—
In the meantime, Ennis shook hands with Michael.
They spoke drily, like friends, as equals.
McAndrew had quoted Henry.
He pointed to the bridles and hay.
He said, “That stuff you can probably do something with, but the animal’s totally useless.”
Michael Dunbar knew how to answer, though, and almost absently, he looked at Clay, and the knowingness embodied in the mule. He said, “You know, I wouldn’t be totally sure of that—he’s pretty good at breaking and entering.”
But again there was guilt and embarrassment, and if McAndrew and Clay knew to quell it, the Murderer knew he should, too.
* * *
—
For a while they watched the mule—the slow and meandering Achilles—as he steadily climbed from the riverbed and began his work in the field; he stooped and mildly chewed.
Without thinking, McAndrew spoke; he motioned slightly but surely at the boy.
“Mr. Dunbar, take it easy on him, okay—” and this time, finally, he said it. “He’s got a heart like Goddamn Phar Lap.”
And Michael Dunbar agreed.
“You don’t even know the half of it.”
* * *
—
Ten minutes later, once coffee and tea had been offered, and declined, McAndrew started for home. He shook hands with the boy and his father again, and made his way back into the trees; Clay went running after him.
“Mr. McAndrew!”
In the shade, the truck stopped, and the broomstick trainer got out. He walked from the dark to the light. He exhaled. “Call me Ennis, for Christ’s sake.”
“Okay, Ennis,” and now Clay looked away. The pair of them were baked in sunshine, like kindling of boy and old man. He said, “You know—you know Carey…”—and it hurt just to say her name—“you know her bike?” Ennis nodded and came closer. “I know the combination for the lock—it’s thirty-five-twenty-seven,” and Ennis knew the number immediately.
Those figures, that horse.
He walked back to the truck in the shade.
“I’ll tell Ted, I’ll tell Catherine, okay? But I don’t think they’ll ever take it. It’s yours when you come and unlock it.”
* * *
—
And that was how he drove away:
He climbed inside the truck again.
He held a broom-hand, fleetingly, up.