Bridge of Clay(59)

Sort of copper, mostly dark.

He walked and stopped, he leaned at the air, as if waiting for it to finish him off, only it wouldn’t—and quicker than he’d hoped, he stood at the mouth of Archer Street: Relieved to have finally made it.

Terrified to be there.



* * *



—

In every house, the lights were on, people were home.

As if sensing the oncoming theater, the pigeons arrived from nowhere, and dug in close on the power lines. They were perched on TV aerials, and God forbid, on the trees. There was also a single crow, fat-feathered and plump, like a pigeon disguised in a trench coat.

But he wasn’t fooling anyone.



* * *



—

    To our front yard—one of the few with no fence, no gate, just lawn—it was leafless, freshly mowed.

The porch, the roof, the blink of one of my movies.

Strangely, Henry’s car wasn’t there, but Clay couldn’t be distracted. He walked slowly on, then, “Matthew.”

He only said it at first, as if careful to be casual and calm.

Matthew.

Just my name.

That was all.

Just above quiet.

And again, a few steps more, he felt the cushion of grass, and now, in the middle, facing the door, he expected me to come—but I didn’t. He had to shout or stand and wait, and he chose, as it was, the first one. His voice so much not-his, as “MATTHEW!” he screamed, and put down his bag, and the books inside—his reading.

Within seconds, he heard movement, and then Rosy let loose a bark.

I was the first to appear out front.



* * *



—

I stood on the porch in almost exactly what Clay was wearing, only my T-shirt was dark blue and not white. The same faded jeans. The same thin-soled sports shoes. I’d been watching Rain Man, three-quarters through.

Clay—it was so damn good to see him…but no.

My shoulders fell, but barely; I couldn’t show how much I didn’t want to. I had to look willing and sure.

“Clay.”

It was the voice of that long-lost morning.

The killer in his pocket.

Even when Rory and Tommy came out, I kept them back, almost benignly. When they argued, I held up my hand. “No.”

They stayed, and Rory said something Clay couldn’t hear.

“Go too far and I’m coming in, okay?”

    Had it all been whispered?

Or was it spoken normally and Clay just couldn’t hear it for the noise inside his ears?

I closed my eyes a moment, and walked to the right, and down; and I don’t know how it is with other brothers, but with us there would be no circling. It wasn’t Clay and the Murderer, like boxers—this was me, and I walked at him just short of a run, and it was soon that he hit the ground.

Oh, he fought, all right, he fought hard, and he searched and flailed and falled—for there was no grammar to this, no beauty to it at all. He could train and suffer all he wanted, but this wasn’t training the Clay way, it was living my way, and I found him from the first; no more words but those inside me: He killed us.

He killed us, Clay, don’t you remember?

We had no one.

He left us.

What we were is dead—

But now those thoughts weren’t thoughts at all, they were clouds of landed punches, and every one fell true.

Don’t you remember?

Don’t you see?

And Clay.

The smiler.

As I watch us now, after all he later told me, I see him clearly thinking: You don’t know everything, Matthew.

You don’t know.

I should have told you—

About the clothesline.

About the pegs—

But he couldn’t say anything, and he couldn’t even remember going down the first time, except that he’d fallen so hard he left a gash there, a scar in the grass—and the world was incoherent. It struck him that it was raining, but truth be told, it was blood. It was blood and hurt and getting up, and going down, till Rory called out enough.

    And me—chest heaving, calling in air.

And Clay on the grass, all curled up, then rolling toward the sky. How many skies were there, really? The one he’d focused on was breaking, and with it came the birds. The pigeons. And one crow. They flocked into his lungs. That papery sound of flapping wings, all fast, and gorgeous, at once.



* * *



—

The next person he saw was a girl.

She said nothing. Nothing to me, nothing to Clay.

She only crouched and took his hand.

She could hardly say welcome back, and actually—shockingly—it was Clay who moved to speak.

I stood a few meters to the left.

My hands were all quivered and bloody.

I was breathing, trying not to.

My arms were awash with sweat.

Rory and Tommy kept a short distance, and Clay looked up at the girl. The good-green eyes. He said and slowly smiled it: “War of the Roses?”

He saw her change from abject worry, to a smile all long and hopeful, like horses entering the straight.

“He okay?”

“I think so.”

“Just give me a minute and we’ll take him in.”