But he is badly broken. I hear an ocean in his chest where I lay my head to listen.

22 May

I wish I had not heard what he has told. I wish I had the moment back to switch the course of what did happen. Were I leaning over him once more and could see the struggle in his eyes, I would not say again, “Tell me, George.” But I thought it would be comfort for him to speak of it.

For several days now, he has been restless, crying out and then relapsing suddenly into a horrified silence, his eyes staring right through me. “There, Georgie,” I have tried to soothe him. “There, there.” But this morning, I thought to take a different tack and urged him forward. Once shown the way, he burst over.

“Hayden was working like a man possessed when I arrived, seemingly at every site in the quarry, overseeing Mr. Philbert, even filling in a hand when the teams were short.”

He coughed and grimaced. “At nights, we’d take supper with the Philberts, and Hayden drew out detailed maps of the rock face, tracing out the strongest fault lines. Computing how much explosive would be required.” He took some water, and Sue had come into the room, as though she had some sense of what was being told there.

He gathered some strength and continued. “For nearly two weeks, we worked this way, never speaking of what we knew. Indeed, hardly talking of anything save the business of granite. I did not like to cause him pain. I thought the best way to bring it up was not to speak of it at all, and so kept silent. I found myself wandering more and more out into the quarry at night. Eerie—quiet. That rock staring over me.” He paused then, clearly tired out. Susannah and I sat silently on either side of his bed.

“Some nights, I fancied I was not alone there, for the quarry, empty of its workers, becomes a kind of amphitheater.” He closed his eyes. “Some nights I thought I could hear voices.”

We waited while he rested. He began again, having gained some wind.

“That evening, I walked out to the quarry before supper—why, I do not know. To my shock, I saw a man standing there at the rim, dressed in his black coat and hat, his arms now raised above his head, now stretched in either direction, as if to make of his body a compass. I drew closer. I saw it was Hayden.”

George’s words strained forward against the braces of his poor breath. “For several minutes, he stood like that, mute, speaking to the rocks. I felt I must reach him quickly.” George choked. “I thought he meant to do himself some harm.”

“Hush, dear,” I said, the tears starting in my eyes.