Bridge of Clay(48)
The boy turned and gave him his first inkling of camaraderie then, or a piece of himself; he told a truth. “I can’t go home.” It was still far too early to attempt it. “I can’t go back—not yet.”
Michael’s reaction was to pull something from his pocket.
It was a real estate pamphlet, with photos of the land, the house, and a bridge. “Go on,” he said. “Take a look.”
The bridge had been a handsome one. A simple trestle, of railway sleepers and wooden beams, once spanning the space they were standing in.
“It was here?”
He nodded. “What do you think of it?”
Clay saw no reason to lie. “I like it.”
The Murderer ran a hand through his wavy hair. He rubbed at an eye. “The river destroyed it—not long after I moved in. And barely any rain since then. It’s been dry like this a good while.”
Clay took a step toward him. “Was there anything left?”
Michael pointed to the few embedded planks.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
There was still the red rumbling out there, a silent flood of bleeding.
They walked back to the house.
At the steps, the Murderer asked.
“Is it Matthew?” He’d handed it across more than spoken it. “You say his name a lot, in your sleep,” and he hesitated. “You say all of them, to tell you the truth, and others. Ones I’ve never heard of.”
Carey, Clay thought, but Michael said Matador.
He said, “Matador in the fifth?”
But that was enough.
Don’t push your luck.
When Clay gave him the look, the Murderer understood. He came back to the original question. “Did Matthew say you couldn’t go back?”
“No, not exactly.”
There was no need for anything else: Michael Dunbar knew the alternative.
“You must miss them.”
And Clay raged at him, within.
He thought of boys, backyards, and clothesline pegs.
He looked into him and said, “Don’t you?”
* * *
—
Early, very early in the morning, close to three o’clock, Clay noticed the shadow of the Murderer, standing next to his bed. He wondered if it recalled in him, as it did in himself, the last time he’d stood just like that, on the terrible night when he’d left us.
At first he’d thought it was an intruder, but soon he was able to see. He knew those hangman’s hands anywhere. He heard the fallen voice: “Pont du Gard?”
Quiet, so quiet.
So he’d seen him after all.
“Is that your favorite?”
Clay swallowed, he nodded in the darkness. “Yes.”
“Any others?”
“The Regensburg. The Pilgrim’s Bridge.”
“That’s three arches.”
“Yes.”
More thoughts, back to back. “Do you like the Coathanger then?”
The Coathanger.
The great bridge of the city.
The great bridge of home:
A different kind of arch, a metal one, who rose above the road.
“I love her.”
“It’s female?”
“She is to me.”
“Why?”
Clay tightened his eyes, then opened them.
Penny, he thought.
Penelope.
“She just is.”
Why did it need explaining?
* * *
—
Slowly, the Murderer backed away, into the rest of the house, and told him, “See you soon.” But then he added, in a moment of hope and recklessness, “Do you know the legend of Pont du Gard?”
“I need to sleep.”
Of course he Goddamn knew.
* * *
—
In the morning, though, in the empty house, Clay stopped in the kitchen when he saw it—on paper, in thick black charcoal.
He let a finger fall, and he touched them:
Final Bridge Plan: First Sketch
He thought of Carey and thought of arches, and again his voice surprised him: “The bridge will be made of you.”
Five long years he lay in that garage, on the floor, till it happened.
Something made him get up:
The piano.
A muddled address.
The light of afternoon.
Here came a woman with music and two epics on her side, and what else could Michael Dunbar do?
As far as second chances go, he couldn’t have been luckier.
* * *
—
But okay, what happened in those five years in between?
He signed the lawyer forms, hands trembling.
He stopped painting altogether.
He was tempted to return to Featherton, but also remembered the voice in the dark, and the head down on his neck: Maybe you’d still be there.
And then the humiliation.
Returning without the girl.
“Where is she?” people would ask.
“What happened?”
No, he could never go back for good. Word would get around, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hear it. It was bad enough listening to the thoughts that lay within.