Page 19 of Bear Strength

I stop in the front of the right house. There is no confusing it with some other. We all know what happened there a long time ago. The whole town knows it. They managed to wash the blood out of the cellar, but the stories will never be silenced.

I couldn’t care less about stories. They taught me, a long time ago, that fairy tales don’t exist. Not even for little children, and their hearts break the easiest. So, no fairy tales. Just cold, hard facts. That’s the only thing you can rely on in this world. You learn to adapt to it, and after a few lashes life gives you, you know how to act. How to react.

And, the facts about this house are that it’s a nice house. Plus, because of what happened a long time ago, it’s cheap. I’m guessing that’s why the woman got it. She’s probably renting. Maybe she bought it? Maybe she came here with some savings? But, who comes to Swallow Springs with any savings? A ridiculous notion.

I get off my bike, making sure it’s standing sturdy. It’s 7 am. The best time of the day. Most people are still inside. Apart from a few of those who need to be somewhere else. This street smells like wildflowers, like flowering dogwood. That’s always been my favorite tree. For no particular reason, really. It doesn’t remind me of anything. There is no sweet childhood memory connected to it. It simply smells nice. It soothes my mind. It caresses my nostrils. Sometimes, a simple thing like that is more than enough to enjoy something.

I adjust the kid safety helmet hanging from the back of my bike. I consider taking it with me, but I opt against it. I walk overto the door. The pavement is hard, clean. A few ingrown weeds and grass pierce through it. There is a tree right in the yard, providing pleasant shade.

I lift my finger and press the doorbell. A few moments later, a woman opens the door. She is wearing an oversized t-shirt, which smells like the bed, freshly washed linens and now, fried eggs and bacon.

Her eyes widen when she sees me. She doesn’t recognize me. Why should she? I watched her as she went up to the house yesterday morning. She walks with a slight leaning to the left side, but it’s not noticeable at all. She has a habit of pushing stray hairs behind her left ear, even when there is no stray hair there. All of it is up in a messy bun. I adjust my glasses before I speak to her.

“Good morning,” I tell her.

“Good morning,” she replies, but it sounds more like a question.

She probably knows why I’m here. But, she doesn’t show it.

“Mason sent me.”

At the mention of his name, her face scrunches up a little. I can see a few lines in the corner of her eyes. But, her face is smooth. Sun kissed. Her hair is slightly oily, but not dirty. Her nails are short. Almost cut to the bone. She is barefoot. No nail polish there, either.

She sighs before she replies. She is annoyed. Her nostrils flare up a little, just before she speaks.

“I told him I’d bring Dominick over myself.”

Her voice is melodic. A mother’s voice. There is no such thing in the world as a mother’s voice. I should know.

I don’t reply anything to that. Instead, I walk back to the bike, and get the helmet. I return to where she’s standing, shylytrying to pull down the hem of her sleep t-shirt, which wouldn't go past the middle of her thighs.

“Does Dominick own a bicycle?” I ask. She gives me a look as if I’m speaking a language belonging to a whole different branch of languages.

“What?” she gives me a startled look.

“Does Dominick own a bicycle?” I repeat, politely. I’m not upset. The point is to get my point across. Sometimes, it takes a little while with some people.

“No,” she shakes her head. “I haven’t bought one yet.”

“Research shows that bicycle injuries account for about 10% of all pediatric traumatic deaths,” I reveal something she, as a mother, probably already knows, only its passive knowledge. “Bicycle helmets have proven to decrease morbidity and mortality.”

“Alright…” she replies, still sounding confused.

“Research also supports the use of a correctly adjusted helmet, for the purpose of reducing the risk of bicycle-related head injury. This can also be applied to motorcycle related injuries, provided of course, that the speed remains within the necessary safety confines. Now, I’ve seen your child. From what I’ve seen, he is at least four feet, nine inches, which is lawfully required for a child to ride on the back of a motorcycle. In other words, he needs to be tall enough to reach motorcycle passenger footrests. I’ve also witnessed this.”

She seems like a confused child, hearing my words.

“If your son wears this,” I offer her the helmet, “there should be no legal or otherwise restrictions imposed on either of us.”

At that moment, Dominick rushes over to her side, and his eyes widen upon seeing me.

“Adrian, right?” he asks. I nod. “Mom, this is Adrian. He showed me how to paint without brush marks.”

“That’s… nice,” she says, not taking her eyes off of me. “I’m Danica.”

She offers me her hand, and I squeeze it. It’s soft and warm. She uses coconut moisturizer on her hands. Her body, too. But, I don’t tell her that. I used to do that, but it turns out people don’t like it when you tell them such things about themselves. Too intimate somehow.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Danica,” I tell her, shaking her hand.

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