Bridge of Clay(55)

She switched on the light.

She turned the knob to a shadowed dimness and sat on the stool at the piano. Slowly, her hands drifted, and gently, she pressed the high-pitched notes. She hit them soft but true and right, where she’d used the paint left over.

She’d played the keys of Y | E | S.





“I can’t believe my eyes. I thought you’d only make a start.”

That’s what Michael Dunbar said about the giant trench that was dug by a single boy in less than a week. He should have known better.

“What the hell did you do, dig all night and day?”

Clay looked down. “I slept sometimes.”

“Next to the shovel?”

Now he looked up, as the Murderer saw his hands.

“Jesus…”

As for Clay, when he told me about that particular little stunt, he spoke more about the aftermath than the exercise itself. He was dying to at least see Archer Street, and The Surrounds, but he couldn’t, of course; two reasons.

First, he was in no condition to face me.

And second, coming back and not facing me felt like cheating.

No, from the cemetery, he’d caught the train back to Silver, then spent a few days recovering. Not a single part of him wasn’t hurting. The blistered hands were the worst, though, and he slept, lay awake, and waited.



* * *



—

When the Murderer came, he’d pulled up on the other side of the river, in the trees.

He walked down and stood, on the floor of the dug-out ditch.

Either side were tidal waves, of rocks and mounds of dirt.

He looked and shook his head, then over, across at the house.

    Inside, he sought Clay out, he pulled him apart in the kitchen; he sighed and half slouched, and shook his head once more, between shock and total dismay. He finally had something to say to him: “I gotta give it to you, kid—you’ve got heart.”

And Clay couldn’t stop it.

The words.

They left and returned, several times, and now, in the kitchen, stood Rory; like he’d climbed right out of the oven, directly from Bernborough Park, and the storied 300-meter mark: Gotta give it to you, kid…

The exact same words he’d said to him.

And Clay was unable to stop himself.

He rushed down the hallway and sat on the bathroom floor. In his hurry he’d slammed the door, and— “Clay? Clay—you okay?”

The interruption was like an echo, like being shouted to, underwater; and he came up gasping for air.





As far as weddings go, there wasn’t much to organize, so it came to them pretty fast. At one point, Michael wondered what to do with the artwork—the Abbey paintings—whether to keep, destroy, or throw them away; Penelope, at first, was certain.

“You should keep them,” she said, “or sell them; they don’t deserve to be destroyed.” She calmly reached out and touched one. “Look at her, she’s so beautiful.”

It was then, incidentally, she felt it:

A flicker of fire, of jealousy.

Why can’t I be like that? she wondered, as she thought once again, of that long and distant terrain in him—where sometimes he vanished from next to her. At times like those she wanted it desperately—to be more and better than Abbey—but the paintings were proof in the making: everything once equaled her.

It was a relief, in the end, when they sold them: They displayed one of the bigger ones on a roundabout, near Pepper Street, with a sign and date for the art sale—and by nightfall the painting was stolen. In the garage, on the day itself, it took an hour; they went quickly because people liked them; both Abbey and Penny alike.

“You should be painting this one,” said many of the buyers, and gestured toward Penelope; and Michael could only smile at them.

He said, “This one’s much better in person.”



* * *



—

    From there, the next hurdle was Penelope’s familiar luck: It wasn’t so much what happened—for it was a mistake of her own judgment—but that it had to happen then: the morning before they were married. She was making a turn off Lowder Street, onto Parramatta Road, in Michael’s old sedan.

She hadn’t driven at all in the Eastern Bloc, but her eye was still trained to that side. Here she’d done the exams, she’d passed with reasonable confidence, and often drove Michael’s car. There were never any problems, but on this day it counted for nothing. She made the perfect right-hand turn, onto the wrong side of the road.

On the back seat, the wedding dress she’d just picked up lay modest and fluent, and the car was crashed into from the side, like a demon had taken a bite. Penelope’s ribs were ruptured. Her nose was slapped, and broken; her face hit the head of the dash.

The man from the other car was swearing, but stopped when he saw the blood.

She said sorry in two different languages.



* * *



—

Next came the police, and competitive men in tow trucks, who negotiated, sweated and smoked. When the ambulance arrived, they tried convincing her to go to the hospital, but said they couldn’t force her.

Penny insisted she was fine.

There was a long strange shape down her front: An oblong mural of blood.