“Come on,” he said as they hit the lane, and the book was in beside him, the envelope still within.
They walked to the bottom of Archer Street, onto Poseidon Road.
During the movie she held his hand, but now she did what she used to do, when first they’d come to be friends; she linked her arm through his. He smiled and didn’t worry. There was no thought of looking like an old couple, or any such misunderstanding. She did such unusual things.
And there were streets so known, and storied—like Empire, Chatham, and Tulloch—and places they’d gone the first time, up further, like Bobby’s Lane. At one point they passed a barber’s shop, with a name they knew and loved; but all of it led to Bernborough, where the moon hung into the grass.
On the straight he opened the book.
She was up a few meters ahead.
It was somewhere close to the finish line, when he called to her, “Hey, Carey.”
She swiveled, but did it slowly.
He caught up and gave her the envelope.
She studied it down in her palm.
She read her name out, out loud, and on the red rubber track at Bernborough, she’d somehow made her comeback: He caught the glint of sea glass.
“Is this your father’s writing?”
Clay nodded but didn’t speak, and she opened the thin white package, and looked at the photo within. I imagine what she must have thought, too—thoughts like beautiful or magnificent or I wish I could be there to see you like that—but for now all she did was hold it, then pass it slowly to him.
Her hand, it slightly wavered.
“You,” she whispered, and “the bridge.”
As spring turned into summer, it was life in tracks of two.
There was running, there was living.
There was discipline, perfect idiots.
At home we were almost rudderless; there was always something to argue for, or laugh about, and sometimes both, parallel.
In the racing quarter it was different:
When we ran, we knew where we were.
It was really the perfect blend, I guess, of love in the time of chaos, love in the time of control; we were pulled each way, between them.
* * *
—
In the running, we ran at October, when Clay enrolled in athletics—not remotely excited, nor reticent. The club wasn’t down at Bernborough (far too rundown), but at Chisholm, near the airport.
Everyone over there hated him:
He ran only in the 400, and hardly spoke.
He knew a kid, an animal-boy named Starkey: He was the mountainous shot put, discus guy.
The gun 400-meter runner was a kid called Spencer.
Clay took off with 300 to go.
“Shit,” they said, the whole clubful of them.
He won by half the straight.
* * *
—
At home it was afternoon.
Just one in a series of many:
Fight 278.
Rory and Henry were having it out.
There was a ruckus coming from their bedroom, which was well and truly a boys’ bedroom bedroom—of beached and forgotten clothing, lost socks and fumes and headlocks. The words like strangulation: “I told you to keep your shit with the rest of your shit and it keeps encroaching onto my side,” and “Like I’d want my shit encroaching (have a listen to you!) on your stupid side anyway—the state of it,” and “You got a problem with my stupid side, you’d think you’d keep your shit away from it!”
And so on.
After ten minutes, I went in, to separate them, and there was blond and rusty argument. Their hair was pointing outwards—north and south, east and west—and Tommy, so small, in the doorway.
“Can we go to the museum or what?”
It was Henry who’d heard and answered, but spoke across to Rory.
“Sure,” he said, “but wait a minute, okay? Just give us a sec to beat Matthew up,” and like that, they were both of them friends again.
They buried me fast and furiously.
My face in the taste of socks.
* * *
—
On the streets, it was almost business.
Clay ran.
I struggled to stay with him.
Him and his burning left pocket.
“Up, up.”
That’s all the talk was reduced to by then, if he ever said anything at all.
At Bernborough, always the same.
Eight 400 sprints.
Thirty seconds of rest.
We ran to the point of collapse.
* * *
—
At the museum, we all went in, and we complained about the cost of things, but it was worth it, every cent; it was worth it just to see the kid, as he met the thylacine’s eye. The other thing, too, was that he’d been right, it was true, it did look more like a dog, with a peculiar oval stomach; we loved the Tasmanian tiger.
But Tommy loved all of everything:
Above us, the blue whale skeleton, sprawled out like a laid-down office block. The nimble neck of the dingo again, and the parade of various penguins. He even loved the most frightening of it, especially the red-bellied black snake, and the shine and grace of the taipan.
For me, though, there was an eeriness; a confederate for all the taxidermy—something dead and unwilling to leave. Or to be fair, unwilling in me: Of course, the thought of Penelope.
I imagined her here with Tommy.
I saw her crouching slowly down, and so, I think, did Clay.
Sometimes I’d see him watching, but it was often just left of the specimen—especially when shown behind glass. I’m sure he’d caught her reflection then, of blond and stick-thinned, smiling.
We leaned outside at closing.
All of us tired but Tommy.
The city fast-moving around us.
* * *
—
On one of our runs, it happened.
It came to us, early morning.
The worlds infused together.
We really should have thought of it sooner.
We were running at first light, on Darriwell Road, a few kilometers from home. Clay saw it strapped to a telegraph pole, and propped, and mindfully backtracked. He stared at the wrapped-round advertisement: A cat had just had kittens.
Why take Tommy to dead animals, when live ones could come to him?
I memorized the first half of the phone number, and Clay the second, but when we called, we were loudly told. The notice was three months old; the last kitten was sold six weeks ago. But the woman who’d answered knew exactly where to go. Her voice was like a man’s voice, both close and not-for-nonsense. “There are dozens of internet animal sites, but your best bet’s the RQT.”
She meant the Racing Quarter Tribune, and she was pinpoint, she was astute; the first time we looked in that paper—our local suburban news—there was a collie for sale, and a kelpie, and a pair of cockatiels. A guinea pig, a king parrot, and three cats of different breeds.
At the bottom, though, he was waiting, and he’d be there a little while yet. Already I should have known, from the fire inside Clay’s eyes; they were each both suddenly smiling, as his finger pointed downwards:
ONE STUBBORN BUT FRENDLY MULE
NEVER BUCKS, NEVER BRAYS
***
$200 (negotiable)
YOU WON’T BE SORRY
Call Malcolm
I said, “Don’t show Tommy, whatever you do,” but Clay wasn’t close to caring. He’d gently thrown a finger again, at the mistake on the very first line.
“Stubborn,” he said, “but frendly.”
* * *
—
We settled for one of the cats—a family moving overseas. Too expensive to carry the tabby. They told us his name was Stripey, but we knew for a fact we would change it. He was a big and purring heap of a thing—black lips and tarmac paws—and a tail like a shaggy sword.
We drove to the place in Wetherill, two suburbs west, and the cat came home in Clay’s lap; he never moved an inch, he just purred with the engine, in tune. He happy-pawed him with his claws.
God, you should have seen Tommy.
I wish you could have seen him.
At home, we hit the porch.
“Hey, Tommy!” I called, and he came, and his eyes were young and permanent. He nearly cried when he brought the cat close, the stripes against his chest. He patted him, he stroked him, he spoke to him without speaking.
When Rory and Henry both came out, they were both of them gorgeously right; they complained with jinx-like timing.
“Hey—how come Tommy gets a bloody cat?”
Clay looked away. I answered.
“Because we like him.”