Evelyn

I remember the light in her eyes the way the sun hit them in the morning. They were an oak forest and my soul seemed to walk an eternal bliss looking into them.

She told me her name was Evelyn. Many men knew her by many names. Many nights they’d fight one another just to lay beside her. I’ve had my ass whooped a few times.

She had a high lonesome glare in her face before walking a man to her room, like the sound of railroad whistle, or the shine of a moon and sleepless wolves far off.

There were nights when her face was bruised, she had cuts on her hands and her neck. Old man Crews hollering at her for this or that. Yanking her every which way.

I asked her before why she does it. She said it’s better than the Reservation.

We’d talk all night about dying and becoming stars, the fire in our souls, the breath of peace. All that, like after a long night there will be a greatorning forever. I never spoke with anybody about such things.

I worked all week for the railroad, camping out, scraps for food, just to spend one night with her at the end of each month.

Her touch was like being born anew.

The last time I went into New West she was not there.

They found her in her room, dead. Nobody said what had happened.

Only a few were at her burial. The preacher read some verses, asked the almighty for forgiveness, then the groundskeepers stumbled a bit and laid her down. Packed the dirt down. The preacher tried singing. I never heard the song birds so clear as I did that day leaving the cemetery.

I still think about her, most days, working in the heat, thinking about seeing her again in some other place.

I can see her smiling in the mornings, sunlight seeping through the windows. Her holy face.