Bridge of Clay(78)

For Clay, there were clearer standout moments, and they came on Friday nights. One was the end of a movie they’d watched, as the credits rolled up the screen; I think it was Good Bye, Lenin!

Both Clay and I were in the hallway, after hearing the rise in volume.

We saw the lounge room, then we saw them: Hard-held in front of the TV.

They were standing, they were dancing, but slowly—barely—and her hair hung on to its yellowness. She looked so weak and brittle; a woman all arms and shins. Their bodies were pressed together, and soon our father saw us. He signaled a silent hello.

He even mouthed the words—

Have a look at this gorgeous girl!

And I guess I have to admit it:

Through the tired and ache, in the joy of that look, Michael Dunbar was truly handsome back then, and not too bad a dancer.



* * *



—

Then the next, it was out front, on the steps, and the mist of coolest winter.

At Hyperno a few days earlier, Penelope was back as a substitute, and had confiscated cigarettes. To be honest she didn’t really think it her place—to tell these kids not to smoke. Whenever she took such things from them, she said to come back later. Was that plain irresponsible? Or showing them proper respect? No wonder they all came to love her.

In any case, whether the student had been embarrassed, or ashamed, no one came back for those Winfield Blues, and Penny found them in the evening. They were crushed at the bottom of her handbag. As she took out her wallet and keys before bed, she held the cigarettes.

    “And what the hell is this?”

Michael had promptly caught her.

And call them impulsive, or ridiculous, but I love them so much for this one. The sickness was gone away in that time, and they went out front to the porch. They smoked, they coughed and woke him.

On the way in, a few minutes later, Penny went to throw them out, but for some reason Michael stopped her. He said, “How about we just hide them?” A conspiratorial wink. “You never know when we might need one again—it can be our little secret.”

But a boy was in on it, too.

See, even when they lifted the piano lid, and deposited the packet beneath, they still had no idea; he watched them from the hallway, and one thing, at that point, was clear: Our parents might have danced well.

But their smoking was amateur at best.





Clay was tempted to stay longer, but couldn’t.

The hardest was knowing he’d miss Carey’s next race meeting, out at Warwick Farm, but again, she expected him to go. When she left him at The Surrounds that Saturday night, she’d said, “See you when you’re here, Clay. I’ll be here, too, I promise.”

He watched her down the laneway.



* * *



—

Leaving us was the same as last time.

We knew without saying anything.

But also totally different.

This time there was obviously a lot less gravity, for what needed to be done was done. We could go on.

It was Monday night when we finally got around to finishing Bachelor Party, and Clay got up to leave. His things were in the hallway. Rory looked over, appalled.

“You’re not leaving now, are you? They haven’t even put the mule in the lift yet!”

(It’s actually quite scary how similar our lives were to that movie.) “It’s a donkey,” said Tommy.

Rory again: “I don’t care if it’s a quarter horse crossed with a Shetland bloody pony!”

Both he and Tommy laughed.

    Then Henry:

“Here, Clay—put your feet up,” and as he faked his way to the kitchen, he threw him to the couch, twice—once as he’d tried to get up again. Even when he did manage to break free, Henry got him in a headlock and ran him round. “How does that feel, y’ little shit? We’re not in Crapper’s building now, are we?”

Behind them, the Bachelor Party high jinks got dumber and dumber, and as Hector streaked away, Tommy jumped on Clay’s back, and Rory called over to me.

“Oi, give us a bloody hand, huh?”

I stood in the lounge room doorway.

I leaned against the frame.

“Come on, Matthew, help us pin him down!”

Given Clay’s form as an opponent, their breath came deep from within, and finally I walked toward them.

“All right, Clay, let’s beat these bastards up.”



* * *



—

Eventually, when the struggle was over, and the movie, too, we’d driven him to Central; the one and only time.

It was Henry’s car.

He and I in the front.

The other three in back, with Rosy.

“Shit, Tommy, does that dog have to pant so bloody loud?”

At the station, all was how you’d imagine: The coffee smell of brakes.

The overnight train.

The orange globes of light.

Clay had his sports bag, and there were no clothes in it; only the wooden box, the books of Claudia Kirkby and The Quarryman.

The train was ready to leave.

We shook hands—all of us and him.

Halfway to the last carriage, it was Rory who called out.

    “Oi, Clay!”

He turned back.