Bridge of Clay(56)
No, she would go to her local doctor, to which all of them agreed: she was tougher than she looked.
The police joked that they were arresting her, and drove her smoothly home. The younger of them, the one chewing spearmint gum, also took care of the dress.
He laid it delicately down in the trunk.
* * *
—
When she made it home, she knew what had to be done.
Get cleaned up.
Have a cup of tea.
Call Michael, and then the insurance company.
As you might expect, she did none of those things first.
No, with all the strength she could muster, she placed the dress over the couch and sat at the piano, completely dejected, then bereft. She played half of Moonlight Sonata, and she couldn’t see the notes, not once.
* * *
—
At the doctor, an hour later, she didn’t scream.
Michael held her hand while her ribs were gently pushed upon, and her nose yanked back into place.
It was more just a gasp and a swallow.
On the way out, though, she buckled, then lay on the waiting room floor. People craned to see.
As Michael helped her up, he saw, in the corner, the usual fare of children’s toys, but he shrugged them quickly away. He carried her out the door.
* * *
—
At home again, on her old used couch, she lay down with her head in his lap. She asked if he would read from The Iliad, and for Michael there was great realization—for rather than think the obvious, like, I’m not your long-lost father, he reeled out far beyond it; he knew and got used to a truth. He loved her more than Michelangelo and Abbey Hanley combined.
He wiped at the tear on her cheek.
There was blood cracked into her lips.
He picked up the book and read to her, and she cried, then slept, still bleeding….
There was the fast-running Achilles, the resourceful Odysseus, and all the other gods and warriors. He especially liked Hector the panic maker—also named tamer of horses—and Diomedes, true son of Tydeus.
He sat like that all night with her.
He read, turned pages, and read.
* * *
—
Then the wedding, which went ahead as planned, the following day.
February 17.
The gathering was small:
A few tradesman friends on Michael’s side.
That clump of cleaners for Penny.
Adelle Dunbar was there, and so was old Weinrauch, who offered her anti-inflammatories. Thankfully, the swelling was down; she still bled now and then, and a black eye shone through her makeup, no matter how hard they tried.
The church, too, was small, but seemingly cavernous. It was dark with leadlight windows; a tortured, colorful Christ. The preacher was tall and balding. He’d laughed when Michael leaned toward her and said, “See? Not even a car crash could get you out of this.” Then again, he’d looked so sad when the first drop of blood slipped to the dress and grew like a science litmus test.
A rush of help arrived, from all quarters of the audience, and Penny sobbed back a smile. She took the hanky offered by Michael, and said, “You’re marrying a broken-nosed bride.”
“Good boy,” said the preacher, when the blood was quelled, and tentatively, he proceeded—and the colorful Christ looked on, till they were Michael and Penelope Dunbar.
They turned, as most couples do, and smiled at the congregation.
They signed the appropriate papers.
They walked down the center of the church, where the doors were held open, to a white-hot sunlight in front of them—and when I think of it I see that lure again; they’re holding that hard-to-catch happiness. They’ve brought it to life in their hands.
In those lives before they had us, there were still two chapters left.
Again, time passed.
Weeks passed, closer to a month, and it was spent in various ways.
They started, as they had to, with the hardest: The shifting of earth from the river.
They worked from sunrise to sunset, and prayed for no rain, which would have made everything meaningless. If the Amahnu flowed, and flowed hard, it would bring with it silt and soil.
At night, they sat in the kitchen, or on the edge of the couch at the coffee table; they properly designed the falsework. Between them they made two models—of the mold and the bridge itself. Michael Dunbar was mathematical, and methodical in angles of stone. He talked to the boy of trajectory, and how each block would need to be perfect. Clay was sick at the thought of voussoirs; he didn’t even know how to say it.
Exhausted both physically and mentally, he’d walk sleepily to the bedroom and read. He held each item from the box. He lit the flame just once.
He missed everyone, more as the weeks went on, when an envelope arrived in the letterbox. Inside, two handwritten letters.
One from Henry.
One from Carey.
In all his time at the Amahnu, this was the event he’d waited for, but he didn’t read them right away. He walked upwards to the stones and river gums, and sat in the dappled sun.
He read in the order he found them.
Hi Clay,
Thanks for your letter the other week. I kept it a while before showing the others—don’t ask me why. We miss you, you know. You say practically nothing, but we miss you. The roof tiles probably miss you the most, I’d say. Well, that, and me on Saturdays…When I hit the garage sales I get Tommy to help, but that kid’s useless as tits on a bull. You know that.