Bridge of Clay(7)

As for me, I was in there, out there, trapped in traffic.

Around, in front, and behind, thousands of cars were all lined up, all pointed the way of assorted homes. A steady wave of heat came through the window of my station wagon (the one I still own), and there was an endless cavalcade of billboards, shopfronts and people portions. With every movement, the city plowed inside, but there was also my signature smell of wood, wool and varnish.

I let my forearm poke from the car.

My body felt like lumber.

Both my hands were sticky with glue and turpentine, and all I wanted was to get home. I could have a shower then, and organize dinner, and maybe read, or watch an old movie.

That wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?

Just get home and relax?

Not a Goddamn chance.





On days like these, Henry had rules.

First, there had to be beer.

Second, it had to be cold.

For those reasons, he left Tommy, Clay, and Rosy at the cemetery and would meet them later, at Bernborough Park.

(Bernborough Park, for those unfamiliar with this neighborhood, is an old athletics field. Back then it was a crumbling grandstand, and a good car park’s worth of broken glass. It was also the venue of Clay’s most infamous training days.) Before Henry got in the car, though, he felt it necessary to give Tommy some last-minute instructions. Rosy listened, too: “If I’m late getting down there, tell ’em to hold their horses, right?”

“Sure, Henry.”

“And tell them to have their money ready.”

“Sure, Henry.”

“Are you right with the ‘Sure bloody Henrys,’ Tommy?”

“I’m right.”

“Keep going like this and I’ll put you out there in front of him as well. Do you want that?”

“No thanks, Henry.”

“Don’t blame you, kid.” A short smile at the end of a playful, well-exercised mind. He slapped Tommy’s ear, soft and sure, then grabbed ahold of Clay. “And you—do me a favor.” He gripped his face, a hand each side. “Don’t leave these two bastards behind.”



* * *



—

    In the post-car wave of dust, the dog looked at Tommy.

Tommy looked at Clay.

Clay looked at neither one.

As he checked his pocket, there was so much in him that wanted to—to break again, into a run—but with the city splayed out in front of them, and the graveyard by their backs, he took two steps at Rosy, and tucked her under his arm.

He stood and the dog was smiling.

Her eyes like wheat and gold.

She laughed at the world below.



* * *



—

They were on Entreaty Avenue—the great hill he’d just ascended—when finally he put her down. They trod the rotten frangipanis, onto Poseidon Road: the racing quarter’s headquarters. A rusted mile of shops.

While Tommy was aching for the pet store, Clay would die for other places; of streets, and monuments of her.

Lonhro, he thought.

Bobby’s Lane.

The cobblestone Peter Pan Square.

She had auburn hair and good-green eyes, and was apprenticed to Ennis McAndrew. Her favorite horse was Matador. Her favorite race was always the Cox Plate. Her favorite winner of that race was the mighty Kingston Town, a good three decades before. (The best stuff happens before we’re born.) The book she read was The Quarryman.

One of three important to everything.



* * *



—

In the heat of Poseidon Road, the boys and the dog turned eastwards, and soon, it loomed: the athletics track.

They walked till they blended beside it, and in through a gap in the fence.

    On the straight, in the sun, they waited.

Within minutes, the usual crowd appeared—boy vultures on a sports field carcass; the lanes were awash with weeds. The red Tartan Track peeled from the surface. Its infield had grown to a jungle.

“Look,” said Tommy, and pointed.

More and more boys were arriving, from all directions of their peak pubescent glory. Even from a distance you could see their sunburn smiles, and count the suburban scars. You could also sense their odor: the smell of never quite men.

For a while, from the outside lane, Clay watched them. Drinking, scratching armpits. Throwing bottles. A few kicked at bedsores on the track—till soon enough, he’d seen enough.

He put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, and walked to the shade of the grandstand.

Its darkness ate him up.





For the Murderer, it was an embarrassing consolation to find the rest of them in the lounge room—what we often referred to as Tommy’s roster of shithead pets. And then, of course, the names. Some would say sublime, others again, ridiculous. He saw the goldfish first.

He’d followed a sideways glance, over toward the window, where the tank was on a stand, and the fish lunged forward and reeled itself back, butting the sheet of glass.

Its scales were like plumage.

Its tail a golden rake.

AGAMEMNON.

A peeling sticker along the bottom announced him in green marker pen in crowded, boyish lettering. The Murderer knew the name.

Next, on the eroded couch, asleep between the remote and a dirty sock, was a big grey brute of a cat: a tabby with giant black paws and a tail like an exclamation mark, who went by the name of Hector.