And, “Of course,” he said. “I’ll go there.”
They would go there and they’d be disciplined—their rules and regulations; unsaid but always sensed. She would itch but nothing-more him. Nothing more but tell him everything, and not saying that this was the best of it—her feet on top of his.
In the past there were hardening facts.
Our mother was dead.
Our father had fled.
Clay searched for him after a week.
In its lead-up, with every passing hour, something in him was building, but he didn’t quite know what it was; like nerves before a football game, but it never seemed able to dissolve. Maybe the difference was that football games were played. You ran out onto the field; it began, it ended. But not this. This was constant beginning.
* * *
—
Like all of us, Clay missed him in a strangely worn-out way.
It was hard enough missing Penny.
At least with her you knew what to do with it; the beauty of death—it’s definite. With our dad there were too many questions, and thoughts were much more dangerous:
How could he leave us?
Where did he go?
Was he okay?
That morning a week later, when Clay found himself awake, he stood and dressed in the bedroom. Soon, he made his way out; he had to fill that space. His reaction was sudden and simple.
He got to the street and ran.
* * *
—
As I said, he went Dad! DAD! WHERE ARE YOU, DAD?!
But he wasn’t quite able to shout.
The morning was cool with spring.
He’d run hard when he first slipped out, then walked the early darkness. In a rush of fear and excitement, he didn’t know where he was going. When he’d started the internal calling, he’d soon discovered he was lost. He got lucky and wandered home.
Upon arrival, I was on the porch.
I walked down and took his collar.
I held him, one-armed, against me.
Like I said, I’d turned eighteen.
I thought I should try to act it.
“You okay?” I asked, and he’d nodded.
The stomach-feeling had eased.