Bridge of Clay(68)

“Probably ever.”

Rory looked at Clay. “That was quality heart-to-heart.”

“Well”—I pointed between them—“I’m sorry to interrupt the pizzas, burgers and calzones debate, and you two bonding over a floury pair of—”

“See?! Floury! Even Matthew can’t resist ’em!”

“—but I wouldn’t mind knowing what the hell happened out there.”

Now Henry looked dreamily in the general direction of the sink.

“And?”

He blinked himself back. “And what?”

“What happened?”

“Oh—yeah…” He conjured up the energy. “Well, anyway, you know, they wouldn’t hit me, so I just went over to her—I was pretty drunk by then—and I thought I might press the flesh, so to speak….”

“And?” Rory asked. “How was it?”

“I don’t know—I hesitated.” He had a good think about it.

“Then what?”

Henry, half-grin, half-grim. “Well, she’d seen I was coming in.” He swallowed and felt it all over again. “So she punched me four times in the balls, and three times in the face.”

There was a genuine outcry of “Jesus!”

“I know—she threw the whole bloody display at me.”

Rory, especially, got excited. “See that, Clay? Four! That’s commitment! None of this two-times-in-the-coins shit.”

Clay actually laughed; out loud.

“And then,” Henry finally went on, “old Starkers and Schwartz, they finished me off—they had to.”

I was perplexed. “Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Henry was matter-of-fact. “They were worried they were next.”



* * *



—

    In the bedroom again, it was well past midnight, and Henry sat up, abruptly.

“Bugger this,” he said, “I’m sober enough, I’m going out to get the car.”

Clay sighed and rolled from bed.

There was rain like a ghost you could walk through.

Almost dry when it hit the ground.



* * *



—

Earlier, not long after the enigma of Henry’s head, and the talk of well-baked chests, there was scratching at the back door, and knocking at the front.

At the back were both Rosy and Achilles, standing and thoroughly expectant.

To the dog: “You—in.”

To the mule: “You—get it through your thick head. Kitchen’s closed.”

As to the front, the knocking came with calling out: “Matthew, it’s Mrs. Chilman!”

I opened up to the small squat woman with her ever-present wrinkles and shining eyes, and no incrimination. She was too aware that a whole other world existed in this house, and who was she to judge? Even when she’d first realized we were down to just us Dunbar boys, she’d never questioned me on how we lived. Mrs. Chilman wore the wisdom of old school—she’d seen boys the age of Rory and me sent off to be shot at overseas. Early on she’d brought us soup sometimes (tremendously chunky and hot) and would call us for help with opening jars until her dying day.

On this night, she was ready for business.

She spoke at me economically:

“Hi, Matthew, how are you, I thought I might get a look at Clay, he’s a bit banged up, is he? Then I’ll look at your hands.”

That was when the voice arrived from the couch, and attached to it, happily, was Henry.

“Me first, Mrs. Chilman!”

“Jesus!”

What was it about our house?

It brought the blasphemy out in everyone.



* * *



—

    The car was in the Bernborough Park car park, and they walked to it through the moisture.

“Feel like doing a few laps?” Clay asked.

Henry tripped on a laugh.

“Only if we can drive ’em.”

In the car they traveled in silence, they took each street and laneway, and Clay catalogued the names. There was Empire, Carbine, Chatham Street, and onto Gloaming Road: the site of Hennessey and the Naked Arms. He remembered all the times he’d walked these streets with the just-arrived Carey Novac.

Still they drove meanderingly on, and Clay looked over between them.

“Hey,” he said, “hey, Henry,” when they stopped at the Flight Street traffic lights, but he spoke toward the dash. “Thanks for what you did.”

And you had to give it to Henry, especially at times like these; he gave him a black-eyed wink. “Good old Starkey’s girl, ay?”

Their last stop before heading home was the edge of Peter Pan Square, where they sat and watched the windshield, and the statue out in the middle. Through the sheath of rain, Clay could just make out the cobblestones, and the horse the square was named for. On the mounting block it said this:

    PETER PAN

A VERY GALLANT HORSE

TWICE WINNER OF THE RACE

THAT STOPS THE NATION





1932, 1934




It felt like he was watching them, too, his head turned sideways, but Clay knew—the horse was after attention, or a bite of one of his rivals. Especially Rogilla. Peter Pan hated Rogilla.