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Blue Skies by Stephen Graf
Blue skies. That’s what Lambert kept imagining. Sure, he thought of his mother, his siblings, and his buddies back in Pittsburgh, but since the batteries to his flashlight had burned out a few hours earlier, what he found his thoughts returning to again and again was sunshine and blue skies. It’s not uncommon for a miner to fantasize about sunny weather, especially during the winter months when the only time he might see the light of day would be before reporting to work in the morning, and on weekends – if it came out. So as he huddled under an overturned haulage car, with an entire mine shaft collapsed on top of him, he wondered if he’d ever see daylight again. And he thought of blue skies. - - - It had never been Lambert’s intention to enter the mines. His father had worked as a miner his entire adult life, and Lambert had seen up-close what mining had done to him. He had a permanent stoop in his posture from hunching over in those narrow mine shafts, and there was a layer of soot around the edges of his face, and on his hands that no amount of washing seemed to remove. When he wasn’t working he shuffled around like a man twenty years his senior. And there was the cough. It was a hollow, rattling, hacking cough with which he would awaken the entire house at all hours of the night for bouts lasting up to half an hour. He’d died in a cave-in when Lambert was twelve years old. So while Lambert had never been entirely sure what he wanted to do in life, he was always absolutely certain of what he did not want to do. - - - When he’d reported for work at seven o’clock that morning, everyone was in good spirits, joking around like normal. There had been nothing to indicate that disaster loomed. Outside, the sun was spreading out orange and red against a brilliant, blue sky. Of course, catastrophes rarely come with adequate foreshadowing, that is part of what makes them catastrophic. In the utility shack, as he and his eight fellow crew members dressed and equipped themselves for their shift, the banter flew freely. - - - Lambert was on the small side, standing only five feet six inches and weighing less than one hundred and forty pounds, but that wasn’t why the men in his crew called him “Little Lambert.” He was also the youngest man in the crew by more than ten years, but that wasn’t the reason, either. They did it to avoid confusion. Many of the men in his crew had also worked with his father. So whenever they referred to his father, which was with an unusual frequency for a man who’d been dead for nearly twelve years, he was “Big Lambert.” From old photographs Lambert knew his father had been no larger than he was now. But perhaps the combination of the passing of time and the fertilization of their memories had enabled Lambert’s father to grow in stature in the minds of his former crewmates. Whatever the reason, his father was Big Lambert, which made him Little Lambert. Lambert didn’t mind, of course, because in a way it helped to keep the memory of his father alive. But after nearly two years in the crew, he sometimes wondered what it would take for him to be just plain “Lambert.” - - - The cave-in occurred a few hours later. There was no explosion; Lambert simply heard a crash further down the mineshaft, and then the crashing began to move his way. Although he’d never been through a major cave-in, he did not need to be told what was happening. There was no time to run as he was nearly a quarter-mile underground and the shaft was not high enough for him to stand upright. Nor was there time even to call out to his fellow crewmembers. He could hear the cave-in rapidly working it’s way up the shaft toward him like the fall of a line of dominoes. Desperately glancing around, he saw an empty, heavy, iron haulage cart, which was normally used for transporting coal out of the mine. Mustering all of his strength, he pulled the heavy iron cart over top of himself, and curled up in a fetal position underneath, waiting to be crushed to death. Lambert, who’d always been the smallest kid in his class going through school, found he was truly thankful for the first time in his life for his diminutive stature. A taller man would never have fit under that cart. Moments later the roof overhead gave way, and then continued up the shaft, almost to the mouth of the mine. - - - After his father’s death, Lambert’s mother took him and his five brothers and sisters to live with her sister in Pittsburgh. The friends he made there simply assumed that he didn’t talk because of what happened to his father. He never bothered to disabuse them of that misconception, but it simply was not true. Lambert had always rationed his words, like they were fresh water and he was a castaway adrift on a raft at sea. His father had also been taciturn. Because of that, they’d understood each other perfectly. The two could be together for hours fishing, or building something, or just watching TV, without either of them saying a word. They communicated volumes through their silences. - - - When the dust had settled, Lambert tried to push the cart off of himself, but to no avail. The entire roof had crashed on top of it, and there was no escaping. So even though he was uninjured, he was going to be trapped in place until someone dug him out. Or until … but Lambert didn’t want to think about that option. The first thing he did was call out to Shibbowitz, who’d been working closest to him, about fifty yards further down the shaft: “Shibby, you OK? Shibbowitz?” - - - Lambert had just turned twelve when his father died, so they said he was too young to really understand. But he understood. What was there not to understand? His father was going underground again, only this time he wasn’t coming back up. There’d been an explosion caused by methane gas and the mineshaft his father was working in had given way. His family didn’t know for certain that he was dead until the rescue crew had finally managed to dig out his remains almost two days later. Lambert thought it would’ve been better if they could’ve just known for certain right away. The extra day and a half did not give them time to prepare for the inevitable. Instead, it provided them an opportunity to pray for a miracle that was never going to come. It raised their slim hopes, only to make the truth when it finally came that much more crushing. - - - Eventually, through his continued existence and the intuitive application of Cartesian logic, Lambert ascertained there was no gas leak. It wasn’t entirely a relief; at least a gas leak would’ve been a quick, fairly painless way to go. The moaning from his trapped coworker still had not ceased, although it was becoming fainter and less frequent. Lambert would call out from time to time—it was more than he’d spoken in two years on the job. But there was never any response. Eventually, the moaning ceased altogether, which was a relief. It also made Lambert feel guilty because he realized that for hours he’d secretly been yearning for that to happen. Only after he’d gotten his wish did he realize that the silence was worse. - - - The coroner said his father had died immediately. All of his organs had been crushed by several tons of rock and dirt; rendering his death instantaneous. Lambert hoped that was the case. If he had to go, it was good that it was quick. Even though his death was an accident, his father had not been entirely unprepared for it. He’d mentally readied himself for just such a contingency every single day before he descended into the mines. Lambert understood that now, because he’d prepared himself the same way. It’s not an accident when a miner dies; it’s an accident if he lives. - - - Lambert’s muscles began to cramp painfully after a couple hours. He may have been short, but the cart was considerably shorter. So he found himself folded up like a ventriloquist dummy in its suitcase. There was no way of stretching; besides, he was leery of jostling around too much for fear of causing the rocks above him to shift and somehow worsen his plight. If that were possible. There was no need to conserve his flashlight’s batteries since the only way he was getting out was if someone came and got him out. So he left his flashlight on, even though there was nothing to be seen inside that tiny haulage cart. He kept it lighted to fend off the darkness, and the unspeakable things that lurked within it. The darkness was a hunger that devoured everything it touched. It had already taken his father, and had probably taken Shibbowitz, Murphy, and the rest of his crew. It was a hunger that could never be satiated. Now he could feel its hot, wet breath on his neck. - - - In an attempt to pass the time, Lambert tried picturing his father’s face, but he found he wasn’t able. It had only been twelve years, but he was just a boy when his father died. He could recollect his father’s laugh, and the safe, comfortable, happy way he felt when they were together. He could even see his father’s silhouette: mining helmet under one arm, his lunch pail in the other hand as he marched off to work. But when he tried to draw up the specific features of his face, he was unable. He realized he needed a photograph now to visualize his father’s face. He wondered how long it would take the people he’d known to forget his face. - - - After about eight hours, the flashlight inevitably gave out. Everything slowed even further after that. The minutes passed like hours, and the hours dragged on like days. Lambert discovered that time moves differently in the dark. It has a weight, an almost palpable presence like the slow drippings of water from the mine ceiling above him. And in the utter blackness of the mineshaft, time seemed to grind almost to a halt—like the faltering heartbeat of a dying man. - - - Buried alive is a bit of an oxymoron. After all, it’s a transitive state at best. The person buried may still be breathing, struggling to cleave to life like a drowning man taking one last gulp of air before he plunges under; nevertheless, in most cases, he is as good as dead. How many people escape such circumstances? Sure, there are always stories in the news of the handful of people fortunate enough to be rescued from their plight. And because those are the only stories most people see, they are led to believe that such cases are the norm. But that is not so. The truth is they represent only a small fraction – a lucky few. The thousands more who did not escape are never heard from because there is no one to tell their story. Death is the final, most stifling form of censorship. Even if their story is ever reported, it gets buried in the back pages of the newspaper because, without the miraculous escape, it contains no human-interest angle. Humans are interested in life, not death. - - - Nearly forty-eight hours had passed by the time Lambert first heard the picks of his rescuers, digging his way. In those two days, he’d died a thousand deaths. Yet he hadn’t seriously entertained the prospect of his own demise until he heard his rescuers drawing near. Then, every possible mishap ran through his head. Finally, they punched through. Lambert spotted a light shining through a hole in the rocks. It was the first illumination of any kind he’d seen since his flashlight burned out more than a day and a half earlier. From behind the glow, a voice Lambert didn’t recognize called out to him: “You okay in there, buddy?” - - - “You go on home, Lambert,” the foreman told him with a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Take a couple days off and you’ll feel better. Your job will be waiting for you.” |
