Bridge of Clay(62)

Then keys getting dropped.

Then in.

Then a bloodied, grinning face, in the light of the lounge room doorway.

“What?” he shouted. “Are you bastards kidding? You’re watching Bachelor Party without me?”



* * *



—

At first none of us looked.

Actually, Clay did, but couldn’t move.

The rest of us were too engrossed in the mayhem on screen.

It was only when the scene was over that Rory saw the state of him, and then came all the swearing, stunned silence, and blasphemy. I finished it off with a good long “Je-sus Christ…”

Henry, unfazed, plonked himself on the couch and looked at Clay. “Sorry I’m late, kid.”

“That’s okay.”

This had been Henry’s plan; to come in looking something like this, just before Clay had made it home himself, so I might get all distracted. The trouble was, the two boys from the 200-meter mark had taken much longer than he’d thought—and it took a lot more drinking—and of course he’d left his car behind, and walked from Bernborough Park. By then he was so drunk and beaten up he’d almost crawled, and really, looking back, it’s one of Henry’s dumbest greatest moments. He’d planned it all, and invited it all, and all of it for Clay.

He studied him, with a kind of satisfaction. “Good to see you, though. Is it good to be home? I see Matthew rolled out the welcome mat, the big muscly prick.”

“That’s all right, I had it coming.” Clay turned to him now, and was shocked by the extent of the damage. His lips, especially, were hard to look at; his cheekbones cooked and charred. “I’m not too sure about you, though.”

“Oh,” said Henry cheerfully, “I did, old boy, I did.”

    “And?” That was me now, standing in the middle of the lounge room. “You want to tell us what the hell’s going on?”

“Matthew,” Henry sighed, “you’re innerrupting the movie,” but he knew. If he’d enlisted Schwartz and Starkey (and Starkey’s girl, as it turned out) for the job of making a mess of him, here was my chance to finish it. “You see, gentlemen”—he grinned, and his teeth were more a butcher’s bone, all thickly red and mess—“if you ever want to look like this, all it takes is one blond Boy Scout with iron fists, one thug with disgusting breath, and lastly, the thug’s girlfriend, who hits harder than the pair of ’em put together….”

He tried to talk on, but didn’t get any further, for in the next few seconds, the living room swayed, and the Bachelor Party high jinks got funnier and funnier. At last he clattered forward, straight past me, and crash-tackled the TV to the floor.

“Shit!” shrieked Rory. “That’s one of the greatest movies of all time he’s wrecking—” but he was there and close for catching him, though he couldn’t save the board games. Or the birdcage, which tumbled down, like raucous, stadium-sized applause.



* * *



—

Soon we all crouched around him, with the carpet, blood, and cat hair. And dog hair. And Jesus—was that mule hair?

Henry was out cold.

When he came to, he recognized Tommy first: “Young Tommy, ay? The pet collector—and Rory, the human ball and chain, and ahh, you’re Matthew, aren’t you? Mr. Reliable.” Then lastly, fondly: “Clayton. The smiler. You’ve been gone for years, years, I tell you!”

It registered.

The movie was still playing, sideways on the floor, the birdcage was sloped and doorless—and further left, near the window, the fish tank had capsized amongst the chaos. We’d only noticed now that the water had reached our feet.

Henry looked at the movie, maneuvering his head, but the rest of us were watching T, the pigeon, as he climbed out of his cage, onto the floor, past the goldfish, headed straight for the open front door. Clearly, the bird knew what was what—this was no place to be for the next few hours. Well, that, and he was totally pissed off. He walked and half-flapped, walked and half-flapped. All he needed was a suitcase. Once he even looked back:

    “Right, that’s it.” He honestly seemed to say it, seething in grey and purple. “I’m outta here, you lot—good Goddamn luck.”

As for the goldfish, Agamemnon, he flipped, he flopped, he gulped the air for liquid; he leapt across the carpet. There had to be more water out there somewhere, and he’d be damned if he wouldn’t find it.





So there they were, way up in the far-flung future:

A cantankerous bird.

An acrobatic goldfish.

Two bloodied boys.

And look here at Clay, in the backstory.

What can we say about him?

How did life begin, as a boy and a son and a Dunbar?

It was pretty simple, really, with a multitude lying within: Once, in the tide of Dunbar past, there were five brothers, but the fourth of us was the best of us, and a boy of many traits.

How did Clay become Clay, anyway?



* * *



—

In the beginning there was all of us—each our own small part to tell the whole—and our father had helped, every birth; he was first to be handed to hold us. As Penelope liked to tell it, he’d be standing there, acutely aware, and he’d cry at the bedside, beaming. He never flinched at the slop or the burnt-looking bits, as the room began to spin. For Penelope, that was everything.