Chapter 22: Memorial Ride

Sixty-three bikes filled the clubhouse lot at nine o'clock Saturday morning.

My father's Triumph was at the front of them, with the engine ticking and the chrome clean.

I had rebuilt the carburetor on Thursday night, and Hank had held the light.

I stood beside it in my leather jacket with the blue helmet under my arm.

The bee's wing had a thin gold line down it now, where I had mended the crack.

It was not perfect, and I had decided I liked that.

Riders kept coming across the gravel to shake my hand, or just to stand near me and nod.

Some of them could hardly look me in the eye.

A few cried, big men with beards.

My mother sat in a lawn chair at the edge of the lot with a thermos and Hank's daughter beside her, who had been given a job.

"I'm in charge of the napkins," the girl told everyone, with great dignity.

Gus came across the lot in a plain black jacket with no patch on it.

He had given the president's vest to the sergeant at arms the night of the hearing.

The club had asked him to keep a seat at the table anyway, and he had said he would think about it, which was more than he deserved.

He carried something wrapped in a clean cloth.

"Bee," he said.

"Gus."

"The engraver finished it last night."

He took the cloth away.

It was a brass plaque, the same size as the old one, polished until I could see my face in it.

DANNY CALLAHAN. HE WAS ON THE BACK OF THE BIKE. HE WAS 24, AND HE ASKED FOR HIS SISTER. WE LIED. WE ARE SORRY.

I read it slowly, twice.

My mother had stood up behind me, and I heard her breath catch.