Bridge of Clay(122)

“It’s you,” he said.

“It’s me…” But now she turned away from him. He’d have touched her auburn hair. “I’m here because you killed me.”

He sank in a channel of sheets.

In bed, but caught in a rip.



* * *



—

    After that, he returned to running, in mornings before work with me. His theory was perfect logic; the harder he ran, the less he ate, the more chance he might see her again.

The problem was only he didn’t.

“She’s dead.”

He quietly said it.



* * *



—

Some nights he walked to the cemetery.

His fingers would cling to the fence.

He would ache to see that woman again, from the start, from way back when—the one who’d asked for a tulip.

Where are you? he almost asked her.

Where are you now that I need you?

He’d have looked inside that streak she had, that wrinkle above her eyebrows.



* * *



—

Instead he ran to Bernborough.

He did this night for night.

In the end, a good few months went by, till he stood on the track at midnight. The wind was up and howling. There was no moon. Only streetlights. And Clay stood close to the finish line, then turned to the height of the grass.

For a moment he slid his arm in; it was cold and unfriendly to the hand. For a moment he heard a voice. Quite clearly, it called out Clay. For a moment he wanted to believe, and so “Carey?” he called in after it—but he knew there was no going in.

He just stood and he said her name—for hours, until the sunrise, and felt sure this would never recede. He would live like this and die like this, no sun would rise in him.

“Carey,” he whispered, “Carey,” and the wind slung all around him, till finally dying down.

“Carey,” he whispered, more desperately, then his final act of futility.

“Carey,” he whispered—“Penny.”

And someone out there heard it.





In the past, in the year they had for their friendship, there were times it was easy being Carey and Clay, and they lived upwardly, closely together. But still, there were so many moments. He would sometimes stop and remind himself: He shouldn’t be falling in love like this.

How could he feel deserving?

Yes, it’s safe to say they loved each other, on rooves, in parks, even cemeteries. They walked through the streets of the racing quarter, and were fifteen and sixteen years old; they touched but never kissed.

The girl was good and green-lit:

The clear-eyed Carey Novac.

The boy was the boy with the fire in his eyes.

They loved each other almost like brothers.



* * *



—

On the day of the phone book, they called each name from the top.

There was no initial starting with A, so they decided on calling all of them, and hoped for the chance of a relative.

The fourth one was the one.

His name was Patrick Hanley.

He said, “What? Who? Abbey?”

It was Carey, that time, who spoke, because they’d alternated the calling, name for name, and she’d been second and fourth. She’d forced Clay to go first. They both listened up close to the earpiece, and could tell by the suspicion in his voice—this was definitely it. The others had all been clueless. Carey said they were looking for a woman, and she’d come from a place called Featherton. The other end, however, hung up.

    “Looks like we’re going out there,” she said, and searched, again, for the address. “Ernst Place, Edensor Park.”



* * *



—

It was July by then, and she had a day off, a Sunday.

They caught the train and bus.

There was a field and a bike track footpath.

The house was in a corner, the right-hand side of a cul-de-sac.

At the door, he knew them right away.

They stared at him next to the brickwork.

He had dark hair, a black T-shirt, and an archway masquerading as a mustache.

“Wow!” said Carey Novac; she’d spoken before she’d realized. “Look at the size of that handlebar!”

Patrick Hanley wasn’t swayed.

When Clay found the courage to talk to him, his questions were met with a question: “What the hell would you want with my sister?”

But then he’d had a good look at him; and he looked a lot like him—Clay could see the moment it changed. Was Patrick remembering Michael, not only as a man Abbey married, but as the boy she’d walked the town with?

Regardless, things became friendlier, and introductions were made.

“This is Carey,” Clay said, “and I’m Clay—” and Patrick Hanley now stepped closer.

“Clay Dunbar,” he said quite casually; but he’d split them right down the middle. He’d said it, he didn’t ask.



* * *



—

She lived in a gorgeous apartment block:

She was several bright windows in a concrete Goliath—the capitalist type—and they went there a few weeks later (Carey’s next day free), on an August afternoon. They stood in its frightening shade.