Bridge of Clay(131)

But the villagers, for once, had outsmarted him—and set a hare free over the top of it, as the first one to cross the river—and the devil was infuriated: He picked up the hare and smashed it.

He flung it epically against an arch, and the outline is still there today.





* * *



—

While Clay and Michael Dunbar stood, in the field by Achilles and the river, he watched and spoke across to him.

“Dad?”

The insects were mostly silent.

There were always these bloodied sunsets here, and this was the first for Achilles. The mule, of course, ignored it, though, and went on with what he was born for; this field was made for the eating.

But Michael stepped closer and waited.

He wasn’t sure how to approach Clay just yet, for the boy had seen so much—and then came something strange: “Remember you asked if I knew it? The legend of Pont du Gard?”

Michael was caught, midanswer.

“Of course, but—”

    “Well, I wouldn’t.”

“You wouldn’t—what?”

Achilles was listening, too, now; he’d looked up from the grass.

“I wouldn’t make a deal—for the bridge to be built in a night.”

It was dark by then, well dark, and Clay kept talking on.

“But I would make a trade for them.” He gritted his lips, then opened them. “I’d go to hell just to make them live again—and we could both go, you could go with me—one of us for one of them. I know they’re not in hell, I know, I know, but—” He stopped and bent, then called again. “Dad, you have to help me.” The darkness had cut him in half. He would die to bring them back again. Penelope, he thought, and Carey. At the very least, he owed them this.

“We have to make it perfect,” he said. “We have to make it great.”

He’d turned and faced the riverbed.

A miracle and nothing less.





Somehow she stitched the days together.

She made them into weeks.

At times we could only wonder:

Had she made a deal with death?

If so, it was the con of the century—it was death that wouldn’t stick.

The best was when a year was gone.

The months hit lucky thirteen.



* * *



—

On that occasion, out of the hospital, Penny Dunbar said she was thirsty. She said she wanted beer. We’d helped her to the porch when she told us not to bother. Usually she never drank.

Michael had her arms then.

He looked at her and asked.

“What is it? You need a rest?”

The woman was immediate, emphatic:

“Let’s go down to the Naked Arms.”

Night had hit the street, and Michael pulled her closer.

“Sorry?” he asked. “What was that?”

“I said, let’s go down to the pub.”

She wore a dress we’d bought for a twelve-year-old, but a girl who didn’t exist.

She smiled in the Archer darkness.



* * *



—

    For a very long moment, her light lit up the street, and I know that sounds quite odd, but that’s how Clay described it. He said she was just so pale by then, and her skin so paper-thin. Her eyes continued to yellow.

Her teeth became old framework.

Her arms were pinned at the elbows.

Her mouth was the exception—or the outline of it, at least.

Especially at times like these.

“Come onnn,” she said, she tugged at him. Cracked and dry, but alive. “Let’s go for a drink—you’re Mikey Dunbar, after all!”

Us boys, we had to skylark.

“Yeah, c’mon, Mikey, hey, Mikey!”

“Oi,” he said. “Mikey can still make you clean the house, and mow the lawn.” He’d stayed up near the porch, but saw it was pointless finding reason here, as she walked back down the path. Still, he had to try. “Penny—Penny!”

And I guess it’s one of those moments, you know?

You could see how hard he loved her.

His heart was so obliterated, but he found the will to work it.

He was tired, so tired, in the porch light.

Just bits-and-pieces of a man.



* * *



—

As for us, we were boys, we should have been a sitcom.

We were young, and the dumb and restless.

Even me, the future responsible one, I turned when he came toward us. “I don’t know, Dad. Maybe she just has to.”

“Maybe nothing—”

But she cut him off.

A hollow, septic arm.

Her hand held out, like a bird paw.

“Michael,” she said. “Please. One drink’s not going to kill us.”

And Mikey Dunbar eased.

He ran a hand through his wavy hairline.

Like a boy, he kissed her cheek.

    “Okay,” he said.

“Good,” she said.

“Okay,” he said again.

“You said that already,” and she hugged him; she whispered, “I love you, did I ever tell you that?”