Bridge of Clay(25)
Then fear of its newness, and heat.
And then, of course, the guilt: A hundred years he’d never live.
So selfish, so callous to leave.
* * *
—
It was November when she got here, and although not normally the hottest time of year, occasionally it produced a week or two of brutal reminders that summer was drawing near. If ever there was a time not to arrive, it was one like this—a binary weather chart of that heat, humidity, heat. Even the locals seemed to be suffering.
On top of that, she was obviously an intruder; her room at the camp clearly belonged to a squadron of cockroaches, and God almighty, she’d never seen such terrifying things. So big! Not to mention relentless. They fought her each day for territory.
Not surprisingly, the first thing she bought here was a can of Baygon.
Then a pair of flip-flops.
If nothing else, she understood you could go a long way in this country with crap footwear and a few good cans of fly spray. It helped her get by. Days. Nights. Weeks.
* * *
—
The camp itself was buried deep in the unruly rug of suburbs.
She was taught there, from the absolute basics, to speak the language. Sometimes she walked the streets outside, and the rows of peculiar houses—each one set in the middle of giant, lawn-mowered lawns. Those houses seemed made of paper.
When she asked the English teacher about them, by sketching a house and pointing to the paper, he burst forth loudly with laughter. “I know, I know!” But soon he gave her an answer. “No, not paper. Fibro.”
“Fi-bro.”
“Yes.”
* * *
—
Another note about the camp and its many small apartments was that it was much like the city; it sprawled, even in such a tight space.
There were people of every color.
Every speech.
There were high-headed proud types, and then the worst offenders of foot-dragging disease you could ever hope to meet. Then there were people who smiled the whole time, to keep the doubt within. What they did all have in common was that they all seemed to gravitate, in varying degrees, to people of their own nationality. Country ran thicker than most things, and that was how people connected.
In that regard, Penelope did find others from her own part of the world, and even her own city. Often they were very hospitable, but they were families—and blood ran thicker than country.
Every now and then, she was invited to a birthday or a name day celebration—or even just a cobbled-together get-together of wódka and pierogi, barszcz and bigos—but it was strange how quickly she’d leave. The smell of that food in the stifling air; it belonged here as much as she did.
But that wasn’t what really bothered her.
No, the one thing she truly dreaded was the sight and sound of men and women standing up, and loosening their throats, for another rendition of “Sto Lat.” They sang for home like a perfect idea—like there weren’t any reasons to leave. They called on friends and family, as if the words could bring them near.
* * *
—
But then, like I said, there was the gratitude, for other times, like New Year’s Eve, when she walked through the camp at midnight.
Somewhere close by there were fireworks; she could see them between the buildings. There were great plumes of red and green, and distant cheers, and soon she stopped and watched them.
She smiled.
She saw the workings of light in the sky, and sat on the stony road. Penelope held her arms, either side, and rocked herself, just lightly. Pi?kne, she thought, it’s beautiful, and this was where she would live. The thought of it made her eyes close, hotly, and talk to the simmering ground.
“Wstań,” she said. And again. “Wstań, wstań.”
Stand up.
But Penelope didn’t move.
Not yet.
But soon.
“Wake up, for Christ’s sake.”
While Penny comes in, Clay begins the process of wading, gradually, out.
On the first day, after my front porch ultimatum, he made his way to the bread bags and remaining coffee. Later, he dried his face in the bathroom, and heard me on my way out to work. I was standing over Rory: Me in my dirty old work gear.
Rory still half asleep, half dead from the night before.
“Oi, Rory.” I shook him. “Rory!”
He tried to move, but couldn’t. “Oh, shit, Matthew, what?”
“You know what. There’s another Goddamn letterbox out there.”
“Is that all? How do you know it was me?”
“I’m not answering that. What I am saying is that you’re taking it back and reinstalling the bloody thing.”
“I don’t even know where I got it from.”
“It’s got a number on it, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know what street.”
Now the moment Clay was waiting for:
“Je-sus Christ!” He felt me seething, right through the wall, but then the practicality. “Okay, I don’t care what you do with it, but when I get back home later, I expect it gone, you got that?”
Later, when Clay went in, he discovered the whole conversation was had with Hector wrapped like a wrestler around Rory’s neck. The cat lay molting and purring, simultaneously. The purrs were hitting pigeon-pitch.