Bridge of Clay

“The bridge will be made of you.”

Five long years he lay in that garage, on the floor, till it happened.

Something made him get up:

The piano.

A muddled address.

The light of afternoon.

Here came a woman with music and two epics on her side, and what else could Michael Dunbar do?

As far as second chances go, he couldn’t have been luckier.

* * *

—

But okay, what happened in those five years in between?

He signed the lawyer forms, hands trembling.

He stopped painting altogether.

He was tempted to return to Featherton, but also remembered the voice in the dark, and the head down on his neck:

Maybe you’d still be there.

And then the humiliation.

Returning without the girl.

“Where is she?” people would ask.

“What happened?”

No, he could never go back for good. Word would get around, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hear it. It was bad enough listening to the thoughts that lay within.

“What?”

It would come to him often, halfway through dinner, or brushing his teeth.

“She just left him?”

“Poor guy.”

“Well, we can’t say we didn’t see it coming….She was wild, and he was, well, he was never the quickest of cats, was he?”

No, it was better to stay in the city. Better to stay in the house, and catch the scent of her less each day. After all, there was always work. The city grew. There was always a beer or two, alone at home, or with Bob and Spiro and Phil—just men from work, with wives and kids, or nothing, like him.

* * *

—

It was only to visit his mother that he returned to Featherton every now and then. He was happy to see her involved with the usual array of small-town escapades. Cake stalls. Anzac Day parades. Lawn bowls with Dr. Weinrauch on Sundays. That was the life.

When he told her about Abbey, she didn’t say much.