This Side of Brightness by Colum McCann Page A

God.”
    â€œThat’s about the dumbest thing I ever heard,” says Power.
    â€œWell, be that as it is, but it’s true.”
    â€œI hope I don’t go to no watery grave,” says Power. “Or if I do, at least let it be bourbon.”
    Walker steps away toward the side of the tunnel, then says, “Hey, you two! Come over here.”
    As the muckers come forward, they watch Walker dig down deep in his pocket and take out a ring of hammered gold. Walker rolls the ring between his thumb and forefinger for a moment, holds it to his eye, spies the tunnel through it, and then tosses it to the side of the tracks. The three muckers watch it roll and settle in the pebbles.
    â€œMaura O’Leary gave me that to leave here,” says Walker.
    â€œShe what?”
    â€œShe wanted it left here.”
    â€œWell, I’ll be,” says Power. “She just gave it to you to throw away?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œIt’s hers, ain’t it?”
    â€œIt is the ring of Maura?” asks Rhubarb, the Italian having learned some rudiments of the language since the accident.
    â€œSure is. Her wedding band. She took it off her finger this morning and gave it to me. Said she didn’t have the strength to come down here herself. Asked me to do it for her. Leave it here for Con. So’s he can buy his land from God.”
    â€œWell, knock me over,” says Power. “That’s a fine woman.”
    â€œSure as hell is.”
    â€œHow’s what’s-her-name? The youngster?”
    â€œEleanor,” says Walker. “The child’s growing like a weed.”
    â€œNo kidding?”
    â€œShe’ll be up and walking soon.”
    They stand complicitous in the silence and nod awkwardly, then glance away.
    â€œMy God, look at that,” mumbles Walker.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œLook at them candles,” he whispers.
    â€œWhich candles?”
    â€œLook at them candles moving.”
    At the end of the tunnel, the boys have tucked away the baseball and are tossing lighted candles. One by one the lights go out and then flare again with struck matches, all throwing deep-walled shadows in the distance. Power’s nephew stretches out his arm to catch one of the candles. Walker watches as the lights dance back and forth in the distant darkness. The workers and their families are lit by the shimmers. Slowly the lights fade. Randall stands stockstill at the head of the tunnel, fuming. One of the sandhogs snips the red ribbon as he walks past. Randall reties it himself with shaking hands. The last few yellow lights wink. The final candle gets thrown and is gone. Walker grips his thighs through his threadbare pockets, coughs, and whispers to his two friends.
    â€œThem candles,” he says, “is about the prettiest goddamn thing I seen in my entire life.”
    *   *   *
    â€œThey was just like fireflies.”
    â€œWhat’s a firefly?”
    â€œY’all never seen a firefly?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, I’ll be.”
    â€œWhat do they look like?”
    â€œThey flick like this. Ging ging. ”
    Eleanor repeats the sound. “Ging ging?”
    â€œWell, kinda. Excepting they don’t make any noise. They just flick with light. Mostly when they’s rising up from the grass. Ya don’t much see ’em flicking when they go down. That’s just the way it is. And sometimes ya can take one and pin it on a thorn-bush, and it’ll glow there for hours.”
    â€œGing ging.”
    â€œGing gingaroo.”
    â€œYou’re strange, Mister Walker.”
    â€œWhy, thank you.”
    â€œGing ging.”
    â€œGing gingaroo.”
    *   *   *
    He works the various tunnels of Manhattan, sometimes digging, sometimes blasting, sometimes toiling again with underwater jobs, sometimes carting blocks or bags or cement or rubble—always the most dangerous work, at the head of a