Bridge of Clay(141)

Not long before dawn, I heard footsteps—they were running, they were splashing—and next I heard the car door open; and I felt the force of his hand.

“Matthew,” he whispered. “Matthew!”

Then, “Rory. Rory!”

And quickly, I came to realize.

It was there in Clay’s voice.

He was shaking.



* * *



—

The lights came on in the house, and Michael came out with a flashlight, and when he’d gone down toward the water, he soon came careering back. As I fought my way out of the car, he staggered but spoke to me clearly, his face shocked and disbelieving.

    “Matthew, you have to come.”

Was the bridge gone?

Should we be making attempts to save it?

But before I could take a step further, first light had hit the paddocks. I looked in the distance and saw it.

“Oh, God,” I said, “Je-sus Christ.” Then, “Hey,” I said, “hey, Rory?”



* * *



—

By the time we were all assembled, on the concrete steps of the porch, Clay was down on the first of them, and heard himself speak, from the past.

I didn’t come here for you, he’d said to him—to the Murderer, Michael Dunbar—but standing here now he knew different. He’d come out here for all of us. He just couldn’t have known it would hurt this much, in the face of something miraculous.

For a second he watched the border collie, who was sitting, licking her lips—but abruptly he turned to Rory. It was years by then in the making—but he struck him back hard in the eyes: “Shit, Tommy, does that dog have to pant so bloody loud?” and Rory, in turn, had smiled.

“Come on,” he said to Clay now. The gentlest I’d ever heard him. “Let’s go and we’ll see it together.”

Let’s go to the river and see it.



* * *



—

When all of us made it down there, the sunrise was in the water. The expanded river was burning; it was alight with the plumes of dawn, and the bridge was still submerged—but intact, and made of him. The bridge was made of Clay, and you know what they say about clay, don’t you?

Could he walk across the Amahnu?

Could he be better than a human, for a moment?

The answer, of course, was no, at least to that final question, and now we saw it up close.



* * *



—

    In the last of our footsteps he heard them:

More words they’d said here in Silver.

I’d die to find greatness, like the David someday….

But we live the lives of the Slaves.

The dream was now over and answered.

He would never walk over that water—a miracle made of a bridge—and nor would any of the rest of us; for in the fire the arches were set with, where the river and stone held him upright, was someone so true and miraculous, and something I’ll never forget: Of course, it could only be him.

Yes, him, and he stood like a statue, just as sure as he’d stood in a kitchen. He was watching and chewing, and nonchalant—with that customary look in the thatch of his face—flare-nostriled, controlled to the end: He had water and dawn all around him; the level an inch up his legs—his hooves on river and bridge. Till soon he was moved to speak. His usual pair of questions, mid-chew, and a mulish grin: What? he said, from the firelight.

What’s so unusual about this?

If he was here to test Clay’s bridge for him—if that was why he’d come—we can only agree and admit to it; he was doing a bloody good job.





In the end, there was one river, one bridge and one mule, but this isn’t the end, it’s after it, and here I am, in the kitchen, in the morning, with the bright backyard behind me. The sun is steadily rising.

As it is, I really couldn’t say anymore:

Just how long it’s been.

How many nights have I sat here, in this kitchen that’s seen our lives? It’s been a woman telling us she would die, and a father come home to face us. It’s where Clay had the fire roared into his eyes, and that’s just a few of many. Most recently it’s been four of us; four Dunbar boys and our father, all standing, and waiting, together— But then there’s only this left; I sit, I’m punching away. After coming back home from Featherton, with a typewriter, a dog, and a snake, I’ve been here night for night, with everyone else asleep, to write the story of Clay.

And how can I even begin?

How do I tell you the after-parts, in our lives since the bridge was finished?

Once, in the tide of Dunbar past, he came home to us here on Archer Street, then left us, we were certain, forever; and the years brought many things with them.



* * *



—

In the beginning, when we left the river, Clay had hugged our father, and kissed Achilles’s cheek. (That scoundrel out in his moment—he’d come back to us quite reluctantly.) For Clay there was uncharted triumph, such wonder at what he’d seen. Then incurable, bottomless sadness. Where did he go from here?

Even as he collected his things—his old wooden box of memories, and his books, including The Quarryman—he looked at the bridge from the window. What good was the mark of a masterpiece? It had stood to prove all he’d worked for, and saved absolutely nothing.