At first it was only simple things.
Did the Murderer have a job?
Exactly how long had he lived here?
But then more searchingly, or appealing:
What the hell was he waiting for?
When would they start building?
Was this bridge procrastination?
It reminded him of Carey, and old McAndrew—how asking questions would hold her back. In his case, though, there was history.
As a boy who’d once loved stories, he’d been better before at asking.
* * *
—
Most mornings, the Murderer went to the riverbank and stood.
He could do it for hours.
Then he’d come in and read, or write on his loose-leaf papers.
Clay went out on his own.
Sometimes he went upriver; the great blocks of stone. He sat on them, missing everyone.
* * *
—
On Monday, they went to town, for food supplies.
They walked across the riverbed; its dryness.
They took the red box of a car.
Clay sent a letter to Carey and a collective note home, through Henry. Where the first was a detailed account of much that had happened, the second was typical of brothers.
Hi Henry—
Everything okay here.
You?
Tell the others.
Clay
He remembered Henry suggesting a phone to him, and the thought was somehow fitting; his note was more like a text.
He’d agonized over putting a return address on the envelopes, and chose to put one only on Henry’s. Telling Carey, though? He didn’t know. He didn’t want her to feel she had to write back. Or maybe he was scared she wouldn’t.
* * *