They all said it, but he needed a rest.
Much like Catherine Novac, way back from the start, the horse protectionists called it tragic, but so was the death of horses—overrun and overbred. The game was killing all of them, they said.
But Clay knew the answer was him.
* * *
—
At home, when we arrived, we sat in the car a long time.
We turned into our father, after Penny died.
Just sitting. Just staring.
Even if there had been Tic Tacs or Anticols, I’m sure we wouldn’t have eaten them.
Clay thought it, over and again:
It wasn’t the game, it was me, it was me.
And credit to the rest of them, they came.
They came and sat in the car with us, and at first all they said was “Hi, Clay.” Tommy, as the youngest and greenest, tried to talk about the good things, like the day she came and met us—in waters still to come—and how she’d walked right through the house.
“Remember that, Clay?”
Clay said nothing.
“Remember when she met Achilles?”
* * *
—
This time he didn’t run anymore, he only walked the maze of suburbs; the streets and fields of the racing quarter.
He didn’t eat, and didn’t sleep, and couldn’t shake that feeling of seeing her. She was a girl at the edge of everything.
As for the rest of us, it was so clear how hard it had hit him, but we barely knew the half of it—and how could we understand? We didn’t know that they met at The Surrounds. We didn’t know about the night before, or the lighter, or Kingston Town or Matador, or Carey Novac in the eighth. Or the bed we’d failed to burn.
When our father called us up, a few nights in a row, Clay just shook his head at me. I said we’d take good care of him.
* * *
—
And the funeral?
It could only be one of those bright-lit things, even if they held it indoors.
The church was totally packed.
People came out of the woodwork, from racing identities to radio hosts. Everyone wanted to know her. So many knew her best.
No one even saw us.
They didn’t hear his countless confessions.