Bridge of Clay

Clay sighed and rolled from bed.

There was rain like a ghost you could walk through.

Almost dry when it hit the ground.

* * *

—

Earlier, not long after the enigma of Henry’s head, and the talk of well-baked chests, there was scratching at the back door, and knocking at the front.

At the back were both Rosy and Achilles, standing and thoroughly expectant.

To the dog: “You—in.”

To the mule: “You—get it through your thick head. Kitchen’s closed.”

As to the front, the knocking came with calling out:

“Matthew, it’s Mrs. Chilman!”

I opened up to the small squat woman with her ever-present wrinkles and shining eyes, and no incrimination. She was too aware that a whole other world existed in this house, and who was she to judge? Even when she’d first realized we were down to just us Dunbar boys, she’d never questioned me on how we lived. Mrs. Chilman wore the wisdom of old school—she’d seen boys the age of Rory and me sent off to be shot at overseas. Early on she’d brought us soup sometimes (tremendously chunky and hot) and would call us for help with opening jars until her dying day.

On this night, she was ready for business.

She spoke at me economically:

“Hi, Matthew, how are you, I thought I might get a look at Clay, he’s a bit banged up, is he? Then I’ll look at your hands.”

That was when the voice arrived from the couch, and attached to it, happily, was Henry.

“Me first, Mrs. Chilman!”

“Jesus!”

What was it about our house?

It brought the blasphemy out in everyone.

* * *

—

The car was in the Bernborough Park car park, and they walked to it through the moisture.

“Feel like doing a few laps?” Clay asked.

Henry tripped on a laugh.

“Only if we can drive ’em.”

In the car they traveled in silence, they took each street and laneway, and Clay catalogued the names. There was Empire, Carbine, Chatham Street, and onto Gloaming Road: the site of Hennessey and the Naked Arms. He remembered all the times he’d walked these streets with the just-arrived Carey Novac.

Still they drove meanderingly on, and Clay looked over between them.

“Hey,” he said, “hey, Henry,” when they stopped at the Flight Street traffic lights, but he spoke toward the dash. “Thanks for what you did.”

And you had to give it to Henry, especially at times like these; he gave him a black-eyed wink. “Good old Starkey’s girl, ay?”