The boy shook his head.
“Mail is stupid.”
The mother smiled.
“Sometimes.”
The Biker Leader looked at the child.
“No.”
“People are.”
The boy considered.
Then nodded.
“Adults.”
“Especially.”
The hardest moment came near the third anniversary of the father’s death.
The child began acting angry.
School calls.
Fighting.
One broken locker.
The mother looked exhausted.
The Biker Leader tried talking.
The boy told him to leave.
He did.
That surprised the mother.
“You're actually going?”
“He said leave.”
“He's ten.”
“Still heard him.”
The Leader went home.
The next Thursday, he returned.
The boy did not come outside.
The Biker Leader sat on the curb beside his motorcycle.
Twenty minutes.
Thirty.
The mother opened the door.
“He’s watching you from upstairs.”
The Leader nodded.
“Good curtains?”
She smiled.
“Terrible.”
Forty-five minutes.
The boy finally appeared.
No shoes.
Arms crossed.
“You left.”
“You told me to.”
“You were supposed to know I didn't mean it.”
The Biker Leader frowned.
“That seems unfair.”
The boy’s face crumpled.
“I’m mad at Dad.”
The Leader’s expression softened.
“Okay.”
“He died.”
“Yes.”
“He knew he was sick.”
“Yes.”
“He didn't tell me how bad.”
“No.”
“He said he’d be okay.”
The boy began crying.
“He lied.”
The Biker Leader walked closer.
Stopped.
Waited.
The child stepped into him.
Only then did the Leader hug him.
The boy cried against the leather vest.
The Biker Leader stared toward the desert.
“I was mad at him too.”
The boy pulled back.
“For dying?”
“For leaving.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
The Leader crouched.
“You're allowed to be angry at somebody you love.”
The boy wiped his face.
“Mom says I shouldn't.”
His mother, standing at the door, called:
“I said don't break lockers!”
The boy almost smiled.
The Leader continued:
“Dead people don't become perfect.”
“Your dad lied because he was scared.”
“Doesn't make it right.”
“Doesn't make him bad either.”
The child looked toward the miniature motorcycle sitting on the porch.
“I wish he was here.”
The Leader nodded.
“Me too.”
They sat together.
No solution.
Grief did not need one.
The club eventually learned how to interact with the child without turning him into a mascot.
The younger bikers who once laughed became his favorite targets for jokes.
The Older Biker taught him cards.
Bad idea.