Page 68 of Plum

He grins, flashing that gap again, as well as more than a few missing teeth, and there’s a moment when we’re just two men, admiring an exquisite piece of machinery.

“She’s a V-twin, five speed. Won a lot of money off her back in the day, out at the speedway.”

He flips through the phone, shows me other angles. He’s a proud papa. The thought sours my stomach.

“You looking to sell? Is that what this is?”

Ryan Morrison’s back straightens, and he sets the phone down. “No. Ain’t like that.” He’s flustered. He shifts in his seat, leans forward and braces his elbows on the table.

“Listen. I know you don’t want nothin’ to do with me. I’ve always respected your wishes. But I just thought—” He’s casting around for words. “I can’t ride no more.” He holds up his gnarled hands. “And I saw you in the paper. With the Black Shadow. And I thought maybe I could give you something.”

I know the article he’s talking about. Last year, the local paper did a puff piece on the “movers and shakers” in Pyle. My PR people sent them a picture of me on the bike.

I don’t know what to say, and as I’m grasping, I get caught on his words. “What do you mean? Respected my wishes?”

“Mr. Wade, I mean, your stepfather. He made shit clear. You didn’t wanna see me. I get it. I was fucked up, man, for a long time. Step nine, right? You don’t get to make amends if it hurts someone else. You were happy, doin’ well. I get it.”

“I don’t. When was this? When did you talk to my father?” I knew he’d called for money. Thomas made it seem like that’s all it was.

Ryan Morrison tugs his beard and says, “Shit.” It comes out long, almost like a whistle. “I don’t know. A half dozen times over the years. I’d call your ma. He’d answer. I get it. Shit couldn’t have been easy when I left. She didn’t owe me nothin’.”

“And my stepfather told you that I didn’t want to speak to you?”

“Yeah. He’d offer me cash to fuck off. Ain’t gonna lie. In those early days, before I got straight, I took him up on it. But I didn’t come here for your money. This is a gift. No strings.” He thinks for a minute. “Well, we’d need to figure out a trailer. I could borrow one from work, probably. I’ll work it out.”

That’s the moment the waitress comes back with my beer.

I slump back in my chair, mind numb. “Did my mother know you wanted to see me?”

“Couldn’t say.” Ryan Morrison taps out another rhythm on the table with his thumb and the side of his palm. “She did all right for herself, for you. Considering how it was. She’s a tough woman.”

“When? When did you first call?”

He sighs, scratches his face. “I always called. Christmas. Birthdays, you know.”

“You asked to see me?”

“Sure.” He half-snorts. “This once, I had the half-baked plan to take you to Sturgis. Your stepfather said you’d just gone away to school.”

I would have been eleven. My first year at Mountchassen. The year I didn’t talk to anyone but Eric as I tried to learn how to speak like the other boys.

I don’t know how to wrap my head around this, and I can’t tear my eyes from this grizzled, old man who has my eyes and my jaw. This would have been my future if we’d stayed on Gilson Avenue. Old too soon. Tired. Falling apart at the seams.

A road trip to Sturgis.

Suddenly, it’s too much. I need air. Space to think. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll take the bike.”

“Yeah? All right, all right.” He rocks back in his seat, satisfied. “I’ll need a few days to figure out the trailer, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

We both take a minute, nurse our beers.

“So, where do you live?” I ask, more to make conversation than anything else.

“A little town, about two hours southeast. Petty’s Mill. Heard of it?”

Yes. You could say that.

It’s hard to believe in fate, but sometimes…it punches you in the face. Jo-Beth’s not going to believe this when I tell her. Shit, I bet she knows this man. He’s a biker.

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