“I know.”
Ruth left before Emma could refuse it.
Eli climbed into the empty chair.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Can I show him?”
Emma understood immediately.
“Carefully.”
Eli unzipped his backpack.
From inside he removed a clear plastic sleeve.
A sheet of paper had been folded so many times the creases were nearly soft enough to separate.
One corner had been repaired with transparent tape.
He slid it onto the table.
Hank stopped breathing.
It was the same drawing.
Not exactly.
The white version outside was a child’s imitation.
This one had been done in black ink.
The motorcycle had proper proportions.
The beard was still ridiculous.
The boy on the back seat smiled nearly as wide as the headlight.
At the bottom were five words.
OUR BIG RIDE. SOMEDAY SOON.
Daniel’s handwriting.
Hank touched the plastic sleeve.
Eli watched his finger.
“Dad drew it.”
“When?”
“A long time ago.”
Emma answered more precisely.
“Last winter.”
Eli nodded.
“We were going to the motorcycle museum.”
Hank looked at him.
“The one north of Springfield?”
“Yes.”
Eli brightened.
“You know it?”
“Been there.”
“Dad said we’d go in the car first.”
“Smart man.”
“He said I had to be bigger for the real ride.”
“He was right.”
“I asked if we could ride a black motorcycle.”
Hank looked toward the window.
His bike waited outside.
The white drawing glowed on its tank.
Eli continued.
“Dad said he knew the best black motorcycle in the world.”
Hank’s throat tightened.
“He showed me a picture.”
“What picture?”
“Your motorcycle.”
Hank stared.
“How did you know it was mine?”
“The little dent.”
Hank turned slowly toward the parking lot.
Daniel had put that dent there at seventeen.
He had borrowed the bike without permission to move it from one side of the garage to the other.
He lost balance.
The rear light struck the corner of the workbench.
Daniel expected Hank to explode.
Instead Hank stared at the dent for several seconds and said, “Well, now nobody can claim it’s theirs.”
Daniel offered to pay for the repair.
Hank refused.
Every machine needed a story.
Somewhere along the way, Hank had forgotten that people did too.
“Why’d you draw on it?” Hank asked.
Eli looked down at his sandwich.
“Mom was talking.”
“Okay.”
“I was looking at the motorcycle.”
“Okay.”
“And everybody keeps putting Dad’s things away.”
Emma stopped eating.
Eli immediately looked at her.
“I know we have to.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
“His coat went in a box.”
“Yes.”
“His lunch bag.”
“Yes.”
“His shoes.”
“We can’t take everything.”
“I know.”
He said it quickly.
Too quickly.
He did not want his mother to believe he was accusing her.
Eli pushed a crumb across the plate.
“I just thought if he was on the motorcycle, somebody would see him.”
Nobody answered.
Ruth quietly placed additional napkins on the table.
Hank stared through the window.
The black tank was partially visible.
So was the white rider.
“I saw him.”
Eli looked up.
“You really knew my dad?”
“A long time ago.”
“Was he funny then?”
Hank released a breath that broke somewhere in the middle.
“He once put googly eyes on every tool in my garage.”
Eli smiled.
“Really?”
“Took me three days to find the last pair.”
“Where?”
“On the bottom of my hammer.”