“He changed his mind a hundred times about contacting you.”
The Biker Leader nodded.
She continued:
“If you read those letters, you’re going to see all versions.”
“I want all versions.”
“Even ugly?”
“Especially ugly.”
That answer seemed to satisfy her.
She brought out a box.
Plain cardboard.
Edges softened.
The Biker Leader sat at the kitchen table.
The Older Biker remained standing until the mother pointed toward a chair.
Inside the box were photographs.
Receipts.
Motorcycle magazines.
A dried hospital wristband from their mother.
A metal keychain shaped like Nevada.
The Biker Leader picked it up.
He remembered buying it at seventeen.
Then letters.
Twenty-three.
Different paper.
Different years.
None stamped.
None addressed completely.
The first began:
I still hate you.
The Biker Leader laughed once.
Tears immediately followed.
He wiped them angrily.
The boy sat across from him.
“You okay?”
“No.”
The child thought.
Then:
“Grown men cry?”
The Biker Leader looked at him.
He did not know the phrase the child was indirectly borrowing from another story.
He simply answered:
“Sometimes.”
The boy nodded.
The Biker Leader read.
The first letters were furious.
Accusations.
Their mother.
Their father.
Abandonment.
Pride.
Then years softened things.
One letter described meeting the woman who became the boy’s mother.
Another described marriage.
Another mentioned expecting a child.
The Biker Leader stopped at that one.
If it's a boy, I might use the middle name we always joked about. Don't get proud if you ever hear it.
The Leader looked toward the child.
“What’s your middle name?”
The boy told him.
The Biker Leader laughed through tears.
Of course.
A ridiculous name from childhood.
Not ridiculous to anyone else.
Only brothers.
The mother covered her mouth.
She had never known.
The Biker Leader continued reading.
One letter after the child’s birth:
You should see him. He has our mother’s eyes and your stupid left eyebrow. I hate that.
The Biker Leader touched his eyebrow.
The boy copied him.
The Older Biker looked away.
Another letter:
I almost called today. Then I imagined you answering and saying, “Who is this?” I couldn't do it. Cowardice comes in different clothes.
The Biker Leader whispered:
“Idiot.”
The mother said:
“You both were.”
He nodded.
Another.
Then the cancer diagnosis.
The handwriting became shakier.
I don't know if I have two years or ten. Doctor won't promise anything. Suddenly our argument feels very small.
The Biker Leader stopped.
He could not continue for several minutes.
The boy did not rush him.
Finally:
If I don't call you, this letter is proof that I intended to. Maybe intention is useless. Probably is.
The final letter was dated four months before death.
Only one page.
Brother,
I was wrong about plenty. You were wrong too, so don't enjoy this.
The Biker Leader laughed weakly.
I should have found you. Pride became habit, habit became time, and then time became something I thought I still had.
The boy has the toy motorcycle now. He loves it. I told him his uncle gave it to me. I did not tell him we stopped being brothers because neither of us knew how to apologize first.
If this ever reaches you, don't apologize at my grave. That would annoy me.