—
Probably one of the best things Michael ever did was force him to take a break:
A weekend.
A whole weekend.
Clay, of course, was reluctant. He said he was going to the shed; he needed that torturous shovel again.
“No.”
The Murderer, our dad, was final.
“Why not?”
“You’re coming with me.”
It was no surprise that Clay slept all the way in the car, as he drove him out to Featherton; he woke him when he’d parked on Miller Street.
Clay rubbed at his eyes and ignited.
“Is this,” he said, “where you buried them?”
Michael nodded and passed him a coffee cup.
The country began to spin.
* * *
—
In the confines of the car, while Clay drank, our father gently explained. He didn’t know if they lived there anymore, but it was a couple called the Merchisons who’d bought the place, though it seemed there was no one home—except for the three out back.
For a long time they were tempted—to cross that toasty lawn—but soon they drove on, and parked near the bank. They walked the old town and its streets.
He said, “This pub here’s where I threw bricks up….I threw bricks up to another guy throwing bricks up—”
And Clay said, “Abbey was here.”
Oi, Dunbar, y’ useless prick! Where are me Goddamn bricks?!
Michael Dunbar simply said, “Poetry.”
* * *
—
After that, they walked till evening, right out onto the highway; and Clay could see the beginnings of things, like Abbey eating an Icy Pole, and his father and the dog called Moon.
In the town he saw the surgery:
Dr. Weinrauch’s infamous chopping block.
Then the woman and resident boxer, who’d punched at the keys in the office.
“It’s not quite how I saw it,” he said, “but I guess things never are.”
“We never imagine things perfectly,” said Michael, “but always just left or right….Not even me, and I used to live here.”