One night, we sat till midnight, and this was the night it came. My brothers were all in bed, and as always, she waited me out; Penelope was still upright when I stood and staggered to the couch.
“Hey,” she said, “that’s cheating—it’s piano or off to bed,” and it was then I made myself known; I crumbled and felt the mistake.
Disgruntled, I got up; I walked past her, into the hall, unbuttoning my shirt, and she saw what lay within—for there, on the right side of my chest, were the marks and signature fingerprints of a ginger-fringed schoolboy nemesis.
Quickly, she slung out an arm.
Her slender and delicate fingers.
She’d stopped me beside the instrument.
“What,” said Penelope, “is that?”
* * *
—
As I’ve told you before, our parents back then, they were certainly something else.
Did I hate them for the piano?
Of course I did.
Did I love them for what they did next?
Bet your house, your car, and your hands on it.
Because next came moments like this.
* * *
—
I remember sitting in the kitchen, in the river mouth of light.
I sat and spoke down all of it, and they listened intently, in silence. Even Jimmy Hartnell’s boxing prowess, there was first only taking it in.
“Poofters,” said Penelope, eventually. “Don’t you know that’s bloody stupid—and wrong, and…” She was searching, it seemed, for more—its greatest crime of all. “Unimaginative?”
Me, I had to be honest. “It’s the nipple cripples that really hurt….”
She looked down into her tea. “Why didn’t you ever tell us?”
But my dad was a clear-eyed genius.
“He’s a boy,” he said, and he winked at me, and everything would be okay. “Am I right, or am I right?”
And Penelope understood.
She admonished herself, and quickly.
“Of course,” she whispered, “like them…”
The boys from Hyperno High.
* * *
—
In the end, it was decided in the time she drank her tea. There was the abject knowledge of only one way to help me, and it wasn’t them going to the school. It wasn’t seeking protection.
Michael said okay.
A quiet declaration.
He went on to say there was nothing that could be done but to mix it up with Jimmy Hartnell, and put the matter to rest. It was mostly just a monologue, and Penelope agreed. At one point she almost laughed.
Was she proud of him and his speech?
Was she happy for what I would go through?
No.
Looking back, I think it was more just a sign of life—to picture fronting the scary bits, which, of course, was the easiest part:
Imagining was one thing.
Actually doing it felt almost impossible.
Even when Michael finished, and asked, “What do you think?” she’d sighed, but was mostly relieved. There was nothing here to be joking about, but joking was what she did.
“Well, if fighting that kid will get him to the piano again, I guess that’s all there is.” She was embarrassed, but also impressed; I was completely, utterly dismayed.
My parents, who were there to protect me, and raise me the right way, were sending me, without a moment’s more hesitation, into imminent schoolyard defeat. I was torn between love and hatred for them, but now I just see it was training.
After all, Penelope would die.
Michael would leave.
And I, of course, would stay.
Before any of that could happen, though, he would teach me and train me for Hartnell.
This was going to be great.
Next morning, both Henry and Clay woke up swollen.
One of them would go to school, all bashed and quiet and bruised, and one would work with me, all bashed and quiet and bruised. He’d start the wait for Saturday.
This time, though, it was different:
The wait to see her race.
* * *
—
There was much to come that initial day, due mostly to Claudia Kirkby. But first Clay met with Achilles.
I was working close to home, so we could leave a little later, and Clay went out to the yard. The sunshine bathed the animals, but beat Clay up in the face. Soon it would soothe the soreness.
First he patted Rosy, until she lapped the grass.
The mule smiled below the clothesline.
He watched him, he said, You’re back.
Clay stroked him on the mane.
I’m back…but not for long.
He bent down, he checked the mule’s feet, and Henry came calling out to him.
“Hooves all good?”
“All good.”
“He speaks! I should get myself down to the newsagent’s!”
Clay even gave him more, looking up from the front right hoof. “Hey, Henry—one to six.”
Henry grinned. “You bet.”
* * *
—
As for Claudia Kirkby, at lunch, Clay and I were sitting in a house, amongst the delivery of flooring. When I stood to wash my hands, my phone rang and I got Clay to answer; it was the teacher who doubled as counselor. To her surprise at Clay being home, he told her it was only temporary. As for the point of the phone call, she’d seen Henry, she said, and wondered if all was okay.
“At home?” Clay asked.
“Well…yes.”
Clay looked over and half smiled. “No, no one roughed Henry up at home. No one here would ever do anything like that.”
I had to walk across. “Give me the Goddamn phone.”
He did it.
“Ms. Kirkby?…Okay, Claudia, no, it’s all okay, he just had a small problem in the neighborhood. You know how stupid boys can be.”
“Oh, yes.”
For a few minutes, we talked, and her voice was calm—quiet but sure—and I imagined her through the phone. Was she wearing her dark skirt and cream shirt? And why did I imagine her calves? When I was about to hang up, Clay made me wait, to tell her he’d brought back the books she’d lent him.
“Does he want new ones?”
He’d heard her, and thought, then nodded.
“Which one did he like the most?”
He said, “The Battle of East Fifteenth Street.”
“That’s a good one.”
“I liked the old chess player in it.” A touch louder this time. “Billy Wintergreen.”
“Oh, he’s so good,” said Claudia Kirkby; I was standing, caught in the middle.
“Are you two quite all right?” I asked (not unlike between Henry and Rory, the night when Clay had come home), and she smiled inside the phone line.
“Come and get the books tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll be here for a while, after work.” On Fridays the staff stayed for drinks.
When I hung up, he was weirdly smiling.
“Stop that stupid grin.”
“What?” he asked.
“Don’t what me—just grab that Goddamn end.”
We carried floorboards up the stairs.
* * *
—
Next afternoon, I sat in the car when Clay went into the schoolyard.
“You’re not coming?”
She was down by the side of the car park.
She held her hand up, high in the light, and they made the exchange of books; she said, “God, what happened to you?”
“It’s okay, Ms. Kirkby, it had to be done.”
“You Dunbars, you surprise me every time.” Now she noticed the car. “Hi, Matthew!” Damn it, I had to get out. This time I took note of the titles: The Hay-Maker.
The See-Sawer.
(Both by the same author.)
Sonnyboy and Chief.
As for Claudia Kirkby, she shook my hand and her arms looked warm, as evening flooded the trees. She asked how everything was, and was it good having Clay back home again, and of course I said of course, but he wouldn’t be home for long.
Just before we left, she lasted Clay a look.
She thought, decided, and reached.
“Here,” she said, “give me one of those books.”
On a slip of paper, she wrote her phone number and a message, then placed it in Sonnyboy and Chief:
In case of an emergency (like you keep running out of books)
ck
And she had been wearing that suit, just like I’d hoped, and there was that sunspot center-cheek.
Her hair was brown and shoulder-length.
I died as we drove away.
* * *
—
On Saturday the moment came, and all five of us went to Royal Hennessey, because word had gotten around; McAndrew had a gun new apprentice, and she was the girl from 11 Archer Street.