Bridge of Clay

—

When I left, I didn’t ask their permission:

I told my mother in her sickbed, and Michael Dunbar in the kitchen. They both said I should stay, but my mind was already set. Talking about resourcefulness, the bills were becoming flood-like—defying death had never been cheap—but that’s still not why I did it. No, it just seemed right, that’s all I can say, and even when Penny looked at me, and said I should sit up next to her, I felt completely certain and justified.

She struggled to hold a hand up.

She raised it to my face.

I could feel the hot-tin roof of it, as she ignited on top of the sheets; it was one of those oxymorons again—it cooked her from within.

She said, “Promise you’ll still keep reading.” She swallowed, like heavy machinery. “Promise me, promise, okay, kid?”

I said, “Of course,” and you should have seen her.

She caught fire, beside me, on the bed.

Her papery face was lit.

* * *

—

As for Michael Dunbar, in the kitchen, our dad did something strange.

He looked at the bills, then me.

Then he walked outside with his coffee cup, and hurled it toward the fence—but he’d somehow got the angle wrong, and it landed amongst the lawn.

When a minute went by, he’d collected it, and the cup remained unharmed.

* * *

—

From there the door was flung open, and death came in from everywhere; it marauded all that was hers.

But still, she wouldn’t allow it.

One of the best nights was late in February (nearly twenty-four months in total), when a voice arrived in the kitchen. It was hot and very humid. Even dishes on the rack were sweating, which meant a perfect night for Monopoly. Our parents were in the lounge, watching TV.

I was the top hat, Henry the car, Tommy the dog, Clay the thimble. Rory, as always, was the iron (which was the closest he’d get to actually using one), and he was winning, and rubbing it in.

Rory knew I hated cheaters, and gloaters more than anything—and he was doing both, way out in front, rummaging everyone’s hair, each time we had to pay him…till a few hours in, it started:

“Oi.”

That was me.

“What?”

That was Rory.

“You rolled nine but moved ten.”

Henry rubbed his hands together; this was going to be great.

“Ten? What the hell are you talking about?”