—
Next afternoon, I sat in the car when Clay went into the schoolyard.
“You’re not coming?”
She was down by the side of the car park.
She held her hand up, high in the light, and they made the exchange of books; she said, “God, what happened to you?”
“It’s okay, Ms. Kirkby, it had to be done.”
“You Dunbars, you surprise me every time.” Now she noticed the car. “Hi, Matthew!” Damn it, I had to get out. This time I took note of the titles:
The Hay-Maker.
The See-Sawer.
(Both by the same author.)
Sonnyboy and Chief.
As for Claudia Kirkby, she shook my hand and her arms looked warm, as evening flooded the trees. She asked how everything was, and was it good having Clay back home again, and of course I said of course, but he wouldn’t be home for long.
Just before we left, she lasted Clay a look.
She thought, decided, and reached.
“Here,” she said, “give me one of those books.”
On a slip of paper, she wrote her phone number and a message, then placed it in Sonnyboy and Chief:
In case of an emergency
(like you keep running out of books)
ck
And she had been wearing that suit, just like I’d hoped, and there was that sunspot center-cheek.
Her hair was brown and shoulder-length.
I died as we drove away.
* * *
—
On Saturday the moment came, and all five of us went to Royal Hennessey, because word had gotten around; McAndrew had a gun new apprentice, and she was the girl from 11 Archer Street.
The track had two different grandstands:
The members and the muck.
In the members there was class, or at least pretend-class, and stale champagne. There were men in suits, women in hats, and some that weren’t even hats at all. As Tommy had stopped and asked: what were those strange things, anyway?
* * *
—