Bridge of Clay(33)

As you might expect, in a household of boys and young men, it wasn’t so much spoken that one of us was leaving. He just was.

Tommy knew.

The mule, too.

Clay had stayed the night at The Surrounds again, waking Sunday morning, with the box still in his hands.

He sat and reread the letter.

He held the lighter and Matador in the fifth.



* * *



—

At home he brought the box inside and put the Murderer’s sticky-taped address in, placed it deep beneath his bed, then quietly did his sit-ups, on the carpet.

About halfway through, Tommy appeared; he could see him from the edge of his sight, each time he came back down. The pigeon, T, was on his shoulder, and a breeze flapped Henry’s posters. They were musicians, mostly; old ones. A few actresses; young and womanly.

“Clay?”

Tommy triangled each time into sight.

“Can you help me later with his feet?”

He finished up and followed to the backyard, and Achilles was near the clothesline. Clay walked over and gave him a sugar cube, open hand, then crouched and tapped a leg.

    The first hoof came up; it was clean.

Then the second.

When the job was done on all four, Tommy was hurt in his usual way, but there was nothing for Clay to do. You can’t change the mind of a mule.

To cheer him up, he took two more small white sugar cubes out.

He handed one over to Tommy.

The yard was full of morning.

An empty beanbag lay flat on the porch; it had slid off the ledge of the couch. In the grass was a bike with no handlebars, and the clothesline stood tall in the sun.

Soon Rosy came out from the shelter we’d built for Achilles at the back. She got to the Hills Hoist and started rounding it up, and the sugar lay melting on their tongues.

Near the end, Tommy said it:

“Who’ll help me with this when you’re gone?”

To which Clay did something that caught even himself by surprise: He grabbed Tommy by the scruff of his T-shirt, and threw him on Achilles, bareback.

“Shit!”

Tommy had quite a shock, but soon gave himself over; he leaned in at the mule and laughed.



* * *



—

After lunch, as Clay started out the front door, Henry held him back.

“And where the hell do you think you’re going?”

A brief pause. “The cemetery. Maybe Bernborough.”

“Here,” said Henry, grabbing his keys, “I’ll come with you.”

When they got there, they leaned forward, into the fence, they navigated the graves. At the one they wanted they crouched they watched they folded their arms they stood in the afternoon sun; they looked at the corpse of tulips.

“No daisies?”

They half laughed.

“Hey, Clay?”

    Both were slouched yet stiff, and Clay now came to face him; Henry was affable as ever, but different in some way, too, looking out across the statues.

At first he just said, “God.” A long silence. “God, Clay.” And he pulled something out of his pocket. “Here.”

Hand to hand:

A nice big slice of money.

“Take it.”

Clay looked closer.

“It’s yours, Clay. Remember the bets at Bernborough? You wouldn’t believe how much we made. I never even paid you.”

But no, this was more, it was too much, a paperweight of cash. “Henry—”

“Go on, take it,” and when he did, he held its pages in his hand.

“Hey,” said Henry. “Oi, Clay,” and he met him, properly, in the eyes. “Maybe buy a Goddamn phone, like someone normal—let us know when you actually get there.”

And Clay, a smile, of scorn:

No thanks, Henry.

“Okay—use every bloody cent for a bridge then.” The wiliest of boyish grins. “Just give us the change when you’re done.”



* * *



—

At Bernborough Park, he did some laps, and after rounding the ruin of the discus net, he was given a nice surprise—because there, at the 300-meter mark, was Rory.

Clay stopped, his hands on quadriceps.

Rory watched with his scrap-metal eyes.

Clay didn’t look up, but smiled.

Far from angry or betrayed, Rory was somewhere between amusement for the oncoming violence, and a perfect understanding. He said, “I gotta give it to you, kid—you’ve got heart.”

And Clay stood fully upright now, first silent as Rory went on.

“Whether you’re gone three days or three years…You know Matthew’ll kill you, don’t you? When you come back.”

    A nod.

“Will you be ready for him?”

“No.”

“Do you want to be?” He thought about it. “Or maybe you never will come back.”

Clay bristled, internally. “I’m coming back. I’ll miss these little heart-to-hearts of ours.”

Rory grinned. “Yeah, good one, look—” He was rubbing his hands together now. “Do you want some practice? You think I was tough down here? Matthew’s a whole other thing.”