"Time to git. This mine is played out, Morgan." Stan wore the same clothes he’d worn as long as Morgan could remember: baggy wool pants suspendered over a dirty-as-the-devil’s-face Sunday shirt. He had on a worn, pin-striped vest over the shirt and suspenders. White granite dust stained his black Palmade hair. "I’m leaving. Come with me."
"Can’t," Morgan said. They sat at the center table of the Hammer and Drill Hotel. Flora owned the place, and Morgan watched the stairs that ran up the side of the dining room to the second floor where all the rooms but hers were empty. "I can’t leave until she leaves, and I don’t think she’s leaving today."
"Come on, Morgan. It’s been past quitin’ time for us for almost seventy years. We’re the only ones left. Everybody’s moved along. Everybody."
"You’re here."
"Cause we’re partners. You and me. We’re it."
"She’s still here." Morgan nodded toward the stairs.
"She ain’t the same, Morgan. You know the way of it. Look around. Rats and weeds."
Morgan didn’t need to look. He knew every cobweb on the six cold kerosene lamps hung in a wrought-iron chandelier over the table. He had every mote of dust memorized. It was so thick on the floor and stairs that you could see the mouse tracks — except where she came down the stairs every day. She always came down the stairs in exactly the same way — with gentle grace, stolid dignity, and an air of gratitude for another day of life. He couldn’t leave her. She hadn’t left him.
"She’ll be awake soon," Morgan said.
"And you’ll dog her heels all day, mooning after her like she might some day look at you and actually see you."
"She loves me. I love her. It’s the way of things, Stan."
"You’re the most stubborn old sack of mine dust I ever had the knowing of." Stan stood. "I’ll leave you here."
Morgan looked his old partner in the eye and nodded. "I can’t leave," he said, and it was a fact the same as it’s a fact that the sun comes up, that birds fly south, and that snow will melt come spring. "You go on, Stan. You deserve better’n waiting for us."
Stan smiled. He winked. He nodded.
That smile told Morgan that even a cynical old soul like Stan had a little hope in his heart for love. Stan turned and headed for the Hotel’s heavy, rust-hinged doors.
Morgan looked back to the top of the stairs. She’d be along soon.
The hinges squealed. The white light flashed into the Hotel for a moment, and Morgan knew Stan was gone. Stan. How long had they been partners? As long as Morgan could remember. Stan had held the drill for Morgan, had trusted him to bring the hammer down clean and straight — trusted his clear eye, steady hand, and strong heart. Seemed like they’d known each other their whole lives.
Stan was gone. It was just Flora and him left.
Flora strode out of her room and across the hallway to the head of the stairs. "Good morning," she said. She said it the same way she said it every morning, like she was talking to a Hotel full of folks and like she had a whole flock of happy meadow larks hiding in her breast.
She wasn’t as fast as she’d once been, but he guessed she had a dance or two left in her. Her face showed the years of mountain sun and hard living, but she was still the woman he’d fallen in love with, the force of nature that kept him here.
"We’re going out today," she said.
He nodded. They went out every day.
She was dressed for it, wearing pants and boots that looked too heavy for her delicate legs to lift. She wore a plaid wool coat and she had a small pack on her back. Her long, gray hair was tied off in a pony tail, and she came down the stairs a little heavy.
"To the mine?" he asked.
Like always, she swept past without answering.
She didn’t need to answer. He followed.
#
Fall wasn’t full up the mountain yet, but the wildflowers at the edge of town were past and gone a month. Up higher, beyond the mine, the snow held the world in slumber. The mine road was clear, of course. It had been cut in the south face so early snow would melt and the pass would open quick come spring.
She walked slow, but she walked determined, and she was heading to the mine.
"Late in the season, old girl," he said.
She kept walking.
"Maybe you should let it go till spring," he said.
"The flowers are so pretty," she said.
"Clouds coming in over the ridge," he said. "Please?"
She stopped and sat on a rock. The rock was worn clean of lichen and dust from her sitting on it so many times over the years. She pulled her water bottle from her pack. Every day for yet another summer, she’d climbed up that trail to the mine. Every day, he’d told her to let it go.
She was more stubborn than he was. "We should leave," he said.
She stood up, corked her bottle, set it down on her rock, and left it.
"Your water?"
She didn’t look back.
He hurried to catch up.
#
The first time she’d gone to the mine, he’d tried to help her. She pulled and prodded at the rocks. Her hands had bled.
He’d known it was pointless. The cave-in was huge, deep, and settled. She could have dug at it for a lifetime and never made a dent.
Still, he’d seen her there crying, tears cutting tracks through the white dust on her perfect, pink cheeks. He’d seen the sun pulling the red highlights out of her hair. He’d seen the cracks in her manicured nails. He wanted to cry too. Instead, he’d bent to try and help.
How many years ago?
Didn’t matter.
He was glad of every hike up to the hole he’d ever made with her. He was glad she never listened to him, never turned back, never left the Hotel.
Every day of every summer of every year, she’d gone up there to pull stones from that hole. He’d finally quit trying to help and just watched — him and sometimes Stan.
Today, early fall, chilly, and a storm coming over — she pulled at the rocks again. She didn’t move the bigger ones the way she had in years gone by, but she pulled at the little ones, and one-by-one she undermined the bigger ones until they rolled away. Determined and persistent. Stubborn as hell. God, he loved her. Someday, she’d see how much he loved her.
A single snowflake warned him. He saw it long before she knew the snow was coming. It was high in the morning sun. The sparkle caught his eye. Bright and flashing, the snowflake twirled and fell. It was perfect. Like his love for her, it was persistent against the bright light and different than any other.
"Snow. We should go."
She dug.
The snow fell in earnest, and the light of the sun disappeared behind a dark wall of cold clouds.
She knelt beside her pile of rocks and looked up at the sky. "I won’t leave without him," she said.
The snow fell. She dug.
Finally, she rested, sitting with her back against a rock. Her face, once pink and beautiful and full of life was more ashen and pale than he had ever seen it. Her breath clouded up in short puffs in front of her face.
He went to her. Sat beside her. Wrapped his arms around her.
The snow fell hard and fast. She closed her eyes. She sighed long and deep.
"Morgan?" she asked.
"I’m here," he said.
"I did it," she said. "I finally dug you out."
"We should go," he said.
She stood up from her wasted body. She was bright and light and spring on the rise. She was his love, the spring blossom in his mine tailings. He’d waited a lifetime for her.
He took her hand and they turned. The white light shone through the blizzard, and together they followed Stan and the others.
© 2009 By Erika Marshall
Erika Marshall has sold many stories under several names. She currently lives in Oregon with her saintly and supportive mate, a cat that chases ghosts, a long-suffering akita/lab mix that exudes perpetual disgust about the cat, and 9 months of foul weather that keeps her indoors writing for most of the year.
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