It surprised him how heavy it was, and when he flipped it onto its back, he saw them; he ran his finger across the words, engraved on its metal chest:
Matador in the fifth.
That girl was something else.
* * *
—
When he opened the letter, he was tempted to flick the Zippo open, to light its light, but the moon was enough to read by.
Her handwriting small and precise:
Dear Clay—
By the time you read this we’ll have talked anyway…but I just wanted to say that I know you’ll be leaving soon, and I’ll miss you. I miss you already.
Matthew told me about a far-off place and a bridge you might be building. I try to imagine what that bridge will be made of, but then again, I don’t think it’ll matter. I wanted to claim this idea for myself, but I’m sure you know it anyway, from the jacket of The Quarryman:
“EVERYTHING HE EVER DID WAS MADE NOT ONLY OF BRONZE OR MARBLE OR PAINT, BUT OF HIM…OF EVERYTHING INSIDE HIM.”
One thing I know:
That bridge will be made of you.
If it’s okay with you, I’m hanging on to the book for now—maybe to make sure you come back for it, and come back as well to The Surrounds.
As for the Zippo, they say you should never burn your bridges, but I offer it to you anyway, even if only for luck, and to remember me by. Also, a lighter sort of makes sense. You know what they say about clay, don’t you? Of course you do.
Love,
Carey
PS. Sorry about the state of the wooden box, but somehow I think you’ll like it. I figured it couldn’t hurt, to keep some treasured things in. Take more than just a peg.
2nd PS. I hope you like the engraving.
Well, what would
you do?
What would you say?
Clay sat, stock-still, on the mattress.
He asked himself:
What do they say about clay?
But then, very quickly, he knew.
Actually, he understood before he’d finished asking, and he stayed at The Surrounds a long time. He read the letter over and over.
Finally, when he did break his stillness, it was only for the small heavy lighter; he held it against his mouth. For a moment he almost smiled:
That bridge will be made of you.
It wasn’t so much that Carey did things largely or commanded attention or love, or even respect. No, with Carey it was her little moves, her easy touch of truth—and in that way, as always, she’d done it: