Bridge of Clay

The TV flashed bright and blue.

Each night, before leaving, Michael stood still, with his hand on the head of the dog. “Come on, girl,” and she came.

It wasn’t till Moon died that he finally traversed the fence.

* * *

—

Poor Moon.

It was a normal afternoon, after school:

The town was slathered in sun.

She was laid out near the back step with a king brown snake, also dead, in her lap.

For Michael there was “Oh, Jesus” and quickened footsteps. He’d come round the back and heard the scratch of fallen schoolbag, as he kneeled on the ground, beside her. He would never forget the hot concrete, the warm dog-smell, and his head in her ginger fur. “Oh, Jesus, Moonie, no…”

He begged her to pant.

She didn’t.

He pleaded with her to roll over and smile, or trot toward her bowl. Or dance, foot to foot, waiting for a deluge of dry food.

She didn’t.

There was nothing now but body and jaws, open-eyed death, and he kneeled in the backyard sunshine. The boy, the dog and the snake.

Later, not long before Adelle came home, he carried Moon past the clothesline and buried her next to a banksia.

He made a pair of decisions.

First, he dug a separate hole—a few feet to the right—and in it he placed the snake; friend and foe, side by side. Second, he would cross the fence at Abbey Hanley’s that night. He’d walk to the tired front door, and the TV’s blue-blinking light.

* * *

—

In the evening, on the highway, there was the town behind him and the flies, and the pain of the loss of the dog—that naked, pantless air. The emptiness by his side. But then there was the other feeling. That sweet sickness of making something happen: the newness. And Abbey. The everything-equals-her.

All the way he’d lectured himself not to stand at the barbed wire fence, but now he couldn’t resist. His life was reduced to minutes, till he swallowed and walked to the door—and Abbey Hanley opened it.

* * *

—

“You,” she said, and the sky was bulging with stars.

An overabundance of cologne.

A boy with burning arms.

His shirt was too big in a country that was too big, and they stood on a front path all swarmed with weeds. The rest of the family ate No Frills ice cream inside, and the tin roof loomed, leaning at him as he searched for words, and wit. Words he found. Wit he didn’t.

To her shins, he said, “My dog died today.”

“I was wondering why you were alone.” She smiled, just short of haughtily. “Am I the replacement?”