Bridge of Clay

On that occasion, out of the hospital, Penny Dunbar said she was thirsty. She said she wanted beer. We’d helped her to the porch when she told us not to bother. Usually she never drank.

Michael had her arms then.

He looked at her and asked.

“What is it? You need a rest?”

The woman was immediate, emphatic:

“Let’s go down to the Naked Arms.”

Night had hit the street, and Michael pulled her closer.

“Sorry?” he asked. “What was that?”

“I said, let’s go down to the pub.”

She wore a dress we’d bought for a twelve-year-old, but a girl who didn’t exist.

She smiled in the Archer darkness.

* * *

—

For a very long moment, her light lit up the street, and I know that sounds quite odd, but that’s how Clay described it. He said she was just so pale by then, and her skin so paper-thin. Her eyes continued to yellow.

Her teeth became old framework.

Her arms were pinned at the elbows.

Her mouth was the exception—or the outline of it, at least.

Especially at times like these.

“Come onnn,” she said, she tugged at him. Cracked and dry, but alive. “Let’s go for a drink—you’re Mikey Dunbar, after all!”

Us boys, we had to skylark.

“Yeah, c’mon, Mikey, hey, Mikey!”

“Oi,” he said. “Mikey can still make you clean the house, and mow the lawn.” He’d stayed up near the porch, but saw it was pointless finding reason here, as she walked back down the path. Still, he had to try. “Penny—Penny!”

And I guess it’s one of those moments, you know?

You could see how hard he loved her.

His heart was so obliterated, but he found the will to work it.

He was tired, so tired, in the porch light.

Just bits-and-pieces of a man.

* * *

—

As for us, we were boys, we should have been a sitcom.