“He got sick last winter.”
Mack stared at the photograph.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
The biker beside him slowly removed his cap.
Nobody touched their food.
The boy continued.
“He kept the lunchbox under his bed.”
Mack looked toward the boy’s mother.
She lowered her eyes.
“He told my mom that if anything happened, I had to bring it here.”
The boy reached into the lunchbox.
Pulled out the yellow envelope.
“This is for you.”
Mack took it.
His name was written across the front in handwriting he had not seen for decades.
Not:
Mack Harris.
Just:
Mack.
His throat tightened.
He opened the envelope.
Inside was one folded sheet.
The handwriting began strong.
By the final lines it became shaky.
Mack read silently.
Then stopped.
The long-bearded biker asked:
“What?”
Mack did not answer.
He read the first paragraph again.
Then the second.
The boy watched him.
“What does it say?”
Mack looked toward him.
The child had no idea that one page had just reopened thirty years of guilt.
Mack folded the letter halfway.
Then saw something written near the bottom.
One final sentence.
TAKE CARE OF THE BOY IF I CAN’T.
Mack closed his eyes.
Only for a second.
When he opened them again, the boy was staring at the old photograph.
“Did you really know Grandpa?”
Mack set the letter down.
“He saved my life.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The boy seemed to think about that.
Then Mack asked:
“What did you eat today?”
The question surprised him.
“Cereal.”
“For breakfast?”
The boy nodded.
“What about lunch?”
The boy looked down.
Mack glanced at the clock above the counter.
Almost noon.
“You eat lunch yet?”
Small shake of the head.
Mack pushed his plate away.
He grabbed the empty chair beside the booth and pulled it outward.
“Sit.”
The boy looked at the other bikers.
Nobody objected.
The man with the longest beard slid closer to the wall.
Another pushed a basket of fries toward the empty place.
The boy looked at his mother.
She nodded.
He climbed onto the chair.
Mack handed him the menu.
“What do you like?”
“Cheeseburgers.”
Mack nodded solemnly.
“Good answer.”
For the first time since entering the diner, the boy smiled.
Mack raised a hand toward the waitress.
“One cheeseburger.”
The boy immediately said:
“No onions.”
Mack corrected himself.
“One cheeseburger. No onions.”
The bikers laughed softly.
The tension loosened for perhaps three seconds.
Then Mack picked up Walter’s letter again.
He turned it over.
There was writing on the back.