“That lunch?”
“It was late.”
“What about breakfast?”
She pressed her lips together.
The biker felt a familiar anger rising.
Not at her.
Not yet at anyone specific.
Just the anger of recognizing a pattern he had seen too many times.
Adults disappeared behind pride.
Children learned arithmetic no child should know.
How many meals could be divided?
How long could milk last?
Which bill had to be paid before the lights went off?
The biker pointed toward the bench under the maple tree.
“Can I sit?”
The girl nodded.
He sat at the far end.
For several moments neither spoke.
Motorcycle engines rumbled near the road.
Someone announced raffle numbers over the microphone.
The girl stared toward the apartments again.
The biker asked:
“Your dad know you’re here?”
“No.”
“What does he think you’re doing?”
“Library.”
“You go to the library every Saturday?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why didn’t he come get food?”
The girl looked offended by the question.
“He would never.”
“Why?”
“He says other people need it more.”
The biker almost smiled.
Of course.
Pride and hunger were old friends.
“What does he eat?”
The girl’s chin trembled slightly.
“He eats.”
“That wasn’t really my question.”
She looked down at her sneakers.
“He says he eats before I get home.”
The biker said nothing.
The girl’s eyes filled.
“But I know he doesn’t.”
“How?”
“I hear him.”
“Hear what?”
She wiped one cheek quickly.
“His stomach.”
The biker looked away for a moment.
The girl continued because now the words had started.
“He makes dinner.”
“For you?”
She nodded.
“Then says he ate while he was cooking.”
“But he doesn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“He always drinks water after.”
“What does that mean?”
“When Dad has food, he sits with me.”
“When he doesn’t, he drinks water and says he’s tired.”
The biker stared toward the apartments.
The girl whispered:
“He thinks I don’t know.”
Then:
“He says fathers eat last.”
The biker’s jaw tightened.
The girl sniffed.
“But lately there’s nothing left.”
For several seconds the old man could not speak.
He had heard grown men talk about sacrifice in hundreds of ways.
Military stories.
Marriage.
Work.
Prison.
Brotherhood.
But children reduced everything to the truth.
There’s nothing left.
The biker asked:
“What happened to your mom?”
The girl’s face changed.
“She died.”
“How long?”
“Three years.”
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded.
People had said that to her enough that she knew what to do with it.
“What was she like?”
That question surprised her.
Most adults asked how she died.
Not what she was like.