Bridge of Clay

I worked to make an argument.

Not a single thought came out.

“If you can’t do it, I’ll do it for you.” He breathed stiffly, strugglingly, inwards. “You don’t need to be running with him, Matthew,” and he looked at the boy crouched by me, at the fire inside his eyes. “You have to try and stop him.”

* * *

—

That evening Clay had told me.

I was watching Alien in the lounge room.

(Talk about suitably grim!)

He said he was grateful and sorry—and I spoke toward the TV. A smile to keep it together.

“At least I can have a rest now—my legs and my back are killing me.”

He placed a look down onto my shoulder.

I’d lied; we pretended to believe it.

* * *

—

To the training itself, it was genius:

There were three boys at the 100 mark.

Two at the 200.

Then Rory, the final stretch.

It wasn’t hard to find boys who would hurt him, either; he’d come home with groups of bruises, or a burn down the side of his face. They punished him till he was smiling—and that was when training finished.

* * *

—

One night we were in the kitchen.

Clay washed and I dried the plates.

“Hey, Matthew,” he said quite quietly. “I’m running tomorrow, at Bernborough—no one stopping me. I’m trying for the time I won State.”

And me, I didn’t look at him, but I couldn’t look somehow away.

“I’m wondering,” he said, “if you don’t mind,” and the look on his face said everything. “I thought maybe you’d tape my feet.”

* * *

—

At Bernborough, next morning, I watched.

I sat in the flames of the grandstand.