Every morning he went out at dawn.
He got to the place at opening, and left in the dark at closing.
It was snowing there then, it was freezing, and he got by with some phrases in Italian. He looked lovingly up at the David; and the Slaves were all he had dreamed of. They were fighting and struggling, and turning for air, as they argued from out of the marble. The Accademia staff got to know him, and they wondered if he might be insane. Being winter up there, there weren’t many tourists, so they noticed him after a week. Sometimes they gave him some lunch. One evening they’d had to ask—
“Oh,” he said, “I’m just waiting….If I’m lucky he might just come.”
* * *
—
And so it was.
Every day for thirty-nine days, Michael Dunbar was in Florence, in the gallery. It was incredible to him, to be with them so long—for the David, those Slaves, were outrageous. There were times when he drifted off, too, just leaning as he sat by the stone. It was security who often woke him.
But then, on that thirty-ninth day, a hand had reached out for his shoulder, and a man was crouched above him. There was the shadow of Slave beside him, but the hand on his clothing was warm. His face was paler, and weathered, but there was no mistaking the boy. He was twenty-seven years old, but it was something like that moment, all those years ago—Clay and Penelope, the bright backyard—for he saw him how once he was. You’re the one who loved the stories, he thought—and it was suddenly just a kitchen, as Clay called out, his voice so quiet, from the dark toward the light.
He kneeled on the floor and said, “Hi, Dad.”
* * *
—
On the wedding day we couldn’t be sure.
Michael Dunbar had done his best, but we hoped out of sheer desperation, more than any real hope at all.
Rory would be the best man.
We all bought suits and nice shoes.
Our father was with us as well.
The bridge was a constant build.
The ceremony would be in the evening, and Claudia had taken the girls.
In late afternoon, we assembled—from oldest to youngest: me, Rory, Henry, Tommy. Then Michael had come soon after. It was all of us here on Archer Street, suited up, but ties were loosened. We were waiting, as we had to, in the kitchen.
There were moments, of course, when we heard things.
Whoever went out came back.
Each time was met with “Nothing,” but then, Rory, last hope, said:
“That.”
He said:
“What the hell was that?”
* * *
—
He’d considered going mostly on foot, but he caught the train and bus. On Poseidon Road, he got out one st
op early, and the sun was warm and friendly.