Adelle Dunbar was there, and so was old Weinrauch, who offered her anti-inflammatories. Thankfully, the swelling was down; she still bled now and then, and a black eye shone through her makeup, no matter how hard they tried.
The church, too, was small, but seemingly cavernous. It was dark with leadlight windows; a tortured, colorful Christ. The preacher was tall and balding. He’d laughed when Michael leaned toward her and said, “See? Not even a car crash could get you out of this.” Then again, he’d looked so sad when the first drop of blood slipped to the dress and grew like a science litmus test.
A rush of help arrived, from all quarters of the audience, and Penny sobbed back a smile. She took the hanky offered by Michael, and said, “You’re marrying a broken-nosed bride.”
“Good boy,” said the preacher, when the blood was quelled, and tentatively, he proceeded—and the colorful Christ looked on, till they were Michael and Penelope Dunbar.
They turned, as most couples do, and smiled at the congregation.
They signed the appropriate papers.
They walked down the center of the church, where the doors were held open, to a white-hot sunlight in front of them—and when I think of it I see that lure again; they’re holding that hard-to-catch happiness. They’ve brought it to life in their hands.
In those lives before they had us, there were still two chapters left.
Again, time passed.
Weeks passed, closer to a month, and it was spent in various ways.
They started, as they had to, with the hardest: The shifting of earth from the river.
They worked from sunrise to sunset, and prayed for no rain, which would have made everything meaningless. If the Amahnu flowed, and flowed hard, it would bring with it silt and soil.
At night, they sat in the kitchen, or on the edge of the couch at the coffee table; they properly designed the falsework. Between them they made two models—of the mold and the bridge itself. Michael Dunbar was mathematical, and methodical in angles of stone. He talked to the boy of trajectory, and how each block would need to be perfect. Clay was sick at the thought of voussoirs; he didn’t even know how to say it.
Exhausted both physically and mentally, he’d walk sleepily to the bedroom and read. He held each item from the box. He lit the flame just once.
He missed everyone, more as the weeks went on, when an envelope arrived in the letterbox. Inside, two handwritten letters.
One from Henry.
One from Carey.
In all his time at the Amahnu, this was the event he’d waited for, but he didn’t read them right away. He walked upwards to the stones and river gums, and sat in the dappled sun.
He read in the order he found them.
Hi Clay,
Thanks for your letter the other week. I kept it a while before showing the others—don’t ask me why. We miss you, you know. You say practically nothing, but we miss you. The roof tiles probably miss you the most, I’d say. Well, that, and me on Saturdays…When I hit the garage sales I get Tommy to help, but that kid’s useless as tits on a bull. You know that.
The least you could do is visit. You just have to get it over with first—you know. Goddamn it, how long does it take to build a bridge anyway?
Sincerely,
Henry Dunbar esq.
PS. Can you do me a favor? When you do come back, call and tell me what time you think you’ll get home. We all have to be here for that. Just in case.
As he read the letter, Clay was nothing but grateful, for the Henryness of the writing. His crap really was endless, but Clay couldn’t help but pine for it. That, and he was nothing if not gallant; people often forgot that about Henry, seeing only self-interest and money. You did better with Henry beside you.
Next was Tommy, and it was clear both he and Rory had been asked to contribute. Or, more likely, they were coerced. Tommy had gone first:
Hi Clay,
I don’t have much to say except that Achilles misses you. I got Henry to help me check his hooves—THAT’S what I call USELESS!!!!!!
(And I miss you, too.)
Then Rory:
Oi Clay—come home, for Christ’s sake. I miss our little hart-to-harts.
Ha!
You thought I couldn’t spell heart then, didn’t you?
Hey—do me a favor. Give the old man a hug for me.
Just kidding—give him a kick in the coins okay? A good one.
Say THAT’S FROM FUCKING RORY!
Come home.
It was funny. Tommy set things up perfectly, but it was Rory who always got to him—who made him feel things with greatest gravity. Maybe it was because Rory was the sort of person who didn’t really want to love anyone or anything, but he loved Clay, and he showed it in the oddest ways.
Dear Clay,
How can I tell you in one note how much I miss you, and how it is to sit at The Surrounds on Saturdays and imagine you there beside me? I don’t lie down. I don’t do anything. I just go and hope you’ll come, but you don’t, and I know why. It has to be that way, I guess.
It’s funny, because this has been the best few weeks ever, and I can’t even tell you.
Last week I got my first mount. Can you believe it??? It was on Wednesday and it was a horse called War of the Roses—an old journeyman only there to make up the numbers, and I never whipped him once, I just talked to him and got him to the line on hands-and-heels, and he came in third. Third!!! Holy shit! It’s the first time my mum’s been to the track in years. The silks were black, white, and blue. I’ll tell you everything when you come home, even if it isn’t for long. I’ve got another ride coming next week….
God, in all that, I haven’t even asked. How are you? I miss seeing you up on the roof.
Lastly, I finished The Quarryman again. I know why you love it so much. He did all those great things. I hope you get to do something great out there too. You will. You have to. You will.
See you soon, I hope. See you at The Surrounds.
I’ll show you my tips.
I promise.
Love,
Carey
Well, what would you do?
What would you say?
He read it way upriver, many times, and he knew.
After a long time working it out, he calculated seventy-six days now he’d been away, and the Amahnu would be his future—but it was time to come home and face me.
When Michael Dunbar married the Broken-Nosed Bride, the first thing they did was drag the piano back up Pepper Street, to number thirty-seven. It took six extra men from the neighborhood, and this time a carton of beer. (And not unlike the Bernborough boys—if there was beer it had to be cold.) They worked their way round the back of the house, where there weren’t any steps to get in.
“We should actually call those other guys,” said Michael, later on. He leaned an arm on top of the walnut, like he and the piano were friends. “They got the address right after all.”
Penny Dunbar could only smile.
She had one hand on the instrument.
The other hand on him.
* * *
—
A few years later, they moved out of that place, too; they bought a house they fell in love with. It was relatively close, in the racing quarter, with track-and-stables behind it.
They looked on a Saturday morning: The house at 18 Archer Street.
An agent waited inside, and asked them for their names. Seemingly, there’d been no other expressions of interest that day.
To the house itself, there was hallway, there was kitchen. There were three bedrooms, a small bathroom, a long backyard with an old Hills Hoist, and both of them immediately imagined; they saw kids with lawn and garden, and the outbreaks of childhood chaos. It was paradise as far as they were concerned, and they were soon to fall even harder:
With an arm on the pole of the clothesline, and an eye in the clouds above her, Penny heard the sound. She turned back to the agent.
She said, “Excuse me, but what is that noise?”
“Sorry?”
He’d been dreading this moment, for it was possibly the cause of losing every other couple he’d taken through the property—all of whom had most likely had similar dreams, and thoughts of how they’d live there. They’d probably even seen the same laughing children getting in fights over unfair football tactics, or dragging dolls through the grass and dirt.
“You don’t hear it?” she persisted.
The agent adjusted his tie. “Oh, that?”