Nothing more.
* * *
—
After lying on their backs, they did three more sets, Rosy cleaning up the stray shoe on the way.
“Oi, Tommy.”
“Yeah?”
“Put ’em on tighter next time, right?”
“Sure, Henry.”
“Double knots, or I’ll cutcha in half.”
“Okay, Henry.”
At the bottom, he gave him a slap on the shoulder—the signal to get on Clay’s back again—and they ran the stairs and came down in the lift. (Cheating in some people’s minds, but actually much harder: it shortened the recovery.) After the last climb, Henry, Tommy, and Rosy took one more ride down, but Clay was taking the stairs. Outside, they walked over to Henry’s iron slab of a car and went through the old routine:
“Rosy, get out of the front seat.” She sat there at the wheel, her ears perfect triangles. She looked ready to adjust the radio. “Come on, Tommy, get her out of there, do us a favor.”
“Here, girl, stop muckin’ round.”
Henry pocketed a hand.
A fistful of coins.
“Clay, here it is, we’ll see you up there.”
Two boys drove, the other ran.
Out the window: “Oi, Clay!”
He pushed on. He didn’t turn around, but he heard all right. The same thing, every time.
“Get daisies if you can, they were her favorite, remember?”
As if he didn’t know.
The car pulled out, blinker on. “And don’t get done on the price!”
Clay ran faster.
He hit the hill.
* * *
—
In the beginning it was me who trained him, then Rory, and if I did it with an old-school brand of foolish integrity, Rory bludgeoned but never broke him. As for Henry, he’d made a scheme of it—he did it for the cash, but also because he loved it, which we’ll witness soon enough.
From the outset, it was straightforward, yet stupefying:
We could tell him what to do.
He would do it.