This was a world where logic was defied by argumentative piano men. It was a world where fate could stand out front, both tanned and pale, simultaneously. God, even Stalin was involved, so how could he possibly say no?
Maybe it’s true that we don’t get to make these decisions.
We think we do, but we don’t.
We do laps of all our neighborhoods.
We pass that certain front door.
When we hit a piano key and it makes no sound, we hit it again, because we have to. We need to hear something, and we hope it isn’t a mistake—
As it was, Penelope was never meant to be here.
Our father should never have been divorced.
But here they were, walking perfectly, and quite fittingly, toward a certain kind of line. They’d been counted down, like skiers on a mountainside, and were hitting it for the now.
At Silver Station, he saw the oncoming glow of the night train.
From far away it looked like a magic, slow-moving torch.
Inside, though, it was heaven.
The air was cool; the seat was warm.
His heart like a broken body part.
His lungs a kind of waxw
orks.
He lay back lightly, and slept.
* * *
—
The train pulled into the city just after five o’clock, Sunday morning, and a man was shaking him awake.
“Hey, kid, kid, we’re here.”
Clay startled, and managed to stand up, and despite everything—the enormous headache, the searing pain when he picked up his sports bag—the draw was unmistakable.
He felt the glimmer of home.
In his mind he was already there; he was watching the world of Archer Street; he was up on the roof, he saw Carey’s place. Or behind, to see The Surrounds. He could even hear the movie in our lounge room—but no. He actually had to remind himself he couldn’t go, and especially not like this.
For Archer Street, he’d have to wait.
* * *
—
Instead, he walked.
He found that the more he moved the less he hurt, and so he trawled the city, to Hickson Road, down to under the bridge; he relented at the slanted wall. The trains came rattling above. The harbor so blue, he almost couldn’t look. The rivets in rows, on his shoulders. The great grey arch reached over.
It’s a she, he thought, of course she is.