Bridge of Clay

“You know.”

“Of course.” Henry did the talking. He motioned to his bruises. “What do you think all this is?” That smile, it swerved already.

“What do you mean?”

“Beethoven,” he said. “You know how tough that guy is.”

Her nose bled when she grinned.

* * *

—

Still, when she made it back home, she had them sit there again to prove themselves, while she frayed in the chair beside them.

“You never practiced,” she said to Rory, with half-amused disdain.

He looked down and admitted it. “You’re absolutely right.”

Once, Clay stopped, midsong.

He was butchering it anyway.

He, too, had a light shadow of navy blue below his eye, after a fight—roped in with Henry.

“Why’d you stop?” But quickly then, she softened. “A story?”

“No, not that.” He gulped and looked at the keys. “I thought—maybe you could play.”

And she did.

Minuet in G.

Perfect.

Note for note.

It had been a long time, but he kneeled and laid his head there.

Her thighs were paper-thin.

* * *

—

In that period there’d been one last memorable fight, on the way back home from school. Rory, Henry and Clay. Four other guys against them. Tommy was off to the side. A woman sprayed them with her garden hose; a good one, a good nozzle. Good pressure. “Go on!” she shouted. “Git out of it.”

“Git out of it,” repeated Henry, and he got another blast. “Hey! What the hell was that for?”

She was in a nightgown and worn-out flip-flops, at three-thirty in the afternoon. “Being smart,” and again she blasted him. “And that one’s for the blasphemy.”

“That’s a good hose you got there.”

“Thanks—now piss off.”

Clay helped him up.

Rory was out ahead, feeling at his jawline, and at home there was a note. She was back in. The dreaded white sheets. At the bottom was a smiley face, with long hair either side of it. Beneath, it said: