Bridge of Clay(75)

“He’s here!” called one of his friends. “The poofter’s fucking here!”

I walked and raised my fists.

    Mostly it comes in circles now, in half turns right and left. I remember how terribly fast he was, and how soon I’d come to taste it. I remember the roar of schoolkids, too, like waves all down the beach. At one point, I saw Rory, and he was just a little kid. He was standing next to Henry, who was Labrador-blond and skinny. Through the diamonds of wire in the netting, I could see them mouthing hit him, while Clay watched numbly on.

But Jimmy was hard to hit.

First I was caught in the mouth (like chewing on a piece of iron), then up, and into the ribs. I remember thinking they were broken, as those waves came crashing in.

“Come on, fucking Piano Man,” the kid whispered, and again he came skipping in. Each time he did that, he somehow came around me, and caught me with a left, then a right and another right. After three like that I went down.

There were cheers and checking for teaching staff, but no one had yet found out, as I crawled and stood up quickly. Possibly a standing eight-count.

“Come on,” I said, and the light kept interchanging. The wind howled through our ears, and again he came in and around.

This time, as previously, he caught me with the left, and then that punishing follow-up—but the success of that tactic changed, as I blocked the third punch outright, and clobbered him on the chin. Hartnell went reeling backwards, and he stammered, adjusting, and swept. He took a shocked and hurried backstep, which I followed to the front and left; I committed myself with a pair of jabs, hard above that slit there, above and into the cheek.

It became what commentators of every sport everywhere—probably even marbles—would call a battle of attrition, as we traded knuckles and hands. At one point, I went down on a knee, and he’d clipped me and quickly apologized, and I’d nodded; a silent integrity. The crowd had grown and climbed, their fingers all clenched in the wire.

    Eventually, I knocked him down twice, but he always came punching back. By the end I’d gone down four times myself, and on the fourth I couldn’t get up. Vaguely, I could sense the authorities then, for those beaches and waves had flocked; the lot of them were like seagulls now, except for my brothers, who’d stayed. Beautifully—and looking back, not surprisingly—Henry held out his hand, to some fleeing kid or other, who gave him the rest of his lunch. Already he’d had a bet on, and already he’d gone and won.

In the corner, over near the cricket stumps, Jimmy Hartnell stood side-on. He was something like an injured wild dog, both pitiable and grounds for caution. The teacher, a man, went and grabbed him, but Hartnell had shrugged him off; he almost tripped on his way toward me, and his slit was now just a mouth. He crouched and called down next to me.

“You must be good at piano,” he said, “if it’s anything like you fight.”

I searched my mouth with my fingers; the victory of relief.

I lay back, I bled and smiled.

I still had all my teeth.



* * *



—

And so it was.

She went to the doctor.

A cavalcade of tests.

To us, for now, she said nothing, and all went on like always.

Once, though, there was a crack of it, and it becomes so cruel and clean, the more I sit and type it. The kitchen is crisp, clear water.

Because once, in Rory and Henry’s room, the two of them were wheeling and fighting. They’d abandoned the gloves and were back to normal, and Penelope ran toward it.

She grabbed both scruffs-of-the-school-shirt.

She held them out and away.

Like boys hung up to dry.

A week later, she was in the hospital; the first of many visits.

But back then, way back then, that handful of days and nights earlier, she’d stood with them in their bedroom, in that sock-and-Lego pigsty. The sun was setting behind her.

    Christ, I’m gonna miss this.

She’d cried and smiled and cried.





Early on Saturday night, Clay sat with Henry, up on the roof.

Close to eight o’clock.

“Like old times,” Henry said, and they were happy in the moment, if feeling their various bruisings. He also said, “That was a great run.” He’d been referring to Carey.

Clay stared, diagonally. Number 11.

“It was.”

“She should have won. A protest, bloody hell.”



* * *



—

Later, he waited.

The Surrounds, and the steady sound of her; the quiet rustle of feet.

When she arrived, they didn’t lie down till they’d been there a long time.

They’d sat on the edge of the mattress.

They talked and he wanted to kiss her.

He wanted to touch her hair.

Even if just two fingers, in the falling of it by her face.

In the light that night it looked sometimes gold, sometimes red, and there was no telling where it ended.

He didn’t, though.

Of course he didn’t:

They’d made rules, somehow, and followed them, to not break or risk what they had. It was enough that they were here, alone, together, and there were plenty more ways to be grateful.

    He took out the small heavy lighter, and Matador in the fifth.