Then fifty.
Eventually more than one hundred Iron Lantern riders filled the street.
Neighbors came outside.
My daughter rolled onto the porch.
She searched faces.
“Where’s Bear?”
Nobody answered.
The riders switched off their engines.
Silence spread.
Then a black enclosed trailer turned onto our street.
Inside sat Bear’s red Harley.
The old saddlebag remained attached.
My daughter rolled toward it.
“Why is his bike here?”
A woman from the club approached.
Older.
Silver braid.
Black leather vest.
She carried an envelope.
“Bear left instructions.”
My daughter looked around.
“Where is he?”
The woman swallowed.
“Open the saddlebag first.”
My daughter’s face tightened.
“I want Bear.”
“I know.”
“Is he hurt?”
The woman did not answer directly.
“He wants you to see what's inside.”
My daughter rolled toward the Harley.
The club members stepped aside.
She touched the old saddlebag.
Her fingers trembled.
I stood behind her.
She opened the buckle.
Inside lay a faded photograph.
A child's drawing.
A hospital bracelet.
My daughter lifted the photograph first.
Bear stood in it.
Much younger.
No gray beard.
Beside him sat a little girl.
Maybe seven.
She was in a wheelchair.
One leg gone above the knee.
The second was bandaged heavily.
Bear knelt beside her.
The girl held a yellow rubber duck.
My daughter looked toward me.
“Who is she?”
I did not know.
She picked up the drawing.
Crayon.
A giant biker on a motorcycle.
A small girl behind him.
Sun overhead.
Across the top, childish handwriting:
BEAR MAKES THE LOUD THINGS NOT SCARY.
My daughter stopped breathing.
Then the hospital bracelet.
A girl's name.
EMILY MADDOX.
Same last name as Bear.
My daughter whispered:
“Who’s Emily?”
The club woman knelt.
Bear had a daughter.
Nobody had told us.
Emily was eight when a drunk driver struck the family car.
Bear’s Wife died instantly.
Emily survived.
She lost one leg immediately.
The other was damaged severely.
Bear survived with the injuries that eventually cost him his right leg.
I felt cold.
Eighteen years ago.
The same accident Bear mentioned on our porch.
The club woman continued.
Bear recovered slowly.
Emily did not.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
She became terrified of motorcycles because Bear had ridden constantly before the crash.
Even though they had been in a car when the accident happened, every engine reminded her of hospitals, sirens, and her father’s old life.
Bear stopped riding for nearly a year.
Then somebody came to their house every week.
Bear's brother.
Caleb.
The same brother whose Harley Bear later restored.
Caleb sat outside.
Never forced Emily out.
Never demanded courage.
He left ridiculous gifts.
A toy helmet.
A bell.
A yellow rubber duck.