In July, Hawk announces a surprise. He leads me to the garage one morning, makes me close my eyes. No peeking, he warns. I'm not, I promise. I hear the garage door open, wheels rolling on concrete, voices whispering.
Okay, Hawk says. Open them. I do. And gas. A motorcycle sits before me, but not a regular one.
This one has been modified. Custom sidecar, special controls, a chairlift system. What is this? I ask, though I already know. Your ride, Hawk says proudly.
Once you're old enough for a license. Patch and Doc have been working for months. I wheel closer. Run my hand over the gleaming chrome, the black leather seat, the hell angel's insignia painted on the "It's beautiful," I whisper. "It's freedom," Hawk corrects.
"On your terms. " I look up at him at Patch and Doc, standing proudly beside their creation. "I don't know what to say. Say you'll ride with us," Patch suggests when you're ready. "I will. I promise.
I definitely will. " That night, the club gathers for a barbecue. The mood is light, joyful. Someone brings out a guitar again. Songs are sung. Stories told.
I sit beside mom watching it all. This strange wonderful family we found. Happy? Mom asks. Very, I say.
She wraps an arm around my shoulders. Me too. Across the yard, Hawk watches us, raises his beer in a silent toast. I raise my soda can in return. Mom, I say suddenly.
Are you and Hawk? She laughs. Nosy, aren't you just observant? She sigh. Hawk is important to me to us, but it's complicated because of dad.
She nods. Partly and partly because life is just complicated sometimes. Dad would want you to be happy, I say. She kisses the top of my head. When did you get so wise?
Hanging around old bikers, I joke. Bound to learn something, she laughs again. The sound is light, free. I love hearing it. As summer progresses, I grow stronger.
My arms develop muscle from wheeling myself everywhere. From working in the garage, from living. The club takes me on rides. Not on my own bike yet. I'm still too young, but in the side car.
We explore roads I've never seen. Small towns, lakes, mountains in the distance, freedom, just like Hawk promised. One hot August day, Hawk suggests a special ride. Just you and me, he says. There's somewhere I want to take you.
We set off early before the worst of the heat. Hawk doesn't say where we're going, just that it's important. 2 hours later, we arrive at a military cemetery. Rows of white headstones stretch in perfect lines. American flags flutter in the gentle breeze.
Hawk helps me from the sidec car. I will myself along the path as he walks beside me. Who are we visiting? I ask though I think I know. Jamie.
Hawk says. We stop before a simple headstone. James Jensen, Marine Corps, Vietnam. Dates of birth and death. Hawk kneels, brushes leaves from the stone, places a small rock on top.
Military tradition, he explained once. Hey little brother, he says softly. Brought someone to meet you. I feel awkward, intrusive. This is private, sacred.