Bridge of Clay

Michael mostly stood with him; he put his hand on him very gently, till we quietly made our way down.

* * *

—

I stayed the night, I had to.

Clay made me sleep in his bed, while he sat propped against the wall. Six times I woke in the night, and Clay had remained quite upright.

By the seventh he’d finally fallen.

He was sideways, asleep on the floor.

* * *

—

Next morning, he took only the contents of his pocket:

The feel of a fading peg.

On the drive home, he sat beside me very straightly. He kept looking into the rearview, expecting to almost see her.

At one point he said, “Pull over.”

He thought he might throw up, but he was just cold, so cold, and he thought she might catch up, but he sat by the roadside alone.

“Clay?”

I said it close to a dozen times.

We walked back to the car and drove on.

* * *

—

The newspapers talked about one of the best young jockey prospects in decades. They talked of old Mr. McAndrew, who, in the pictures, was a broken broomstick. They talked about a family of jockeys, and how her mother had wanted to stop her—to forbid her from joining the game. Her brothers would come from the country, to make it in time for the funeral.

They spoke of ninety percent:

Ninety percent of jockeys are injured every year.

They talked about a tough business, predominantly flimsy pay, and one of the most dangerous jobs in the world.

* * *

—

But what about what they didn’t say in the papers?

The papers didn’t talk about the sun when first they’d spoken—so near, and huge, beside her. Or its glowing of light on her forearms. They didn’t mention the sound of her footsteps, when she came to The Surrounds, and the way she rustled closer. They didn’t mention The Quarryman, and how she would read and always return it. Or how she’d loved his broken nose. What good were newspapers anyway?

On top of everything else, they didn’t mention if there was an autopsy, or if the previous night was upon her; they were certain it was instant. Taken, like that, so quickly.

McAndrew was retiring.

They claimed it wasn’t his fault, and they were right; it was the game and these things happened, and his care for his jockeys was exemplary.