Bridge of Clay(96)

No, it was Clay Dunbar at his best:

A hand, a sandful of sugar.

It was raw and sweet in his palm—and the mule was eternally blessed—and to hell with the sign and its spelling; his nostrils began to spin. His eyes were undone as he grinned at him: I knew you’d one day come.





You had to give it to the older Michael Dunbar.

This time he got it right:

The photo was a work of art.

When Clay came back to Silver, he stood in the kitchen near the oven.

“So you gave it to her?”

His sunken eyes were hopeful.

His hands looked vague; distracted.

Clay nodded.

“She loved it.”

“So do I; I’ve got another one I took earlier,” and reading Clay’s thoughts, he said, “It’s pretty easy to sneak up on you out there—you’re lost in another world.”

And Clay, the right response; and something else, first time since coming.

“It helps me to forget,” he said, and he looked from the floor to face him. “But I’m not sure I really want to.” By the sink was a certain Mistake Maker; the blond-haired Penny Dunbar. “Hey—Dad?” It was such a shock, to both of them, and then came a second, a follow-up. “You know…I really miss her. I miss her so much, Dad, I miss her so much,” and it was then, a few footsteps, the world altered: He went over and brought the boy closer.

He grabbed his neck in his arm and hugged him.

Our dad became his father.



* * *



—

    But then they went back to the bridge.

Like nothing had ever happened.

They worked the scaffold and prayed for arches, or better, arches that lasted forever.

It’s funny, though, really, when you think of it, the air between fathers and sons—and especially this one and this one. There are hundreds of thoughts per every word spoken, and that’s if they’re spoken at all. Clay felt it especially hard that day, and in the days that stacked up after it. Again, there was so much to tell him. There were nights he’d come out to talk, then retreat, heart beating, to the bedroom. He remembered so vividly the boy he’d been, who’d ask for the stories from Featherton. He’d been piggybacked, back then, into bed.

He’d practice at the barren old desk; the box and his books beside him. The feather of T in his hand.

“Dad?”

How many times could he rehearse?

Once, he almost arrived, in the heavier light of the kitchen, but again, he returned to the hallway. The next time he actually made it, The Quarryman tight in his grip—and Michael Dunbar caught him: “Come in, Clay, what have you got there?”

And Clay stood snared in the light.

He brought the book up from his side.

He said, “Just.”

“Just,” then held up higher. The book, so white and weathered, with its creased and crippled spine. He held Italy out before him, and the frescoes on the ceiling, and all those broken noses—one for each time she’d read it.



* * *



—

“Clay?”

Michael in jeans and a T-shirt; his hands were weathered concrete. They might have had similar eyes, but then, for Clay, all the constant burning.

He’d had a concrete stomach once, too.

    Do you remember?

You had wavy hair; you still do, but more grey in it now as well—because you died and got a bit older, and— “Clay?”

He finally did it.

Blood flowed through the stone.

The book, in hand, held out to him: “Can you tell me about the Slaves and David?”





In many ways, you could argue the cat was our biggest mistake; he had a string of disgraceful habits: He drooled almost uncontrollably.

He had a nasty stench of breath.

He had a God-awful shedding problem, dandruff, and a tendency to throw his food overboard when he ate.

He vomited.

(“Look at this!” shouted Henry one morning. “Right next to my shoes!”

“Just be grateful it wasn’t in ’em.”

“Shut up, Rory….Tommy! Come clean this shit up!”) He meowed all hours of the night—such pathetic and high-pitched meowing! And then all the ball-tearing happy-pawing, on anyone’s lap he could find. Sometimes, when we watched TV, he’d move from boy to boy, sleeping and purring the house down. It was Rory who despised him most, though, and summed up all of us best: “If that cat starts slicing up my balls again, Tommy, I’m gonna kill the bastard, I swear it—and trust me, you’ll be next.”

But Tommy was looking much happier; and Henry had taught him to reply: “He’s only trying to find ’em, Rory,” and even Rory couldn’t resist—he laughed—and actually gave the big tabby a pat there, as he clawed through the shorts on his lap. There was the fish and the bird and Achilles to come, but next in line was the dog. It was Hector who paved the way home.



* * *



—

    By then we’d hit December, and there was a single, immutable fact: Clay was a 400 specialist.

He took the distance apart.

There was no one at Chisholm who could go with him, but challengers would soon be coming. The new year would bring Zone and Regionals, and if good enough, he’d make it to State. I looked for new ways of training him, and harked back to old motivations. I started, where he had, the library: I looked at books and articles.