But the sentence never had an end.
At home, the police, then the ambulance.
The way it all swam down the street.
It was well into afternoon by then, and our father had lied about everything; and that was always her plan. Michael would help her, then tell them he’d gone out briefl
y. It was Penny herself, so desperate—
But the boy had come home and he’d ruined it.
He’d come and he’d saved the day.
We would call our father the Murderer.
But the murderous savior was him.
* * *
—
In the end there was always the bridge.
It was built, and now for the flooding.
The storm never comes when it should.
In our case, it happened in winter.
The whole state was soon underwater.
I remember the endless weather, as the city was lashed with rain.
It was nothing compared to the Amahnu.
* * *
—
Clay was still working with me.
He was running the streets of the racing quarter, where her bike, surprisingly, stayed; no one had got out the bolt cutters, or managed to break the code. Or maybe they just didn’t want to.
When the news came through of the weather, the rain started coming much earlier; Clay stood in the first drops of water. He ran to the stables at Hennessey.
He made the lock into all the right numbers, and walked the bike carefully away. He’d even brought down a small bike pump, and put air in the sunken tires. Cootamundra, The Spaniard and Matador. The courage of Kingston Town. He pumped hard with the names inside him.
When he rode out through the racing quarter, he saw a girl on Poseidon Road. It was right up top near the northern part, near the Tri-Colors gym and the barbers. The Racing Quarter Shorter. She was blond against blackening sky.
“Hey!” he called.
“Some weather!” she replied, and Clay jumped off the old bike.
“Do you want this thing to get home?”
“I’d never be as lucky as that.”
“Well, you are today,” he said. “Go on, take it.” He put the stand out and walked away. Even as the sky started storming, he watched as she went and took it. He shouted: