This Side of Brightness by Colum McCann

beef.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œThe doctors saved his ass, though.”
    â€œDid he have a glass eye too?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œPity.”
    They stop and look up at the sheet of gray concrete that coats the ceiling. Power leans on his cane and takes a flask of bourbon from his pocket. He sips at it, passes it back to Walker.
    â€œUnc, is the river up there?”
    â€œYeah. Right above us.”
    â€œWow! Can I go fishing?”
    â€œNone of your wisecracks,” says Power. “See here? A guy called Sarantino broke his finger in the bolt fastener right there. Popped it in, almost lost the damn thing. After wiping sweat off his forehead. His finger slipped. You can’t imagine how hot it was every day.”
    â€œIt’s cold now, Unc.”
    â€œI know it’s cold now, but it was hotter than hell.”
    â€œCan I put a penny on the tracks?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œTo make it flat when the train comes.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œWhen the train comes we’ll be gone.”
    â€œAwww.”
    â€œWe’ll have some silence now.”
    â€œWhy’s that?”
    â€œSomeone’s going to say a prayer.”
    â€œA prayer, Uncle Sean?”
    Power points at Walker. “Yeah, a prayer.”
    â€œThe nigger?”
    â€œHe ain’t a nigger, son, he’s a sandhog.” Power coughs. “Hush up now, son, and listen.”
    A few of the men and their families drift off and form their own prayer groups.
    â€œGo ahead, Nathan,” says Power. “Hit us with some holy stuff.”
    Walker clasps his hands together, asks the people to bow their heads and, instead of saying a prayer, to silently remember all the dead.
    Walker unclasps his hands and puts his fist over his heart. Vannucci stands stockstill. Power closes his eyes. A two-minute silence is interrupted only by Power’s nephew scuffing his shoes on the track until he is smacked on the head by his uncle. The boy lowers his head sheepishly.
    The remainder is like the silence of having forgotten something very important, then remembering it and reliving it all at once.
    Once the prayer is finished with a loud “Amen,” Power moves down the tunnel, sipping from the silver flask as he goes. His limp is more pronounced now as he moves, and he is happy to have the other men’s wives look at him with sympathy.
    The baseball pitching resumes. A bottle of sarsaparilla is shared among the children: a great treat, they swish it around in their mouths before swallowing. Some women place flowers at the edge of the tracks, and more candles are lit beside the bouquets. Midway in the tunnel the men shake hands, welders searching out other welders, waterboys chatting with other water-boys. The muckers know each other from the day the two halves of the tunnel met. Bottles of champagne were smashed against the Greathead Shield that day. The men share cigarettes—no compressed air now, so the smokes last a long time.
    Power’s nephew goes running up the tunnel to throw the baseball with the other boys.
    After a while the three muckers are left standing alone. At eye level in front of Walker is the spot that was once riverbed, where he was stuck before he was blown free. He reaches his hand out and tries to catch air in his palm, as if he could hold it, taste it, stop it, re-create the moment. Vannucci stands beside him. Above them somewhere, they are not sure where, is the body of Con O’Leary.
    â€œWish Con could see that baseball flying,” says Power. “He sure’s hell would like that. He’d get one helluva kick from that.”
    â€œHe sure would.”
    Another silence and they stare up at the ceiling, each of them with their hands in their pockets.
    â€œY’all know why pirates used to wear gold earrings?” says Walker.
    â€œWhy’s that?”
    â€œSo’s they could buy a plot of land from