Anvil novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Door of the Diner
Nine motorcycles stop outside the diner, and the man who left Lizzie seven years ago walks in wearing the Salt Road Kings patch. She refuses him in front of the whole counter, then her six-year-old walks over and he asks how old she is.
Nine motorcycles pulled up outside the River Street Diner at four o'clock on a Thursday.
Every regular at the counter turned toward the window.
I knew the sound before I saw the patches.
The Salt Road Kings had not parked on this street in seven years.
That morning the club's old president had called me at six, coughing into the phone.
"Tucker's coming home for a few days, Lizzie. Club business. He won't come near you or the diner. You have my word."
I had said fine and hung up and stood in my hallway in my socks.
Then I had opened the closet and looked at the top shelf.
My dead brother's green toolbox was where it had been for three years, padlocked, with a winter coat in front of it.
He had asked me to keep it shut, and I had.
I put the coat back and went to work.
Now I stood behind the counter with the coffee pot in my hand and watched the old man's promise walk across the parking lot.
Two men held the door.
The third came in first.
He was broader than I remembered, with a dark beard and gray coming in at his temples.
The leather vest was the same shape.
The patch over his heart said ANVIL.
Seven years ago that leather had been new, and I had sewn the loose corner of the patch back down for him myself.
His eyes went around the diner once and landed on me.
He stopped walking.
"Lizzie."
The sound of the fryer was the only thing in the room.
"Table or counter?" I said.
I used the voice I use for strangers.
"Lizzie, I didn't know you were still..."
"Counter's full," I said. "Booths are full."
There were six empty booths.
The old man at the end of the counter lowered his mug and said, "Lizzie, there's plenty of..."
"Not today."
I did not know I was going to say it until it was out.
I walked around the counter, crossed the room and held the front door open.
The two men in leather behind Tucker looked at their boots.
"We don't serve the Kings here," I said. "Not anymore."
"Since when?"
"Since seven years ago this month."
His jaw moved.
He took one step toward me, and I did not step back.
Up close he smelled like road and cold air and the same soap.
That was the worst part. He still smelled like the soap.
"I'm not here to cause you trouble," he said quietly. "Dutch told you that."
"Dutch told me you wouldn't come in."
"Dutch says a lot of things."
"Then he's a liar, and so are you."
Somebody at the counter whispered. Somebody else stopped whispering when I turned my head.
"Mom?"
The voice came from the back booth.
I had told Birdie to stay in the booth with her spelling words.
She was six, and she had not.
She came across the linoleum in her red rain boots, braids bouncing, with a pencil behind her ear and the spelling sheet in her fist.
"Mom, are those your friends? There's nine motorcycles. I counted."
"They're leaving, baby."
"Can I see them first?"
She was already looking up at Tucker.
He looked down at her.
I saw it happen. I saw his eyes go to her face and stay there.
Her eyes are gray. Not blue, not green. A flat clear gray, with a darker ring around the edge.
I had looked into those eyes every day for six years, and I had never once looked away fast enough.
"Hi," Birdie said. "I'm Birdie. I'm in first grade. Are you the one with the motorcycle that's loud?"
"I might be," Tucker said.
His voice came out wrong.
"What's your whole name?" he asked.
"Birdie."
"That's what I call you. What's your whole name?"
"Mom says I only tell strangers my first name."
"Good rule," he said.
He did not look at me. He crouched down so he was at her level, and I saw his hand shake before he put it flat on his knee.
"How old are you, Birdie?"
"Six and a quarter. I'm the oldest in my class because my birthday's in July."
July.
I watched him do the math.
I watched him count backward from July to a night in October, the last one he spent in my bed.
The whole diner heard him swallow.
He stood up slowly.
His gray eyes came to mine, and there was nothing in them now except one question.
"Lizzie," he said. "How old is she?"
I could have lied. I had a lie ready. I had practiced it for years.
"Six," I said.
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