Bridge of Clay(28)

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—

    Yes, in the early days, it all came down to those two religious things: The words, the work.

She wrote letters to Waldek now, and called him when she could afford it, realizing, at last, he was safe. He confessed all he’d done to get her out, and how standing on the platform that morning was the highlight of his life, no matter what it cost him. Once, she even read to him, from Homer, in broken English, and was certain she felt him crack; he smiled.

What she couldn’t know was that the years would pass by, almost too quickly, in that way. She would scrub a few thousand toilets, and clean chipped tiling by the acre. She’d withstand those bathrooms’ felonies, and work newer jobs as well, cleaning handfuls of houses and apartments.

But then—what she also couldn’t know: That her future would soon be determined, by three connected things.

One was a hard-of-hearing music salesman.

Then a trio of useless piano men.

But first, it was a death.

The death of the statue of Stalin.





He’d never forget the day he first saw her on Archer Street, or actually, the day she’d looked up, and seen him.

It was early December.

She’d driven seven hours from the country with her mum and dad, and they arrived late afternoon. A removalist truck was behind them, and soon they carted boxes, furniture, and appliances, to the porch and into the house. There were saddles there, too, a few bridles and stirrups; the horse-works important to her father. He’d been a jockey once as well, in a family of jockeys, and her older brothers, too; they rode in towns with awkward names.

It must have been a good fifteen minutes after they got there when the girl stopped and stood, midlawn. Under one arm she held a box, under the other, the toaster, which had somehow come loose on the trip. The cord hung down to her shoes.

“Look,” she’d said, and she’d pointed—casually across the road. “There’s a boy up there on that roof.”



* * *



—

Now, a year and a few months later, on Saturday night, she came to The Surrounds with a rustle of feet.

“Hey, Clay.”

He felt her mouth and blood and heat and heart. All in a single breath.

“Hi, Carey.”

    It was nine-thirty or so, and he’d waited on the mattress.

Moths were there, too. A moon.

Clay lay on his back.

The girl paused a moment at the edge, she put something down, on the ground, then lay on her side, with a leg strapped loosely over him. There was the auburn itch of hair on his skin, and just like always he liked it. He could sense she’d noticed the graze on his cheek, but knew too much to ask, or to look for further injuries.

But still, she had to do it.

“You boys,” she said, and touched the wound. Then waited for Clay to speak.

“Are you enjoying the book?” The question felt vaguely heavy at first, as if somehow pulleyed up. “Still good the third time round?”

“Even better—Rory didn’t tell you?”

He tried to remember if Rory had said something along those lines.

“I saw him on the street,” she said, “a few days ago. I think it was just before—”

Clay almost sat up, but quelled it. “Before—what?”

She knew.

She knew he’d come home.

Clay, for now, ignored it, preferring to think about The Quarryman, and its faded old bookmark betting stub, of Matador in the fifth. “Where are you up to, anyway? Has he gone to work in Rome yet?”

“Bologna, too.”

“That’s fast. You still in love with his broken nose?”

“Oh yeah, you know I can’t help it.”

He gave her a short, broad grin. “Me too.”

Carey liked the fact that Michelangelo had had his nose broken as a teenager, for being too much of a smart mouth; a reminder that he was human. A badge of imperfection.

For Clay, it was slightly more personal.

He knew of another broken nose, too.



* * *



—

    Back then—way back then, a few days after she moved in—Clay was out front on the porch, eating toast, a dinner plate up on the rail. It was just as he finished when Carey crossed Archer Street, in a flannelette shirt and well-worn jeans; the shirt rolled up at the elbows. The last piece of sun beside her: The glow of her forearms.

The angle of her face.

Even her teeth, they weren’t quite white, they weren’t quite straight, but they had something nonetheless, a quality; like sea glass, eroded smooth, from grinding them in her sleep.

At first she wondered if he’d even seen her, but then he walked, timidly, down the steps, the plate still in his hands.

From that close-but-careful range, she surveyed him; interested, happily curious.

The first word he ever said to her was “Sorry.”

He spoke it downwards, into the plate.



* * *



—

After a comfortable, customary silence, Carey spoke again. Her chin touched his collarbone, and this time she’d make him face it.

“So,” she said, “he came….”