The hardest was knowing he’d miss Carey’s next race meeting, out at Warwick Farm, but again, she expected him to go. When she left him at The Surrounds that Saturday night, she’d said, “See you when you’re here, Clay. I’ll be here, too, I promise.”
He watched her down the laneway.
* * *
—
Leaving us was the same as last time.
We knew without saying anything.
But also totally different.
This time there was obviously a lot less gravity, for what needed to be done was done. We could go on.
It was Monday night when we finally got around to finishing Bachelor Party, and Clay got up to leave. His things were in the hallway. Rory looked over, appalled.
“You’re not leaving now, are you? They haven’t even put the mule in the lift yet!”
(It’s actually quite scary how similar our lives were to that movie.)
“It’s a donkey,” said Tommy.
Rory again: “I don’t care if it’s a quarter horse crossed with a Shetland bloody pony!”
Both he and Tommy laughed.
Then Henry:
“Here, Clay—put your feet up,” and as he faked his way to the kitchen, he threw him to the couch, twice—once as he’d tried to get up again. Even when he did manage to break free, Henry got him in a headlock and ran him round. “How does that feel, y’ little shit? We’re not in Crapper’s building now, are we?”
Behind them, the Bachelor Party high jinks got dumber and dumber, and as Hector streaked away, Tommy jumped on Clay’s back, and Rory called over to me.
“Oi, give us a bloody hand, huh?”
I stood in the lounge room doorway.
I leaned against the frame.
“Come on, Matthew, help us pin him down!”
Given Clay’s form as an opponent, their breath came deep from within, and finally I walked toward them.
“All right, Clay, let’s beat these bastards up.”
* * *
—
Eventually, when the struggle was over, and the movie, too, we’d driven him to Central; the one and only time.
It was Henry’s car.
He and I in the front.
The other three in back, with Rosy.
“Shit, Tommy, does that dog have to pant so bloody loud?”