I looked inside. It was full of old photographs. I picked one up, and it showed Road, a young Road, standing next to a teenage-looking girl. He was in army uniform. She held a baby in her arms. My father, I was sure. Held by his mother, Nancy. RIP.
There were more pictures. Not many of the girl — Nancy, my grandmother — but plenty of my father. All ages of being a kid. One thing — in all those pictures, I never saw a smile on his face.
I pushed the box back to where it had been. I went down, and shoved the steps up. They closed up as slowly and silently as they had opened, steps to the past.
On Sunday morning, Road took me to the airport, and like my father had done, went to the gate with me. We sat there, waiting for the gate to open.
He said, “Thanks for all that listening.”
“Yeah, sure.” Then I said, “Can I come again?”
He looked at me, and actually smiled. “Any time.” But it took him a moment to say, “Bring Mickey.”
They called my flight. I stood up. So did Road. At the last moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a dream catcher.
“Hey, Paul, you know what? You’re my dream catcher, and guess what — you work.” When I took it, he gave me an awkward hug, as if he hadn’t practiced much. I hugged him back, just as awkwardly.
“Glad you came,” he whispered. And then he said, “Tell Mickey I love him. And you, too. Really.”
Billy Kinley had always dreamed of being a winner of the Staltonburg Memorial Day Bicycle Race. Racing was important to Billy because his father had been a stock car racer. But since his father took off when Billy was two, Billy didn’t know much about him except what was tacked to the wall in his small room: a faded five-by-five glossy photo of his dad holding up a trophy he had won at a race somewhere. Right behind him was the car he had driven, a red Chevy with its name, Special Red, big and bold on the hood.
The marriage bust-up was not anything Billy’s mom spoke about much. “He just left,” she would say. That was all Billy knew about it, and there was kind of an understanding between him and his mom that he would not ask more. If he did happen to let something slip, the painful look on his mother’s face warned Billy to move on.
Billy’s mom loved Billy a lot. That said, he spent a fair amount of time without her around, because she worked weekdays as secretary at McManus Auto Body and Towing, then weekends clerking at the local Piggly Wiggly supermarket. She was trying hard to save money for the real house she so much wanted for the two of them. “Until then,” as Billy’s mom expressed it, they were living in a mobile home set in the middle of the Twenty-Third Avenue Trailer Park and Laundromat.
They often talked about the house they wanted to have someday — in particular, the kitchen. It was a bit of a joke with them. She wanted a small kitchen, with a small table nook, for just the two of them. Cozy was her word. Billy wanted something bigger, with an expandable table. “Just in case,” he would say, looking away, “someone else came around for dinner.”
As for the Memorial Day race, Billy’s problem was that he didn’t own a bike. His best friend, Joey, had one, and Billy had learned to ride a bike using it. Once, when Joey went to visit his grandmother in Iowa, he let Billy use the bike for a whole week. So he rode well, just didn’t have his own bike.
The morning of his birthday, a Saturday, Billy slept in. When Billy woke, his mom led him into the small kitchen, her hand covering his eyes. Then she sang “Happy Birthday” slightly off-key and flicked away a sheet that covered something. It was a bike.
There wasn’t a lot of money in the Kinley household. That meant the birthday bike was not exactly new, but had been purchased secondhand from Hank’s New and Used Bike Shop on Vine Street. It didn’t matter to Billy. The moment he saw that bike, he knew he was going to be the winner of the Memorial Day race, which was going to be held in a few weeks.
What’s more, though he knew his mother did not — could not — go in for big gifts very often, this was a big gift. The bike store had done a fine job of refurbishing the bike, with its brand name (Specialized) in white on the crossbar, new tires, new seat, and new handle grips. The color — a splendid fire-engine red — was so shiny that nicks and scratches seemed minor, hardly worth noticing.
“It’s your twelfth birthday,” said his mom, and she hugged him so he couldn’t see her tears. Even so, Billy knew they were there.
As Billy gazed at the bike, its red color, and the word Specialized, reminded him of his dad’s car. He was about to tell his mom that, but checked himself. He did not want any hurt feelings, not that day.
“It’s just what I wanted,” he said, his grin as bright as an August sunflower. “I’m going to win the race for sure.”
“Yours to have fun with and be responsible for,” his mom said, proud to have made her son so happy.
An uneasy look came over Billy’s face. “Wasn’t it very expensive?” he asked. He knew how hard his mother worked, how they were nibbling on the edge of being poor, that even so, bit by bit, she was saving for that house with the perfect kitchen.
“Billy, it’s your twelfth birthday,” his mother said.
“I know, but . . .”
“Tell you what,” she said, guessing he needed some reason for his joy. “Your job isn’t just to enter the bike race; you’ve got to win it.”
Billy nodded in happy excitement. “First-place prize for kids my age is twenty-five bucks.”
“Great,” she said. “When you win it, you can put all that money into our house account at the bank.”
“I can?” he said, delighted at the thought.
“I’m counting on it,” she said earnestly, which suggested that was part of the deal.
“I’ll do it,” Billy promised. “And if I win, guess what?” he blurted out. “They’ll put my picture in the paper. Maybe Dad will see it.”
His mother said nothing.
Billy hardly ate his breakfast, but yanked on his clothing and hauled his new bike outside. It was a beautiful spring day. Sun shining. A touch of easy breeze.
Billy insisted that his mother watch his first ride. He straddled the bike, touched fingers to the frame, bounced the seat, and checked the brakes. When he finally pushed off, he wobbled a bit, just enough to add an extra thrill to the moment. After a couple of seconds he found his balance, then shot around the trailer park, the smile on his face all the thanks his mother needed.
Billy — being Billy — said, “Mom, it’s perfect. The best bike in the whole world. A winner. I love it. Thank you so much.” He jumped off and gave his mother the biggest hug he could.
The rest of the morning, Billy rode his bike around, showing it off to neighbors, friends, and any kid he could. “I’m going to win the race, don’t you think?” he said to everyone. Everyone agreed it was a fantastic bike. No one mentioned the nicks and scratches.
Around noon, when Billy finally got back home — his mother had gone off to her Saturday clerking job — he found a rag beneath the sink and worked to get the morning’s dirt off the bike. He didn’t just rub the frame down and scour the fenders; he cleaned every spoke.
Billy made himself a PBJ lunch and then went out with his friend Joey. The two of them went beyond the trailer park, on the old prairie meadow. Billy loved going fast, standing up on the pedals, swishing the bike from side to side, legs pumping like pistons, racing around all afternoon.
He did not win every race — Joey won some — but Billy won often enough to give him real hopes that come the Memorial Day bike race, he would win the real thing. “We still going to be best friends when I win the race?” he asked Joey.
Joey laughed. “I’m going to win it.”
That night Billy cleaned the bike again, then dragged it into his small bedroom. It barely fit. He thanked his mother again, twice, and went to sleep — eyes on the bike — very happy.
That following week, when the bus dropped him home after school, Billy got his bike out of his room and raced around. When Saturday came, he
registered for the Memorial Day bike race at Ace Hardware. When he did, he received a numbered Coca-Cola sponsored bib: D-87. Back home, he stood before the mirror in his mother’s bedroom and looked at himself with the bib on, frontward, sideways, over his shoulder, grinning every moment.
Though he could hardly wait for the race, Billy knew he could use the three weeks to practice. So every day after school, hour by hour, he and Joey worked hard. It was not long before Billy was winning almost every time.
That Saturday night — two weeks before the big race — Billy asked his mom for permission to ride his bike to school on Monday.
His mom was not so sure.
“It’s only three miles,” Billy assured her. “Pete”— Pete was one of Billy’s friends —“told me that. And guess what? He goes a back route that doesn’t have much traffic. It’ll be part of my training for the race. Mom, I have to win.”
His mom became thoughtful. “It won’t get stolen at school, will it?” she asked.
“Lots of kids bike to school,” Billy assured her. “That’s why they have bike racks. And I want to show the other kids what a great bike you gave me.”
There was some talk about getting a lock, but that was forgotten. Billy had not seen locks on other kids’ bikes, and he didn’t want to be a wimp or have his mother spend any more money.
Billy’s mother drove the route Pete had suggested. It clocked out at 3.2 miles and seemed safe enough. She granted permission.
Sunday afternoon Billy cleaned his bike again until it glistened. He even asked for and received a dab of car wax from a neighbor so he could get the frame and chrome handlebars glowing.
As he worked over the bike, he realized he had already come to know its scratches like the lines in his palms. He told his mom they were part of his bike’s personality. “Nobody’s perfect,” he told her with a look to some far-off place. “You have to learn to forgive.”
His mother did not say anything, just smiled her sad smile.
It was a proud Billy who rode his bike to school on Monday. While in class, he left it with the other bikes behind the school, near the two bike racks the school had. They did not have enough slots for all the bikes, so lots of them were dumped on the ground. Billy would not do that to his bike. He leaned it carefully against a tree. Besides, the tree was in full leaf, so it shaded the bike from a too-hot sun.
When Billy got out of school, there it was, bright as a beacon. He was delighted to mount the saddle, and then he and Joey slap-scattered home, racing all the way.
On Wednesday, right after three o’clock dismissal, when Billy came to collect his bike, it was gone.
At first, Billy thought he had forgotten where he had left it, and went searching around the school. But as more and more kids claimed their bikes and took off, it became clear: his bike wasn’t just gone; it had been stolen.
As Billy grasped what had happened, shock set in. Tears welling in his eyes, and a lot of pain in his chest, he kept roaming the school grounds, searching. Not finding it, he kept telling himself that maybe someone took it by mistake, that it would be brought back.
An hour later, finding it hard to breathe, Billy went into the school office and reported what had happened. The school secretary gave Billy a whole lot of sympathy, even as she said such things did happen.
Then she said, “I can’t believe one of our kids took it. Did you have a lock on it?”
Billy admitted he didn’t.
Then the secretary said, “Billy, why don’t you go over to the district police station over on Fifteenth and report it. I’m told they find tons of bikes. Stolen bikes get dumped. Joyriding, I guess.”
With a burst of hope, Billy ran all the way. He had been inside the police station once, the time Joey’s dad filed an accident report.
The police station was small, a one-level building, with heavy glass doors. Bulletproof, kids said. Inside, it was a dreary place, one long room with a low ceiling. A couple of tables stuck out from one wall. Some faded posters hung about to remind people about safety at railway crossings and kids walking home from school.
At the end of the room was a counter, behind which a policeman sat talking on the phone. He had a weather-beaten face, a droopy mustache, a big belly, and half-closed eyes that suggested he never did get enough sleep.
When the policeman put the phone down, he said, “Hey, kid, how you doing? What’s up?”
Billy came to the counter and said, “My bike got stolen.”
“Uh-oh. When did this happen?”
“Today.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. Where did you see it last?”
“At school. The Truman School.”
“Locked?”
“No, sir,” Billy said, small voiced.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Billy Kinley.”
“Tell you what, Billy Kinley,” the policeman said. “I’ll give you a form that you can fill out. You know, describe the bike. Do you know what kind it was?”
“A Specialized. All red. I got it for my birthday. I’m going to race it in the Memorial Day race, and I got to win. Like my dad.”
“Well, get your dad to help fill out this form. Did the bike have an identification number on it?”
Billy didn’t want to say that his dad wasn’t around.
The policeman, not understanding why Billy hadn’t replied, said, “They sometimes put those numbers under the crossbar.”
“I don’t think it’s there.”
The policeman pulled a long face. “Sorry to tell you, Billy, but it’s hard to prove a bike stolen without that ID number. Come on over here. Let me show you something.”
He led Billy back behind the building to a small fenced-in area. Some fifteen bikes were stuffed inside.
“These are bikes we picked up,” the policeman explained. “You know, stolen or lost. You’re welcome to look, but if yours just got taken, it’s not likely there. Not yet. Why don’t you come back tomorrow and check? And bring that form. But, like I said, without an ID number, it’s going to be hard to prove any bike is yours.”
That evening Billy told his mom what had happened. She was as upset as he was.
Billy, elbows on the small kitchen table, head cradled in his hands, the form in front of him, said, “I went to the police and they gave this to me. Said my dad should help fill it out.”
His mom said, “Suppose I could do it, don’t you think?”
“Suppose.”
“Hey, let’s hop in the car first. Maybe we can spot your bike around town.”
Billy and his mom cruised the neighborhood, going by Billy’s school, driving in and out of streets. For an hour and a half, they searched but saw nothing of the bike. Only darkness made them quit.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Billy said with a sigh.
“What’s that?” his mother asked.
“Just because we can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not somewhere. Has to be.”
His mom patted his hand. “I guess that’s true.”
When they got home, his mom helped Billy fill out the police form. “Wish we knew the bike’s number,” she said.
Billy said, “I know all its nicks and scratches. If I saw it, I’d know it was mine.”
Next day, right after school, Billy brought the filled-in form to the police station. The same police officer took it. “You’re welcome to check out back again.”
Billy did, but his bike was not there.
With the Memorial Day race coming up soon, Billy was not ready to give up. Each day when school let out, he hurried to the police station to see if his bike had been found. He went so often, the desk officer came to know him pretty well. But the bike did not show up.
Once he left the police station, Billy went searching, wandering over a lot of the town before heading home. He liked to be there when his mom got back from work.
It was on Friday, just a few days before the big race on Monday, when Billy found his bike. He was on Alameda Street when a b
oy went whipping by on a bike. In a flash, Billy realized it was his bike. “Hey!” he yelled.
When the kid did not halt, Billy ran after him, calling, “Stop! Stop!”
The kid on the bike slammed on the brakes.
Billy, almost out of breath, caught up with him. The kid was a teenager, a short chunky boy, with a fat face and wisp of mustache along with a shock of floppy sandy-colored hair. He wore baggy jeans and a white T-shirt. On his bulging left arm was a tattoo, an American eagle. Billy had never seen him before.
“What do you want?” the teenager said to Billy.
Billy was eyeing the bike, checking out the nicks and scratches he knew so well, making sure it was his. No doubt about it. It was. He said, “That’s my bike.”
The teenager grimaced and said, “Says who?”
“It’s mine,” Billy insisted. “You stole it from my school. The Truman School.”
The teenager dumped a whole bucket of cuss words on Billy.
Billy stood there, taking it without a blink. But when the teenager was done, Billy said again, “You stole it.”
“Prove it,” the kid said.
“Got a V-shaped scratch on the inside of the rear fender,” Billy shot back. “Go on, dare you to look. Double dare you.”
Now it was the teenager who said, “It’s mine.”
“Give it back,” Billy said, and put his hand on the handlebar. The kid knocked the hand off.
“It was my birthday present,” Billy shouted, all red-faced. “I was going to be in the Memorial Day race. It’s going to make me a winner. Anyway, it’s too small for you. Give it back!”
“It ain’t yours, and I’m going to win the race,” the older kid said, shifting the bike away. He lifted his foot onto the pedal, prepared to take off.
“I’ll call the police,” Billy screamed, balling his fists, eyes full of tears. “Give it back!”
The teenager slammed his foot down on the pedal, so that the bike shot off like a rocket.