Bridge of Clay

I had to give something back.

I said, “You know,” and it hurt to swallow. The waters now still in her shirt. “The last person who ever told me that was our dad.”

* * *

—

In the running, something was coming.

Something sad, but mainly for me.

Through winter, we stayed consistent; we ran Bernborough, we ran the streets, and me then to coffee and kitchen, and Clay gone up to the roof.

When I timed him, the problem was awkward.

The runner’s most dreaded dilemma:

He ran harder, but wasn’t getting faster.

We thought it was lack of adrenaline; motivation was suddenly thin. What else could he do but win State? The athletics season was still months away; no wonder he was feeling lethargic.

Clay, though, wasn’t buying it.

At his side, I talked him on.

“Up,” I said, “up. Come on, Clay. What would Liddell do, or Budd?”

I should have known I was being too nice to him.

* * *

—

When Rory was suspended that last time, I had him come to the job with me; I fixed it with the boss. Three days’ worth of carpet and floorboards, and one thing was certainly clear—he wasn’t allergic to work. He seemed disappointed when each day ended; and then he

left school, it was final. I ended up almost begging them.

We sat in the principal’s office.

He’d snuck in and stolen the sandwich press from the science staff room. “They eat too much in there, anyway!” he’d explained. “I was doing ’em a bloody favor!”

Rory and I were on one side of the desk.

Claudia Kirkby, Mrs. Holland, the other.

Ms. Kirkby was in a dark suit and light blue shirt, Mrs. Holland, I can’t remember. What I do remember is her silver, sort of slicked-back hair, the softness of her crow’s feet, and the brooch on the pocket, on her left; it was a flannel flower, the school’s emblem.

“Well?” I said.

“Well, um, what?” she asked.

(Not the answer I was expecting.)

“Is he getting kicked out for good this time?”

“Well, I’m, um, not sure if that’s—”

I cut her off. “Let’s face it, he bloody deserves it.”