Flickering
orange light belied the uncomfortable stillness in the small room.
Snow continued to fall as we sat in our aging rockers by the round
tin stove. I was warm, but the work awaited my attention. I turned.
"I need a favor."
Murray raised an eyebrow but
continued to stare into the fire. Sitting upright, he rested his
thick hands on his lap. Murray had no need of a blanket.
"You know that I would be the
first to step up if you asked, Murray. You know I would, don't
you?" I started. "I'm like that around my colleagues, Murray.
With my friends."
My shift-mate's gaze did not
falter. He fixated on the flames almost as if he could draw the
warmth from the stove into his body directly through his eyes.
"After all, Murray, it is my
birthday. My forty-sixth anniversary, my dear friend. You wouldn't
want to deny me a small kindness on my birthday. Would you, Murray?"
The wind rattled the threadbare
windows. I could make out the trees on the other side of the tracks.
The six-foot switch signal and stand were still visible, but the snow
was starting to climb. I shifted and adjusted the blanket on my
shoulders.
Murray spoke. His eyes remained
fixed on the flames.
"Better get diggin'. Telegraph
be startin' up soon. Don't pay to have them points frozen when
the letters be sent through. No engine master will wait on your sorry
scruff to get the Bull Moose turning."
I stared at Murray.
"No. Of course not. I was impolite
to ask." I rose from my chair. "A favor is for lovers. I forgot
myself, Murray. Forgive me, friend."
I grabbed the shovel by the door and
walked out into the storm. The five o'clock was steaming on its
way.
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