Then the wedding, which went ahead as planned, the following day.
February 17.
The gathering was small:
A few tradesman friends on Michael’s side.
That clump of cleaners for Penny.
Adelle Dunbar was there, and so was old Weinrauch, who offered her anti-inflammatories. Thankfully, the swelling was down; she still bled now and then, and a black eye shone through her makeup, no matter how hard they tried.
The church, too, was small, but seemingly cavernous. It was dark with leadlight windows; a tortured, colorful Christ. The preacher was tall and balding. He’d laughed when Michael leaned toward her and said, “See? Not even a car crash could get you out of this.” Then again, he’d looked so sad when the first drop of blood slipped to the dress and grew like a science litmus test.
A rush of help arrived, from all quarters of the audience, and Penny sobbed back a smile. She took the hanky offered by Michael, and said, “You’re marrying a broken-nosed bride.”
“Good boy,” said the preacher, when the blood was quelled, and tentatively, he proceeded—and the colorful Christ looked on, till they were Michael and Penelope Dunbar.
They turned, as most couples do, and smiled at the congregation.
They signed the appropriate papers.
They walked down the center of the church, where the doors were held open, to a white-hot sunlight in front of them—and when I think of it I see that lure again; they’re holding that hard-to-catch happiness. They’ve brought it to life in their hands.
In those lives before they had us, there were still two chapters left.
Again, time passed.
Weeks passed, closer to a month, and it was spent in various ways.
They started, as they had to, with the hardest:
The shifting of earth from the river.
They worked from sunrise to sunset, and prayed for no rain, which would have made everything meaningless. If the Amahnu flowed, and flowed hard, it would bring with it silt and soil.
At night, they sat in the kitchen, or on the edge of the couch at the coffee table; they properly designed the falsework. Between them they made two models—of the mold and the bridge itself. Michael Dunbar was mathematical, and methodical in angles of stone. He talked to the boy of trajectory, and how each block would need to be perfect. Clay was sick at the thought of voussoirs; he didn’t even know how to say it.
Exhausted both physically and mentally, he’d walk sleepily to the bedroom and read. He held each item from the box. He lit the flame just once.
He missed everyone, more as the weeks went on, when an envelope arrived in the letterbox. Inside, two handwritten letters.
One from Henry.
One from Carey.
In all his time at the Amahnu, this was the event he’d waited for, but he didn’t read them right away. He walked upwards to the stones and river gums, and sat in the dappled sun.
He read in the order he found them.
Hi Clay,
Thanks for your letter the other week. I kept it a while before showing the others—don’t ask me why. We miss you, you know. You say practically nothing, but we miss you. The roof tiles probably miss you the most, I’d say. Well, that, and me on Saturdays…When I hit the garage sales I get Tommy to help, but that kid’s useless as tits on a bull. You know that.
The least you could do is visit. You just have to get it over with first—you know. Goddamn it, how long does it take to build a bridge anyway?
Sincerely,
Henry Dunbar esq.