The woman leaned forward.
“Before we married.”
“He found a club number.”
“Someone answered.”
“Said you weren’t there.”
“He left a message.”
The Biker Leader stared.
“I never got one.”
“He tried again.”
“When?”
“Maybe nineteen years ago.”
The Older Biker slowly set down his fork.
That was when he had been around.
He looked toward the Biker Leader.
“Clubhouse had that old answering machine.”
The Leader remembered.
Three men shared access.
Messages got erased accidentally.
Or deliberately.
Chaos.
The mother continued.
“He said someone eventually told him you had gone east.”
The Biker Leader frowned.
“I never went east.”
“I know that now.”
“He thought you didn't want him.”
The Leader whispered:
“Christ.”
The boy watched.
The mother continued:
“He wrote letters.”
The Leader looked up.
“What?”
“I found them after he died.”
“How many?”
“Twenty-three.”
The Biker Leader stopped breathing.
The woman’s eyes filled.
“None mailed.”
He looked away.
The highway beyond the diner windows shimmered.
Twenty-three letters.
The mother said:
“He kept them in a box.”
“Along with the toy.”
“Photographs.”
“Your mother’s recipe cards.”
“An old club patch.”
“He couldn't let go.”
The Biker Leader rubbed one hand across his beard.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know where you were.”
The Leader pointed toward his vest.
“This patch has a chapter name.”
“I had a sick husband.”
“Then a funeral.”
“Then a six-year-old child.”
“I wasn't hunting down a motorcycle club to deliver family history.”
The Biker Leader lowered his hand.
Fair.
Pain did not make entitlement.
The boy asked:
“Can I see the letters?”
His mother looked surprised.
“They're at home.”
“I want to.”
The Biker Leader immediately said:
“Only if your mother thinks that's okay.”
The child looked at her.
She sighed.
“After my shift.”
The Biker Leader nodded.
“We'll wait.”
“You don't need to.”
“We will.”
She looked toward the other bikers.
The Older Biker raised his coffee.
“No rush.”
They stayed.
The mother returned to work.
The boy sat with them.
He showed them every damaged part of the miniature motorcycle.
His father repaired most.
The Biker Leader recognized some work.
One wheel replaced with something from a model car.
Tiny leather seat cut from an old belt.
A thin strip of aluminum serving as an exhaust shield.
The child pointed toward the bent handlebar.
“I did that.”
“How?”
“Dropped it.”
“Your dad mad?”
“He said motorcycles get scars.”
The Biker Leader smiled.
“He said that?”