The goldfish had scales like plumage.
He had a tail like a golden rake.
Which left only bringing them home, and me standing in the doorway; and where could I turn but to blasphemy, while Tommy provided the names.
By then he’d made sense of everything:
They were neither of them close to an Achilles.
“The goldfish is Agamemnon,” he informed me, “and the pigeon, I’m calling Telemachus.”
The king of men, and the boy from Ithaca: The son of Penelope and Odysseus.
The sky was hit by sunset, and Rory was looking at Henry.
“I’m gonna kill that little shit.”
After the spectacular failure of seventh placing in Group One company, Cootamundra was spelled for summer. On return he was ridden by Carey—four times, for three wins and a third.
And now she was becoming sought-after.
* * *
—
For Clay, there was radio and riverbed, city and Surrounds.
There was the silence of the Amahnu, and the stories he’d heard in the kitchen—for they’d stayed up the entire night that night, when he’d asked about the Slaves and David; they drank coffee. Michael told him of finding the calendar. Emil Zátopek. Einstein. All the rest of them. There was a girl who once broke a boy’s spaceship, and sat down the front in English; she had hair down to her waist.
He didn’t do details like Penelope did—he wasn’t dying, so wouldn’t go as far—but the effort was true, and truthful. He said, “I don’t know why I never told you these things.”
“You would have,” said Clay, “if you’d stayed.”
But he wasn’t intending to puncture him; he’d meant they were stories for when he was older.
And you’re telling them to me now.
He was sure he’d understood.
It was dawn when they talked of the David, and the Slaves imprisoned in the marble. “Those twisted, struggling bodies,” said Michael, “fighting from out of the stone.” He said he hadn’t thought of them for decades, but they were somehow always there. “I’d die to find greatness, like the David someday—even for just a moment.” He watched the boy’s eyes, in front of him. “But I know—I know…”
Clay answered.
It hit them both hard, but he had to.
“We live the lives of the Slaves.”
The bridge was all they had.
* * *
—
There was the week in mid-January, when it rained up in the mountains, and the Amahnu started to flow. They saw the great sky coming. They stood out on the scaffold, and the heavy wooden falsework, with the splinters of rain around them.
“It could all be washed away.”
Clay was quiet but certain. “It won’t be.”
He was right.
The water rose only to shin-height.
It was the river in sort-of-training.
Warming up the Amahnu way.
* * *
—
In the city, through March, there was the buildup to the autumn carnival, and this time the Group One was hers.
Cootamundra.
Race Eight on Easter Monday, at Royal Hennessey.
The race was the Jim Pike Plate.
* * *
—
Of course, Clay came home that long weekend, but had done something else, a while earlier: He’d walked up Poseidon Road, to a key-cutting, shoe-fix, engraving place. It was an old man inside, with a snow-white beard, like Santa Claus wearing overalls. When he looked at the Zippo, he said, “Oh, I remember this.” He shook his head. “Yeah, that’s it—Matador in the fifth. A girl…Strange thing to write on a lighter,” and the headshake turned to a nod. “Real likeable, though.” He gave Clay pen and paper. “Write it clearly. Where do you want it?”
“There are two.”
“Here, give us a look.” He snatched the translucent paper. “Ha!” He’d returned from nod to vigorous headshake. “You kids are bloody mad. You know about Kingston Town?”
Did they know about Kingston Town.
“Maybe,” said Clay, “put Carey Novac in the eighth under the first one, and the other on the other side.”
Santa Claus smiled, then laughed. “Good choice.” But it wasn’t a ho-ho-ho; more of a heh-heh-heh. “Kingston Town can’t win, ay? What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“She’ll know,” said Clay.
“Well, that’s the most important thing.”
The old man got to engraving.
* * *
—
As he left the shop, the thought struck him.
Since leaving home that first time, for the river, he’d thought the money—the roll of it from Henry—would be only for building the bridge. But it was always meant for this. He’d used all of twenty-two dollars.
At 18 Archer Street, he put the remainder of the big thick roll onto the bed lying opposite his.
“Thanks, Henry,” he whispered, “you keep the rest,” and he thought of Bernborough Park then—back to boys and never quite men—and turned and left for Silver.
* * *
—
Early on Easter Saturday, two days before the race, he got up and sat in the dark; he looked for the Amahnu. He sat on the edge of his bed, and the box was in his hands. He took everything out but the lighter, then included a folded-up letter.
He’d written it the previous night.
* * *
—
In the evening that Saturday, they lay there and she told him.
The same instructions.
Go out hard.
Let him run.
Then pray and take him home.
She was nervous, but they were good nerves.
Near the end, she said, “Are you coming?”
He smiled at the bulging stars.
“Of course.”
“Your brothers?”
“Of course.”
“Do they know about this?” she said, and she was talking about The Surrounds. “And us?”
She’d never asked about that before, and Clay was pretty certain. “No—they just know we’ve always been close.”
The girl nodded.
“And, hey, I have to tell you…” He paused. “There’s also something else—” and now he stopped completely.
“What?”
He retreated, still as he was. “No. Nothing.”
It was too late, though, because now she was up on an elbow. “Come on, Clay, what is it?” She reached across and poked him.
“Ow!”
“Tell me.” She was poised for another strike, right between the ribs; and there was once when this happened before, in waters still to come, when things had turned out badly.
But this was the beauty of Carey, the real beauty; because forget the auburn hair, and the sea glass—she would take the risk a second time. She would gamble and do it for him.
“Tell me or I’ll hit you again,” she said. “I’ll tickle you half to death.”
“Okay! Okay…”
He said it.
He told her that he loved her:
“You’ve got fifteen freckles on your face, but you have to look hard to find them…and there’s a sixteenth one down here.” He touched that piece of her neck. When he attempted to take his hand away, she reached up and trapped his fingers. The answer was how she looked at him.
“No,” she said, “don’t move it.”
* * *
—
Later, much later, it was Clay who got up first.
It was Clay who rolled over and took something, and placed it against her, on the mattress.
He’d wrapped it in the racing section.
The lighter was in the box.
A gift within a gift.
And a letter.
TO BE OPENED ON MONDAY NIGHT.
* * *
—
On Easter Monday she was on the back page of the paper: the auburn-haired girl, the broomstick trainer, and the horse, deep brown, between them.
The headline said MASTER’S APPRENTICE.
On the radio, they played an interview with McAndrew, from earlier in the week, in which they queried the choice of jockey. Any professional in the country would have ridden that horse, given the chance, to which McAndrew said simply and stiffly, “I’m sticking with my apprentice.”
“Yes, she’s a prospect, but—”
“I’m not in the business of answering that kind of question.” The voice, pure dryness. “We swapped her last spring in the Sunline-Northerly, and look what happened there. She knows the horse and that’s it.”
* * *
—
Monday afternoon.