“You answered.”
“What do you want?”
“I need to preserve a drawing.”
“Photograph it.”
“On a motorcycle tank.”
Silence.
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then who?”
“My grandson.”
Another silence.
Wes knew Hank did not have a grandson.
Or rather, he had known Hank had a son once.
Everyone who had been around long enough knew there was a subject they did not discuss.
“When did you get a grandson?”
“Today.”
Wes stopped asking.
“Send pictures.”
Hank did.
Ten minutes later, Wes called back.
“Don’t touch it.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“No cleaners.”
“Obviously.”
“No fuel spills.”
“Obviously.”
“And don’t ride it.”
Hank frowned.
“That part’s a problem.”
“You want the drawing or the ride?”
“Both.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’ve heard.”
“I can photograph the lines, make a transfer, then repaint a permanent version.”
Hank stared at the tank.
“No.”
“What?”
“I want his lines.”
“They are his lines.”
“No. I want these.”
Wes sighed.
“Then bring me the tank tomorrow.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Hank looked toward the clock.
“They leave tomorrow.”
“So?”
“I have somewhere to be.”
He hung up.
At six the next morning, Hank had not slept.
At six fifteen, he called Ray.
At six twenty, Ray called Luis.
At six thirty, Ruth heard motorcycles starting outside her house and called Hank to ask whether he had completely lost his mind.
“Probably.”
“Good. Just checking.”
At seven twenty, Emma was loading the final suitcase into her sedan when she heard engines.
Not one.
Three.
She stepped away from the trunk.
Hank’s black motorcycle turned onto her street.
The white drawing remained across the tank.
Ray followed.
Then Luis.
Emma stared.
Eli exploded through the front door wearing one sneaker.
“Mom! Motorcycles!”
“I can hear them.”
He saw Hank.
“Grandpa!”
Hank parked.
He removed his helmet.
Emma walked toward him.
“What are you doing here?”
Hank glanced toward the packed car.
“Wanted to say goodbye.”
“You did yesterday.”
“Wanted to improve my performance.”
Emma almost smiled.
“What’s behind your back?”
Hank brought forward a small wrapped package.
Eli appeared beside her.
“Is that for me?”
Emma looked at him.
“Maybe let him answer.”
Hank crouched.
“Yes.”
Eli opened it.
Inside was a black sketchbook.
On the front, Hank had taped a photograph.
Not the old birdhouse picture.
A new one.
Yesterday’s motorcycle tank.
The white drawing.
Eli traced it.
“You took a picture.”
“About forty.”
Emma laughed.
Hank gave him another item.
A pack of white paint markers.
Emma stared.
“You’re encouraging him?”
“Only on approved surfaces.”
Eli hugged the sketchbook against his chest.
“Thank you.”
Hank stood.
Then he looked at Emma.