and his eyes teared. He sat again, and rubbed his arms. The woman listened. He bent and picked up his pick and crowbar, and turned. He began to find his way back to the elevator. Something pained him silently. He walked several paces, turned back and saw the pale shape of the woman with welcoming arms in the dark, and then kept going.

In the cold morning the elevator rattled metallically down the shaft, echoing, and when it reached bottom, the boy walked through the parted crowd of passengers that stood staring, and rode it back to the surface. As the light grew, the elevator shook and rattled and the bits of rock and black danced about the boy's shoes. He looked up, and the shaft opened up to morning sky. At the top, he slid the metal door open, and walked against the gathering crowd. He returned his helmet, pick and crowbar to the equipment locker and signed them in, reinserted his card in the time clock and returned it to the slot, stooped to retrieve his lunch box and lemonade, found the lemonade frozen, and threw it away.

He stood at the turnout, waited for an arriving bus to unload, then boarded and took a seat in the back and stared out the window. The bus jumped and bumped down the dirt road in the early morning sunlight. The bus was warm, and the boy felt his heat returning. At the grocery store he stepped out, bought a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, and a bag of oranges. At the checkout he smiled at a clerk who didn't look up. He carried the groceries down the street in paper sacks, and when he reached the boarding house he placed them down on a bench in the front yard near the road. He felt about in his pockets for the pack of cigarettes and on finding it, he paused, thinking, then placed the empty pack gingerly back into his breast-pocket and picking up his groceries entered the house.

He stripped his cold dirty clothes and shoes, folded them neatly and placed them in a stack by the door, retrieved a towel from the closet, and went to the shared bathroom. Here, he turned the shower on at full velocity and heat. The steam drew growing fog across the window and mirror, and soon the room was bathed in an ambient glow. The boy stepped a numbed foot into the iron tub, immersing it in the cascade of burning water, winced as it came back into feeling, inhaled sharply and plunged the rest of his body in. He sat on the floor of the tub for what seemed to him many minutes, watching the scoured dirt come of his body in snaking trails which eventually wound their way swirling into the drain, until at last no more could be washed from him. Then he stood, turned off the pelting water, and began to towel himself dry. He wiped the fog from the mirror and looked. The reflection was clean. He wet his toothbrush and brushed violently, rinsed, brushed again, rinsed, and then spat. He left the door to the shared bathroom and ajar.

Returning to his room, he found it warm and bright. He walked to the window, gently let the curtains down, and watched the room grow dark. He turned, removed the metal box, opened it, placed the hunk of cheese inside, and replaced it. The bread and oranges he left in folded paper bags on the table beneath the window. Then, he crawled into his bed and pulled the thick blankets in about him. His face wreathed in the bedding, he stared across the open expanse of the bed next to him and as he slid his arm outward across it, beneath the blanket he smiled a slight smile, closing his eyes. And he slowly drifted off to dreaming.