He was covered by blankets and falsework.
His hair was matted flat to him.
He asked if Michael would cut it.
It fell to his feet in clumps.
They did it outside by the bridge, in the looming shadows of arches.
He said thanks and went back to work.
* * *
—
When Michael would leave for the mines, he made Clay promise to eat.
He even called us here, to make sure we rang to check on him, and it was something I did religiously; I called him three times a week, and counted twenty-four rings till he made it in: the length of the sprint to the house.
He spoke only of the bridge and building it.
We shouldn’t come, he said, till he’d finished.
The bridge and making it perfect.
* * *
—
Probably one of the best things Michael ever did was force him to take a break: A weekend.
A whole weekend.
Clay, of course, was reluctant. He said he was going to the shed; he needed that torturous shovel again.
“No.”
The Murderer, our dad, was final.
“Why not?”
“You’re coming with me.”
It was no surprise that Clay slept all the way in the car, as he drove him out to Featherton; he woke him when he’d parked on Miller Street.
Clay rubbed at his eyes and ignited.
“Is this,” he said, “where you buried them?”
Michael nodded and passed him a coffee cup.
The country began to spin.
* * *
—
In the confines of the car, while Clay drank, our father gently explained. He didn’t know if they lived there anymore, but it was a couple called the Merchisons who’d bought the place, though it seemed there was no one home—except for the three out back.
For a long time they were tempted—to cross that toasty lawn—but soon they drove on, and parked near the bank. They walked the old town and its streets.
He said, “This pub here’s where I threw bricks up….I threw bricks up to another guy throwing bricks up—”
And Clay said, “Abbey was here.”
Oi, Dunbar, y’ useless prick! Where are me Goddamn bricks?!
Michael Dunbar simply said, “Poetry.”
* * *
—
After that, they walked till evening, right out onto the highway; and Clay could see the beginnings of things, like Abbey eating an Icy Pole, and his father and the dog called Moon.
In the town he saw the surgery:
Dr. Weinrauch’s infamous chopping block.
Then the woman and resident boxer, who’d punched at the keys in the office.
“It’s not quite how I saw it,” he said, “but I guess things never are.”
“We never imagine things perfectly,” said Michael, “but always just left or right….Not even me, and I used to live here.”
* * *
—
By night, near the end, they procrastinated.
They needed to make a decision.
“Did you want to go over and get it?” said Michael. “Did you want to go dig up the typewriter? I’m sure those people won’t mind.”
But now it was Clay who’d decided. It was Clay who was firm and final. It was then, I think, he’d realized: For starters, this story wasn’t over yet.
And even then, it wouldn’t be him.
The story was his, but not the writing.
It was hard enough living and being it.
The seven beers was another beginning: A timeline of death and events.
Looking back I can see how rude we were, and Penny herself, pure insolence.
Us boys, we fought and argued.
So much of the dying hurt us.
But sometimes we tried to outrun it, or laugh and spit toward it—and all while keeping our distance.
At our best we interrupted.
Given death had come to claim her, we could at least be difficult losers.
* * *
—
In winter that year I took holiday work with a local floorboard and carpet firm. They offered me a full-time job.
At school, by sixteen, I was both good and not-good at many things, and my favorite was usually English; I liked the writing, I loved the books. Once, our teacher mentioned Homer, and the rest made light and laughed. They quoted a much-loved character, from a much-loved American cartoon; I said nothing at all. They’d joked at the teacher’s surname that day, and at the end of class I’d told her: “My favorite was always Odysseus.”
Ms. Simpson was a bit perplexed.
I liked her crazy ringlets, and her spindly, inky hands.
“You know Odysseus and didn’t mention it?”
I was ashamed but couldn’t stop. I said, “Odysseus—the resourceful one. Agamemnon, king of men, and”—quickly, I sucked it in—“Achilles of the nimble feet…”
I could see her thinking, Shit!
* * *
—
When I left, I didn’t ask their permission: I told my mother in her sickbed, and Michael Dunbar in the kitchen. They both said I should stay, but my mind was already set. Talking about resourcefulness, the bills were becoming flood-like—defying death had never been cheap—but that’s still not why I did it. No, it just seemed right, that’s all I can say, and even when Penny looked at me, and said I should sit up next to her, I felt completely certain and justified.
She struggled to hold a hand up.
She raised it to my face.
I could feel the hot-tin roof of it, as she ignited on top of the sheets; it was one of those oxymorons again—it cooked her from within.
She said, “Promise you’ll still keep reading.” She swallowed, like heavy machinery. “Promise me, promise, okay, kid?”
I said, “Of course,” and you should have seen her.
She caught fire, beside me, on the bed.
Her papery face was lit.
* * *
—
As for Michael Dunbar, in the kitchen, our dad did something strange.
He looked at the bills, then me.
Then he walked outside with his coffee cup, and hurled it toward the fence—but he’d somehow got the angle wrong, and it landed amongst the lawn.
When a minute went by, he’d collected it, and the cup remained unharmed.
* * *
—
From there the door was flung open, and death came in from everywhere; it marauded all that was hers.
But still, she wouldn’t allow it.
One of the best nights was late in February (nearly twenty-four months in total), when a voice arrived in the kitchen. It was hot and very humid. Even dishes on the rack were sweating, which meant a perfect night for Monopoly. Our parents were in the lounge, watching TV.
I was the top hat, Henry the car, Tommy the dog, Clay the thimble. Rory, as always, was the iron (which was the closest he’d get to actually using one), and he was winning, and rubbing it in.
Rory knew I hated cheaters, and gloaters more than anything—and he was doing both, way out in front, rummaging everyone’s hair, each time we had to pay him…till a few hours in, it started: “Oi.”
That was me.
“What?”
That was Rory.
“You rolled nine but moved ten.”
Henry rubbed his hands together; this was going to be great.
“Ten? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Look. You were there, right? Leicester Square. So get your ironing arse back one spot to my railway and fork out twenty-five.”
Rory was incredulous.
“It was ten, I rolled ten!”
“If you don’t go back, I’m taking the iron and ejecting you from the game.”
“Ejecting me?”
We sweated like merchants and swindlers, and Rory struck out at himself for a change—a palm through the wire of his hair. His hands were already so hard by then. Those eyes gone even harder.
He smiled, like danger, toward me now. “You’re joking,” he said, “you’re kidding.”
But I had to see it through.
“Do I look like I’m Goddamn joking, Rory?”
“This is bullshit.”
“Right, that’s it.”
I reached for the iron, but not before Rory had his greasy, sweaty fingers on it, too, and we fought it out—no, we pinched it out, till coughing was heard from the lounge room.
We stopped.
Rory let go.
Henry went to see, and when he came back in with a nod of okay, he said, “Right, where were we, anyway?”
Tommy: “The iron.”
Henry: “Oh yeah—perfect, where is it?”
I was deadpan. “Gone.”
Rory searched the board in a frenzy. “Where?”