Bridge of Clay

He walked and stopped, he leaned at the air—and quicker than he’d hoped or imagined, he stood at the mouth of Archer Street, and there was no relief, and no terror.

There was knowing he was here, he’d made it.

As always, there had to be pigeons.

They were perched up high on the power lines, as he came to our front yard. What else could he do but walk on?

He did and soon he stopped.

He stood on our lawn, and behind him, diagonally, was Carey’s house, where she’d stood with the cord of the toaster. He almost laughed when he thought of our struggle here—the violence of boys and brothers. He saw Henry, and himself, on the roof, like kids he once knew and had talked to.

Before he realized, he’d said the word “Matthew.”

Just my name and that was all.

So calm and so quiet—but Rory had heard—and we stood up, together, in the kitchen.

* * *

—

I’m not sure I can ever explain it, or have a hope or a Je-sus Christ.

God, how do I get this right?

So all I can do is punch harder here, to give you it all as it was:

See, first we all ran to the hallway, and ripped the fly screen clean from its hinges—and there, from the porch, we saw him. He was down on the lawn, dressed up for a wedding, with tears in his eyes, but smiling. Yes, Clay, the smiler, was smiling.

Amazingly, no one moved closer:

All of us, totally still.

But then, quite quickly, we did.

Me, I took a step, and from there it was suddenly easy. I said Clay, and Clay, and Clay the boy, and the gusts of my brothers swept past me; they jumped the steps of the porch, they tackled him down to the lawn. They were a scrum of bodies and laughter.

And I wonder how it must have looked then, to our father, a mess at the railing. I wonder how he must have seen it, as Henry and Tommy, then Rory, all finally climbed off my brother. I wonder how it must have been to watch, as soon they helped him up, and he stood and dusted himself off, and I walked the last meters to meet him.

“Clay,” I said. “Hey, Clay—”

But there was nothing else now I could say to him—as this boy, who was also the man of this house, allowed himself finally to fall—and I held him, like love, in my arms.

“You came,” I said, “you came,” and I held him so hard, and all of us then, all men of us there, we smiled and cried, cried and smiled; and there had always been one thing known, or at least it was known to him:

A Dunbar boy could do many things, but he should always be sure to come home.

There would be no Dunbar boys, no bridge, and no Clay without the toughness, laughter, and sheer collective heart of Cate Paterson, Erin Clarke, and Jane Lawson—all of them clear-eyed and truth-telling. All of them Dunbar boys themselves. Thank you for everything.

To my friends and colleagues: Catherine (the Great) Drayton, Fiona (Riverina) Inglis, and Grace (PP) Heifetz—thank you for hanging in. Thank you for your willingness to age a decade or so in those Spartan days of reading.

Tracey Cheetham: If 2016 could happen, so could this. The finest from across those bridges.

Judith Haut: Very few people have withstood my idiocy more than you. It’s the Arkansas in your blood. Thanks always for your love and friendship, no matter the river or city.

William Callahan: You may never know what you are to this book. You were there to carry me up. You bribed me out of Hades.

Georgia (GBAD) Douglas: Ultimate penultimate. I’ll miss our hart-to-harts. Infuriatingly right. T-shirts might yet be made.