Bridge of Clay(123)

    “It goes all the way up to heaven,” said Carey, and as usual, her hair was out. Her blood-spot freckles were jittery. “You ready?”

“No.”

“Come on, look at you!”

She slid a hand through so they linked arms, and they could have been Michael and Abbey.

Yet still, he didn’t move.

“Look at what?”

“You!”

As always she wore her jeans, and worn-out ones at that. Her flannel shirt was faded. A black jacket was loosely open.

She hugged him by the buzzers.

“I wouldn’t be listed, either,” she said, “if I lived in a place like this.”

“I think it’s the first time you’ve ever seen me in a shirt,” he said.

“Exactly!” She tightened their linking arms. “See? I told you. You’re ready.”

He typed in 182.



* * *



—

In the lift, he shifted his feet, he was so nervous he might throw up, but in the corridor he was better. It was rendered white, with dark blue trimmings. At its end was the greatest view of the city you could imagine. There was water everywhere—the salty kind—and a skyline that felt within reach.

On the right you could see the Opera House.

To its left was its constant running mate:

They looked from the sails to the Coathanger.

A voice stood up behind them.

“Goodness.”

Her eyes were sweet and smoky.

“You look exactly like him.”



* * *



—

Inside, the apartment was a woman’s.

There was no man there, no children.

It was somehow immediately obvious.

When they looked at the former Abbey Dunbar, they knew she was, and had been, beautiful. They knew she had great hair, good clothes, attractive in every way—but even so, there was love and loyalty; this was no Penelope. Nowhere even close.

    “Would you like a drink?” she asked.

They spoke together. “No thanks.”

“Tea? Coffee?”

Yes, her eyes were grey and glorious.

Her hair was as good as television—she had a bob to knock your socks off—and you needn’t look hard to see the girl again, as bony as a calf.

“What about milk and cookies?” said Carey, an attempt to lighten the mood. She played Abbey; she felt she had to.

“Hey, kid.” The woman smiled—this older version—and even her pants were perfect. That, and a priceless shirt. “I like you, but best be quiet.”



* * *



—

When Clay told me about all this, he said the funniest thing.

He said the TV was on, and there was the background noise of game shows. Where once she’d loved I Dream of Jeannie, now it seemed to be this. He couldn’t tell which show it was, but they were introducing the contestants, one of whom was Steve, and Steve was a computer programmer, whose hobbies were paragliding and tennis. He loved the outdoors and reading.

When they all sat down, and Carey had settled down, they talked for a while of small things—of school and work and how Carey was an apprentice jockey, but it was Clay who did the talking. Abbey spoke of his father, and what a beautiful boy he’d been, and how he’d walked that dog through Featherton.

“Moon,” said Carey Novac, but quietly, almost to herself.

Both Clay and Abbey smiled.

When Carey did actually come to speak louder again, it was to ask a burning question. “Did you ever get remarried?”

Abbey said, “That’s better,” and then, “Oh yes. I did.”

As Clay looked at Carey, thinking, Thank God you’re here, he also felt blind in the light. This place was so well lit! The sun came in so directly, and hit the modern couch, the mile-long oven, and even the coffee machine as if they were holy—but he could tell there wasn’t a piano. Again, she was all but nothing. He was staunch and would quietly fight it.

    As for Abbey, she looked out, she nursed her cup of coffee.

“Oh yes, I got remarried—I did it twice,” and abruptly, like she couldn’t wait any longer, she said, “Come here, I want to show you something,” and “Come on, I won’t bite,” when he hesitated, for she was leading him into the bedroom. “Here—”

And yes, here all right—because there, across from the bed, on a snippet of a piece of wall, was something to beat his heart down, then lift it slowly out of him: It was something so soft and simple, in a scratchy silver frame.

A picture of Abbey’s hands.

A sketch like sticks, but gentle.

Like sticks, but soft; you could lie in them.

She said, “He was seventeen, I’d say, when he drew that,” and Clay, for the first time, looked at her: beneath, to other beauty.

“Thank you for showing me,” he said, and Abbey would use the momentum. She could have no idea of Clay and Penny, and five brothers and noise and chaos, and fights about the piano; and dying. There was only the boy in front of her, and she intended to make it count.

She said, “How can I ever tell you, Clay?” She was between the boy and the girl. “I’d tell you how sorry I am, what a fool I was—but you’re here, and I can see it.” For a moment she looked at Carey. “Is this boy a beautiful boy?”