The Murderer wouldn’t mention it.
He wouldn’t ask what Clay had learned:
How much of The Quarryman, and Michelangelo? And Abbey Hanley, Abbey Dunbar? And painting? His paintings.
In Michael’s absence, Clay read his favorite chapters, and the favorite chapters of Carey.
For her it was still the earlier ones:
The city and his upbringing.
The teenage broken nose.
The carving of the Pietà, the Christ—like liquid—in Mary’s arms.
For Clay, it was still the David.
The David and the Slaves.
He loved them like his father did.
He loved another of the book’s descriptions, too, of where those statues stood today—in Florence, in the Accademia:
Today, the David remains, at the end of the gallery’s corridor, in a dome of light and space. Still in the grip of decision: forever fearing, forever defiant and deciding. Can he take on the might of Goliath? He stares over us, far away, and the Prisoners wait in the distance. They’ve struggled and waited for centuries—for the sculptor to return and finish them—and must wait a few centuries longer….
* * *
—
At home, when he was here, in the evenings, sometimes he went to the roof. Sometimes he read on one side of the couch, while I read on the other.
Often we all watched movies together.
Sometimes a double feature:
Misery and Mad Max 2.
City of God. (“What?” called Henry from the kitchen. “Not something made this century for a change!”) And later, for balance, Weird Science. (“That’s a bit bloody better—1985!”) That last one had been a gift again, this time for a birthday, from Rory and Henry combined.
The night of the second double feature was a great one.
We all sat, we gaped and watched.
We were floored by the slums of Rio.
Then marveled at Kelly LeBrock.
“Hey,” said Rory, “take that bit back!” and “This shit shoulda won Oscars!”
* * *
—
At the river, by the radio, out of handfuls, then dozens of races, her first win would remain elusive. That first afternoon at Hennessey—when she’d veered and lost to the protest—felt suddenly, seemingly years ago, yet near enough to still burn.
Once, when she came storming through the field, on a mare by the name of Stun Gun, a jockey lost his whip in front of her, and it struck her below the chin. It caused her a moment’s distraction, and loss of the horse’s momentum.
She finished fourth, but alive, and pissed off.