—
In every house, the lights were on, people were home.
As if sensing the oncoming theater, the pigeons arrived from nowhere, and dug in close on the power lines. They were perched on TV aerials, and God forbid, on the trees. There was also a single crow, fat-feathered and plump, like a pigeon disguised in a trench coat.
But he wasn’t fooling anyone.
* * *
—
To our front yard—one of the few with no fence, no gate, just lawn—it was leafless, freshly mowed.
The porch, the roof, the blink of one of my movies.
Strangely, Henry’s car wasn’t there, but Clay couldn’t be distracted. He walked slowly on, then, “Matthew.”
He only said it at first, as if careful to be casual and calm.
Matthew.
Just my name.
That was all.
Just above quiet.
And again, a few steps more, he felt the cushion of grass, and now, in the middle, facing the door, he expected me to come—but I didn’t. He had to shout or stand and wait, and he chose, as it was, the first one. His voice so much not-his, as “MATTHEW!” he screamed, and put down his bag, and the books inside—his reading.
Within seconds, he heard movement, and then Rosy let loose a bark.
I was the first to appear out front.
* * *
—
I stood on the porch in almost exactly what Clay was wearing, only my T-shirt was dark blue and not white. The same faded jeans. The same thin-soled sports shoes. I’d been watching Rain Man, three-quarters through.
Clay—it was so damn good to see him…but no.
My shoulders fell, but barely; I couldn’t show how much I didn’t want to. I had to look willing and sure.
“Clay.”
It was the voice of that long-lost morning.
The killer in his pocket.
Even when Rory and Tommy came out, I kept them back, almost benignly. When they argued, I held up my hand. “No.”
They stayed, and Rory said something Clay couldn’t hear.
“Go too far and I’m coming in, okay?”
Had it all been whispered?
Or was it spoken normally and Clay just couldn’t hear it for the noise inside his ears?