“Please?”
She looked toward the biker standing just outside the open motel door.
He smiled faintly.
“Ask your mother.”
The Little Boy groaned.
The Mother laughed.
“Five minutes.”
He nodded enthusiastically.
The biker looked ready to leave.
The Little Boy sat up.
“Wait.”
The biker stopped.
“Tell me another story about Dad.”
The Mother looked at him.
So did the biker.
The old man rubbed his beard.
“Kid, it’s late.”
“One.”
The Little Boy held up one finger.
The biker looked toward the Mother.
She nodded.
“One.”
The biker leaned against the dresser.
He thought.
Then said:
“Your dad once tried impressing a woman on a motorcycle.”
The Mother raised an eyebrow.
“Was that me?”
“No.”
The Little Boy laughed.
The Mother pointed.
“Choose the next sentence carefully.”
The biker smiled.
“This was years before.”
“What happened?”
the Boy asked.
“He borrowed my bike.”
“Did he drop it?”
“No.”
The biker paused.
“Not immediately.”
The Little Boy burst out laughing.
The biker continued.
“Got maybe ten feet.”
The Mother was laughing now too.
“Then?”
“Forgot how sensitive the throttle was.”
The biker mimed the motorcycle jumping forward.
“Went straight into a hedge.”
The Boy almost fell sideways laughing.
“Was he hurt?”
“Only his pride.”
The Mother pictured her husband.
Neat hair.
Tucked shirt.
Trying desperately to look confident.
It fit.
Too perfectly.
The story ended.
The Little Boy settled.
He removed the jacket reluctantly.
The Mother folded it.
Her fingers touched the name again.
This time she did not recoil.
She placed the jacket on the chair beside his bed.
“Tomorrow?”
The Boy asked.
“Tomorrow what?”
“More Dad stories.”
The Mother looked at the biker.
He nodded.
“If your mother wants.”
The Mother whispered, “I do.”
The Little Boy fell asleep within minutes.
Warm.
Safe.
The Mother watched until his breathing deepened.
Then stepped outside.
The biker stood beside the railing.
Cold air hit her.
“You knew who we were before tonight.”
The biker did not pretend otherwise.
“Yes.”
The Mother’s suspicion returned.
“How?”
“Saw you last week.”
“Where?”
“Food distribution.”
She remembered motorcycles parked near the church.
“You recognized him?”
The biker nodded.
“Pictures.”
The Mother looked through the motel window toward her son.
“My husband showed you pictures.”
“Constantly.”
The biker smiled.
“Thought his kid was the first child ever born.”
The Mother laughed softly.