He looked too large for the hospital room.
That was the first thing the boy thought.
The second was that the man looked frightened.
Not of the hospital.
Of him.
The biker stopped several feet inside.
He took off a black knit cap.
Held it in both hands.
The mother stood.
Neither spoke.
Four years of unresolved history entered the room before either person did anything.
Finally the biker said:
“Ma’am.”
She nodded.
“Thank you for keeping them quiet.”
He glanced toward the window.
“We threatened everybody.”
The boy smiled.
The biker heard.
Looked toward him.
Everything in the large man’s face changed.
The mother saw it.
He had known her husband.
That was no longer something she could pretend was distant history.
The biker took one careful step.
Then stopped.
“Can I come closer?”
The boy nodded.
The biker approached the wheelchair.
He could have remained standing.
Instead he lowered himself onto one knee.
Now they were nearly eye level.
The boy studied the tattoos.
The beard.
The leather.
Then:
“You brought all those?”
The biker glanced toward the window.
“No.”
The boy frowned.
“They brought themselves.”
“Why?”
The biker’s mouth moved.
No answer came immediately.
The boy looked toward his mother.
Then back.
“I only asked for one motorcycle.”
The biker smiled.
“Your father had trouble counting too.”
The boy froze.
“You knew him?”
The biker nodded.
“How well?”
The gray-bearded biker looked toward the mother.
She did not stop him.
He returned his gaze to the child.
“He was my brother.”
The boy frowned.
“My dad didn’t have a brother.”
The biker smiled.
“Not that kind.”
“Oh.”
Then:
“Were you in the club?”
“Yes.”
“Was Dad?”
The biker nodded.
The boy looked toward his mother.
She nodded too.
“You never told me.”
“I told you he rode.”
“That’s different.”
“Yes.”
She sat.
“I know.”
The biker reached inside his vest.
The mother stiffened instinctively.
He saw.
Moved slowly.
He removed a small faded rectangular patch.
Red edging.
Black center.
Old enough that the fabric had softened around the corners.
He held it in both hands.
The boy stared.
“What’s that?”
“Your dad’s.”
The boy’s fingers moved on the wheelchair armrest.
The biker extended the patch.
Then stopped before reaching him.
“Want it?”
The boy nodded.
The biker placed it in his palms.
The child looked down.
His hands seemed tiny around the cloth.
“Dad wore this?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Before you were born.”
The boy rubbed the edge.
“Why do you have it?”
The biker swallowed.
“Because he gave it to me.”
“When?”
“A few weeks before he died.”