Bridge of Clay Page 18

  She walked to the piano and sat—but this time something was different. She opened the lid and saw the words, on the keys, and they were lettered there simply, yet beautifully:

  He’d remembered.

  He’d remembered, and how her hand covered her mouth, and how she smiled, and burned in the eyes; all doubt driven far, even gone for now, as she wavered above the letters. She didn’t want to disturb them, or smear the paint. Even if it was dry for hours.

  But soon she found the resolve.

  She allowed her fingers to fall down softly, in the center of the words PLEASE MARRY.

  She turned around and called.

  “Michael?”

  There was no answer, so she walked back out, and the boys were gone, and it was city, red air and Pepper Street.

  He was sitting, alone, on his stairs.

  * * *

  —

  Later, much later, when Michael Dunbar slept in the single bed they’d often shared in her apartment, she came back out, in the dark.

  She switched on the light.

  She turned the knob to a shadowed dimness and sat on the stool at the piano. Slowly, her hands drifted, and gently, she pressed the high-pitched notes. She hit them soft but true and right, where she’d used the paint left over.

  She’d played the keys of Y | E | S.

  “I can’t believe my eyes. I thought you’d only make a start.”

  That’s what Michael Dunbar said about the giant trench that was dug by a single boy in less than a week. He should have known better.

  “What the hell did you do, dig all night and day?”

  Clay looked down. “I slept sometimes.”

  “Next to the shovel?”

  Now he looked up, as the Murderer saw his hands.

  “Jesus…”

  As for Clay, when he told me about that particular little stunt, he spoke more about the aftermath than the exercise itself. He was dying to at least see Archer Street, and The Surrounds, but he couldn’t, of course; two reasons.

  First, he was in no condition to face me.

  And second, coming back and not facing me felt like cheating.

  No, from the cemetery, he’d caught the train back to Silver, then spent a few days recovering. Not a single part of him wasn’t hurting. The blistered hands were the worst, though, and he slept, lay awake, and waited.

  * * *

  —

  When the Murderer came, he’d pulled up on the other side of the river, in the trees.

  He walked down and stood, on the floor of the dug-out ditch.

  Either side were tidal waves, of rocks and mounds of dirt.

  He looked and shook his head, then over, across at the house.

  Inside, he sought Clay out, he pulled him apart in the kitchen; he sighed and half slouched, and shook his head once more, between shock and total dismay. He finally had something to say to him:

  “I gotta give it to you, kid—you’ve got heart.”

  And Clay couldn’t stop it.

  The words.

  They left and returned, several times, and now, in the kitchen, stood Rory; like he’d climbed right out of the oven, directly from Bernborough Park, and the storied 300-meter mark:

  Gotta give it to you, kid…

  The exact same words he’d said to him.

  And Clay was unable to stop himself.

  He rushed down the hallway and sat on the bathroom floor. In his hurry he’d slammed the door, and—

  “Clay? Clay—you okay?”

  The interruption was like an echo, like being shouted to, underwater; and he came up gasping for air.

  As far as weddings go, there wasn’t much to organize, so it came to them pretty fast. At one point, Michael wondered what to do with the artwork—the Abbey paintings—whether to keep, destroy, or throw them away; Penelope, at first, was certain.

  “You should keep them,” she said, “or sell them; they don’t deserve to be destroyed.” She calmly reached out and touched one. “Look at her, she’s so beautiful.”

  It was then, incidentally, she felt it:

  A flicker of fire, of jealousy.

  Why can’t I be like that? she wondered, as she thought once again, of that long and distant terrain in him—where sometimes he vanished from next to her. At times like those she wanted it desperately—to be more and better than Abbey—but the paintings were proof in the making: everything once equaled her.

  It was a relief, in the end, when they sold them:

  They displayed one of the bigger ones on a roundabout, near Pepper Street, with a sign and date for the art sale—and by nightfall the painting was stolen. In the garage, on the day itself, it took an hour; they went quickly because people liked them; both Abbey and Penny alike.

  “You should be painting this one,” said many of the buyers, and gestured toward Penelope; and Michael could only smile at them.

  He said, “This one’s much better in person.”

  * * *

  —

  From there, the next hurdle was Penelope’s familiar luck:

  It wasn’t so much what happened—for it was a mistake of her own judgment—but that it had to happen then: the morning before they were married. She was making a turn off Lowder Street, onto Parramatta Road, in Michael’s old sedan.

  She hadn’t driven at all in the Eastern Bloc, but her eye was still trained to that side. Here she’d done the exams, she’d passed with reasonable confidence, and often drove Michael’s car. There were never any problems, but on this day it counted for nothing. She made the perfect right-hand turn, onto the wrong side of the road.

  On the back seat, the wedding dress she’d just picked up lay modest and fluent, and the car was crashed into from the side, like a demon had taken a bite. Penelope’s ribs were ruptured. Her nose was slapped, and broken; her face hit the head of the dash.

  The man from the other car was swearing, but stopped when he saw the blood.

  She said sorry in two different languages.

  * * *

  —

  Next came the police, and competitive men in tow trucks, who negotiated, sweated and smoked. When the ambulance arrived, they tried convincing her to go to the hospital, but said they couldn’t force her.

  Penny insisted she was fine.

  There was a long strange shape down her front:

  An oblong mural of blood.

  No, she would go to her local doctor, to which all of them agreed: she was tougher than she looked.

  The police joked that they were arresting her, and drove her smoothly home. The younger of them, the one chewing spearmint gum, also took care of the dress.

  He laid it delicately down in the trunk.

  * * *

  —

  When she made it home, she knew what had to be done.

  Get cleaned up.

  Have a cup of tea.

  Call Michael, and then the insurance company.

  As you might expect, she did none of those things first.

  No, with all the strength she could muster, she placed the dress over the couch and sat at the piano, completely dejected, then bereft. She played half of Moonlight Sonata, and she couldn’t see the notes, not once.

  * * *

  —

  At the doctor, an hour later, she didn’t scream.

  Michael held her hand while her ribs were gently pushed upon, and her nose yanked back into place.

  It was more just a gasp and a swallow.

  On the way out, though, she buckled, then lay on the waiting room floor. People craned to see.

  As Michael helped her up, he saw, in the corner, the usual fare of children’s toys, but he shrugged them quickly away. He carried her out the door.

  * * *

  —

 
At home again, on her old used couch, she lay down with her head in his lap. She asked if he would read from The Iliad, and for Michael there was great realization—for rather than think the obvious, like, I’m not your long-lost father, he reeled out far beyond it; he knew and got used to a truth. He loved her more than Michelangelo and Abbey Hanley combined.

  He wiped at the tear on her cheek.

  There was blood cracked into her lips.

  He picked up the book and read to her, and she cried, then slept, still bleeding….

  There was the fast-running Achilles, the resourceful Odysseus, and all the other gods and warriors. He especially liked Hector the panic maker—also named tamer of horses—and Diomedes, true son of Tydeus.

  He sat like that all night with her.

  He read, turned pages, and read.

  * * *

  —

  Then the wedding, which went ahead as planned, the following day.

  February 17.

  The gathering was small:

  A few tradesman friends on Michael’s side.

  That clump of cleaners for Penny.

  Adelle Dunbar was there, and so was old Weinrauch, who offered her anti-inflammatories. Thankfully, the swelling was down; she still bled now and then, and a black eye shone through her makeup, no matter how hard they tried.

  The church, too, was small, but seemingly cavernous. It was dark with leadlight windows; a tortured, colorful Christ. The preacher was tall and balding. He’d laughed when Michael leaned toward her and said, “See? Not even a car crash could get you out of this.” Then again, he’d looked so sad when the first drop of blood slipped to the dress and grew like a science litmus test.

  A rush of help arrived, from all quarters of the audience, and Penny sobbed back a smile. She took the hanky offered by Michael, and said, “You’re marrying a broken-nosed bride.”

  “Good boy,” said the preacher, when the blood was quelled, and tentatively, he proceeded—and the colorful Christ looked on, till they were Michael and Penelope Dunbar.

  They turned, as most couples do, and smiled at the congregation.

  They signed the appropriate papers.

  They walked down the center of the church, where the doors were held open, to a white-hot sunlight in front of them—and when I think of it I see that lure again; they’re holding that hard-to-catch happiness. They’ve brought it to life in their hands.

  In those lives before they had us, there were still two chapters left.

  Again, time passed.

  Weeks passed, closer to a month, and it was spent in various ways.

  They started, as they had to, with the hardest:

  The shifting of earth from the river.

  They worked from sunrise to sunset, and prayed for no rain, which would have made everything meaningless. If the Amahnu flowed, and flowed hard, it would bring with it silt and soil.

  At night, they sat in the kitchen, or on the edge of the couch at the coffee table; they properly designed the falsework. Between them they made two models—of the mold and the bridge itself. Michael Dunbar was mathematical, and methodical in angles of stone. He talked to the boy of trajectory, and how each block would need to be perfect. Clay was sick at the thought of voussoirs; he didn’t even know how to say it.

  Exhausted both physically and mentally, he’d walk sleepily to the bedroom and read. He held each item from the box. He lit the flame just once.

  He missed everyone, more as the weeks went on, when an envelope arrived in the letterbox. Inside, two handwritten letters.

  One from Henry.

  One from Carey.

  In all his time at the Amahnu, this was the event he’d waited for, but he didn’t read them right away. He walked upwards to the stones and river gums, and sat in the dappled sun.

  He read in the order he found them.

  Hi Clay,

  Thanks for your letter the other week. I kept it a while before showing the others—don’t ask me why. We miss you, you know. You say practically nothing, but we miss you. The roof tiles probably miss you the most, I’d say. Well, that, and me on Saturdays…When I hit the garage sales I get Tommy to help, but that kid’s useless as tits on a bull. You know that.

  The least you could do is visit. You just have to get it over with first—you know. Goddamn it, how long does it take to build a bridge anyway?

  Sincerely,

  Henry Dunbar esq.

  PS. Can you do me a favor? When you do come back, call and tell me what time you think you’ll get home. We all have to be here for that. Just in case.

  As he read the letter, Clay was nothing but grateful, for the Henryness of the writing. His crap really was endless, but Clay couldn’t help but pine for it. That, and he was nothing if not gallant; people often forgot that about Henry, seeing only self-interest and money. You did better with Henry beside you.

  Next was Tommy, and it was clear both he and Rory had been asked to contribute. Or, more likely, they were coerced. Tommy had gone first:

  Hi Clay,

  I don’t have much to say except that Achilles misses you. I got Henry to help me check his hooves—THAT’S what I call USELESS!!!!!!

  (And I miss you, too.)

  Then Rory:

  Oi Clay—come home, for Christ’s sake. I miss our little hart-to-harts.

  Ha!

  You thought I couldn’t spell heart then, didn’t you?

  Hey—do me a favor. Give the old man a hug for me.

  Just kidding—give him a kick in the coins okay? A good one.

  Say THAT’S FROM FUCKING RORY!

  Come home.

  It was funny. Tommy set things up perfectly, but it was Rory who always got to him—who made him feel things with greatest gravity. Maybe it was because Rory was the sort of person who didn’t really want to love anyone or anything, but he loved Clay, and he showed it in the oddest ways.

  Dear Clay,

  How can I tell you in one note how much I miss you, and how it is to sit at The Surrounds on Saturdays and imagine you there beside me? I don’t lie down. I don’t do anything. I just go and hope you’ll come, but you don’t, and I know why. It has to be that way, I guess.

  It’s funny, because this has been the best few weeks ever, and I can’t even tell you.

  Last week I got my first mount. Can you believe it??? It was on Wednesday and it was a horse called War of the Roses—an old journeyman only there to make up the numbers, and I never whipped him once, I just talked to him and got him to the line on hands-and-heels, and he came in third. Third!!! Holy shit! It’s the first time my mum’s been to the track in years. The silks were black, white, and blue. I’ll tell you everything when you come home, even if it isn’t for long. I’ve got another ride coming next week….

  God, in all that, I haven’t even asked. How are you? I miss seeing you up on the roof.

  Lastly, I finished The Quarryman again. I know why you love it so much. He did all those great things. I hope you get to do something great out there too. You will. You have to. You will.

  See you soon, I hope. See you at The Surrounds.

  I’ll show you my tips.

  I promise.

  Love,

  Carey

  Well, what would you do?

  What would you say?

  He read it way upriver, many times, and he knew.

  After a long time working it out, he calculated seventy-six days now he’d been away, and the Amahnu would be his future—but it was time to come home and face me.

  When Michael Dunbar married the Broken-Nosed Bride, the first thing they did was drag the piano back up Pepper Street, to number thirty-seven. It took six extra men from the neighborhood, and this time a carton of beer. (And not unlike the Bernborough boys—if there was beer it had to
be cold.) They worked their way round the back of the house, where there weren’t any steps to get in.

  “We should actually call those other guys,” said Michael, later on. He leaned an arm on top of the walnut, like he and the piano were friends. “They got the address right after all.”

  Penny Dunbar could only smile.

  She had one hand on the instrument.

  The other hand on him.

  * * *

  —

  A few years later, they moved out of that place, too; they bought a house they fell in love with. It was relatively close, in the racing quarter, with track-and-stables behind it.

  They looked on a Saturday morning:

  The house at 18 Archer Street.

  An agent waited inside, and asked them for their names. Seemingly, there’d been no other expressions of interest that day.

  To the house itself, there was hallway, there was kitchen. There were three bedrooms, a small bathroom, a long backyard with an old Hills Hoist, and both of them immediately imagined; they saw kids with lawn and garden, and the outbreaks of childhood chaos. It was paradise as far as they were concerned, and they were soon to fall even harder:

  With an arm on the pole of the clothesline, and an eye in the clouds above her, Penny heard the sound. She turned back to the agent.

  She said, “Excuse me, but what is that noise?”

  “Sorry?”

  He’d been dreading this moment, for it was possibly the cause of losing every other couple he’d taken through the property—all of whom had most likely had similar dreams, and thoughts of how they’d live there. They’d probably even seen the same laughing children getting in fights over unfair football tactics, or dragging dolls through the grass and dirt.

  “You don’t hear it?” she persisted.

  The agent adjusted his tie. “Oh, that?”