Bridge of Clay(87)

We were floored by the slums of Rio.

Then marveled at Kelly LeBrock.

“Hey,” said Rory, “take that bit back!” and “This shit shoulda won Oscars!”



* * *



—

At the river, by the radio, out of handfuls, then dozens of races, her first win would remain elusive. That first afternoon at Hennessey—when she’d veered and lost to the protest—felt suddenly, seemingly years ago, yet near enough to still burn.

Once, when she came storming through the field, on a mare by the name of Stun Gun, a jockey lost his whip in front of her, and it struck her below the chin. It caused her a moment’s distraction, and loss of the horse’s momentum.

She finished fourth, but alive, and pissed off.



* * *



—

At last, it came, though, it had to.

A Wednesday afternoon.

The meeting was at Rosehill, and the horse was a miler named Arkansas.

Clay was alone in the riverbed.

It had rained in the city for days, and she’d kept him on the inside run. While the other jockeys took their horses, quite rightly, out to firmer ground, Carey had listened to McAndrew. He’d told her wise and drily: “Just take him right through the slop, kid. Keep him on the rail—I almost want paint marks on him when you bring him in, got it?”

“Got it.”

But McAndrew could see the doubt in her. “Look—no one’s run there all day, it might hold up, and you’ll be racing him a few strides shorter.”

“Peter Pan once won the Cup like that.”

“No,” he corrected her, “he didn’t—he did the opposite, he ran out wide, but the whole track was slopped to bits.”

For Carey this was a rare mistake; it must have been nerves, and McAndrew smiled, halfway—as much as he ever did on race day. A lot of his jockeys didn’t even know who Peter Pan was. The horse or the fictional character.

    “Just win the bloody thing.”

And she did.



* * *



—

In the riverbed, Clay rejoiced:

He laid a hand on a plank of the scaffold. He’d heard drinking men say things like “Just give me four beers and you’ll never get the smile off me,” and that was how this was for him.

She’d won one.

He imagined her bringing him in, and the gleam and the clock hands, McAndrew. On the radio, they would soon cross to Flemington, down south, and the commentator finished with laughter. He said, “Look at her, the jockey, she’s hugging the tough old trainer—and take a look at McAndrew! Did you ever see someone look so uncomfortable?”

The radio laughed, and Clay laughed, too.

A pause, then back to work.



* * *



—

The next time he came home, he thought and dreamed on the train. He concocted a great many moments, for celebrating the win of Arkansas, but should have known it would always be different.

He went straight to the stands of Hennessey.

He watched her race for two fourths and a third. And then her second first. It was a sprinter called Blood on the Brain, owned by a wealthy undertaker. Apparently, all the horses he owned were named for fatal conditions: Embolism, Heart Attack, Aneurysm. His favorite was Influenza. “Very underrated,” he’d say, “but a killer.”

For Blood on the Brain, she’d kept him nice and relaxed, and brought him through on the turn. When she came in, Clay watched McAndrew.

He was tight but thrilled in his navy blue suit.

He could almost read his lips.

    “Don’t even think of hugging me.”

“Don’t worry,” she’d said, “not this time.”



* * *



—

Afterwards, Clay walked home.

He crossed the Hennessey floodgates, out through the smoke of the car park, and the bright red rows of taillights. He turned onto Gloaming Road, which was suitably noisy and choked.

Hands in pockets.

The city folding in, at evening, then—

“Hey!”

He turned.

“Clay!”

She appeared from around the gate.

She’d changed from out of her racing silks, in jeans and shirt, but barefoot. Her smile, again, like the straight.

“Wait up, Clay! Wait up—” And he could feel the heat and blood in her, as she caught him and stood five meters away, and he said to her, “Blood on the Brain.” Then smiled, and told her, “Arkansas.”



* * *



—

She stepped through the dark, and half leapt at him.

She almost tackled him down.

Her heartbeat like a storm front—but warm, inside his jacket—and that traffic still trapped, still standstill.

She hugged him terribly hard.

People walked past and saw, but neither of them cared to notice.

Her feet were on his shoes.

What she said in the pool of his collarbone.

He felt the beams of her bony ribcage, a scaffolding all of its own, as she hugged him fierce and friendless: “I missed you, do you know that?”

He squeezed her and it hurt but they liked it; and the soft of her chest hardened flat.