“Well, that’s the most important thing.”
The old man got to engraving.
* * *
—
As he left the shop, the thought struck him.
Since leaving home that first time, for the river, he’d thought the money—the roll of it from Henry—would be only for building the bridge. But it was always meant for this. He’d used all of twenty-two dollars.
At 18 Archer Street, he put the remainder of the big thick roll onto the bed lying opposite his.
“Thanks, Henry,” he whispered, “you keep the rest,” and he thought of Bernborough Park then—back to boys and never quite men—and turned and left for Silver.
* * *
—
Early on Easter Saturday, two days before the race, he got up and sat in the dark; he looked for the Amahnu. He sat on the edge of his bed, and the box was in his hands. He took everything out but the lighter, then included a folded-up letter.
He’d written it the previous night.
* * *
—
In the evening that Saturday, they lay there and she told him.
The same instructions.
Go out hard.
Let him run.
Then pray and take him home.
She was nervous, but they were good nerves.
Near the end, she said, “Are you coming?”
He smiled at the bulging stars.
“Of course.”
“Your brothers?”
“Of course.”
“Do they know about this?” she said, and she was talking about The Surrounds. “And us?”
She’d never asked about that before, and Clay was pretty certain. “No—they just know we’ve always been close.”
The girl nodded.
“And, hey, I have to tell you…” He paused. “There’s also something else—” and now he stopped completely.
“What?”