“Means people are complicated.”
The Mother almost snapped at him.
Then stopped.
Because she knew.
Her husband had known her as a wife.
He had never met the nineteen-year-old version who slept on a friend’s couch after leaving home.
Never met the girl who dyed her hair bright red for two months.
Never knew she once wanted to become a photographer.
People carried earlier versions of themselves.
Sometimes silently.
The Little Boy asked, “How did you know Dad?”
The biker sat on the pavement.
“Garage.”
“What garage?”
“Mine.”
The Boy waited.
“Your dad came around when he was young.”
The biker smiled faintly.
“Mostly because he wanted to ride and couldn’t afford a motorcycle.”
“Did you let him?”
“Eventually.”
“Was he good?”
The biker looked at the Mother.
Then back at the child.
“No.”
The Little Boy laughed.
The biker continued.
“He dropped my motorcycle once.”
The Boy gasped delightedly.
“While riding?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“It was parked.”
The Little Boy burst out laughing.
Even the Mother did.
“He dropped a parked motorcycle?”
“Talent.”
The biker said it so seriously that the Boy laughed harder.
For several seconds the overpass did not feel like the worst place in the world.
Then the Mother remembered the question that mattered.
“How did you get the jacket?”
The biker’s smile faded.
“He left it with me.”
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
Her body stiffened.
“How close to when he died?”
The biker looked down.
“Two weeks.”
The Mother stared.
“What?”
“He came to my garage.”
“Why?”
“Wanted something repaired.”
“The jacket?”
“That too.”
The biker rubbed his hands together for warmth.
“But mostly he wanted to talk.”
The Mother’s pulse quickened.
“About what?”
The biker looked toward the Little Boy.
The Mother followed his gaze.
“No.”
The biker nodded gently.
“Yes.”
The Little Boy leaned closer.
“Me?”
The biker smiled.
“You loved motorcycles.”
The Boy looked surprised.
“I still do.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Your dad showed me pictures.”
The Mother closed her eyes.
Her husband had gone to see this man two weeks before dying.
Carrying pictures.
Talking about their son.
She knew nothing about it.
“What did he want?”
The biker answered carefully.
“To ride again.”
The Mother frowned.
“Why?”
“He said his son thought motorcycles were the coolest thing ever built.”
The Little Boy grinned.
“They are.”
The biker nodded.
“Your dad disagreed.”
“What?”
“He said airplanes were better.”
The Boy looked offended.
“Dad was wrong.”
The Mother laughed through tears.
The biker continued.
“He wanted to buy an old touring bike.”
“For himself?”
“For both of them.”