In the pieces of dappled sunrise, he slowly gangled over.
Up close he was almost charming; he was talkative, though mute, and personable. His head was a texture, a scrubbing brush—and he ranged in careless colors, from sandy to rust throughout; his body, a dug-up farmland. His hooves were the shade of charcoal—and what were we supposed to do? How do you talk to a mule?
But Clay would take him on.
He looked in the eyes of the animal, which seemed so much like calves’ eyes, like babies sent for the slaughterhouse, pure sadness but so alive. He went to his pocket and reached for it; and it wasn’t the bright yellow peg.
No, it was Clay Dunbar at his best:
A hand, a sandful of sugar.
It was raw and sweet in his palm—and the mule was eternally blessed—and to hell with the sign and its spelling; his nostrils began to spin. His eyes were undone as he grinned at him:
I knew you’d one day come.
You had to give it to the older Michael Dunbar.
This time he got it right:
The photo was a work of art.
When Clay came back to Silver, he stood in the kitchen near the oven.
“So you gave it to her?”
His sunken eyes were hopeful.
His hands looked vague; distracted.
Clay nodded.
“She loved it.”
“So do I; I’ve got another one I took earlier,” and reading Clay’s thoughts, he said, “It’s pretty easy to sneak up on you out there—you’re lost in another world.”
And Clay, the right response; and something else, first time since coming.
“It helps me to forget,” he said, and he looked from the floor to face him. “But I’m not sure I really want to.” By the sink was a certain Mistake Maker; the blond-haired Penny Dunbar. “Hey—Dad?” It was such a shock, to both of them, and then came a second, a follow-up. “You know…I really miss her. I miss her so much, Dad, I miss her so much,” and it was then, a few footsteps, the world altered:
He went over and brought the boy closer.
He grabbed his neck in his arm and hugged him.
Our dad became his father.
* * *
—
But then they went back to the bridge.
Like nothing had ever happened.
They worked the scaffold and prayed for arches, or better, arches that lasted forever.
It’s funny, though, really, when you think of it, the air between fathers and sons—and especially this one and this one. There are hundreds of thoughts per every word spoken, and that’s if they’re spoken at all. Clay felt it especially hard that day, and in the days that stacked up after it. Again, there was so much to tell him. There were nights he’d come out to talk, then retreat, heart beating, to the bedroom. He remembered so vividly the boy he’d been, who’d ask for the stories from Featherton. He’d been piggybacked, back then, into bed.
He’d practice at the barren old desk; the box and his books beside him. The feather of T in his hand.