He loved that sideways dog-look.
Then he headed further back, for The Surrounds.
* * *
—
As it was, he didn’t stay very long; he was already gone, so he didn’t remove the plastic. No, all he did was say goodbye, and promise to return.
At home, in the house, in his and Henry’s room, he looked inside the box; the peg was the final object. In the dark, he saw the contents, from the feather to the iron, the money, the peg, and the Murderer’s patched-up address. And, of course, the metallic lighter, inscribed from her to him.
Instead of sleep, he turned on the lamp. He repacked his suitcase. He read from his books, and the hours swept him by.
At just past three-thirty, he knew Carey would soon come out:
He got up and put the books back in the sports bag, and held the lighter in his hand. In the hallway he felt the engraving again, cut slimly into the metal.
He noiselessly opened the door.
He stood at the railing, on the porch.
Eons ago he’d been here with me. The front door ultimatum.
Soon, Carey Novac emerged, a backpack on her back and a mountain bike beside her.
First he saw a wheel: the spokes.
Then the girl.
Her hair was out, her footsteps fast.
She was in jeans. The customary flannel shirt.
The first place she looked was across the road, and when she saw him she put the bike down. It lay there, stuck on a pedal, the back wheel whirring, and the girl walked slowly over. She stood, dead center, on the road.
“Hey,” she said, “you like it?”
She was quiet but it came out shouted.
A delighted kind of defiance.
The stillness of predawn Archer Street.
As for Clay, he thought of many things to say to her then, to tell her and have her know, but all he said was “Matador.”
Even from a distance he could see her not-quite-white, not-quite-straight teeth, as her smile laid open the street; and finally, she held a hand up, and her face was something strange to him—at a loss for what to say.
When she left, she walked and watched him, then watched a moment longer.
Bye, Clay.
Only when he imagined her well down Poseidon Road did he look again into his hand, where the lighter dimly sat. Slow and calm he opened it, and the flame stood straightly up.
* * *
—
And so it was.