“I know.”
That was why Jim trusted the gesture.
Then he looked at Rusty.
“The kid keeps coming here.”
Rusty crossed his arms.
“He already does.”
“You teach him.”
“He's eight.”
“I understand numbers.”
“Do you?”
Jim glared.
Rusty smiled.
“Supervised. Safe. No heavy machinery. No dangerous work. School comes first.”
Leo groaned.
Jim pointed at him.
“You hear that?”
“Yes.”
“And when he's old enough for a real apprenticeship?”
Rusty looked at Leo.
“If he still wants it.”
“I will.”
“You don't know what you'll want in ten years.”
“Yes, I do.”
Rusty laughed.
“Fine.”
Jim added, “When he's eighteen, if he wants engineering school, I'll help cover it.”
Leo stared at him.
Jim corrected himself.
“The people who loved Dutch will help.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody should have done it for Arty.”
Leo looked down.
For the first time all week, he had no answer.
Saturday morning began before sunrise.
The memorial riders arrived in waves.
Ten motorcycles.
Then twenty.
Then fifty.
By 7:00, streets around the gathering point were lined with chrome, paint, leather, helmets, old friends, widows, children, veterans, mechanics, riders who had known Dutch for forty years, and younger people who knew him only through stories.
Rusty brought Leo.
Leo's mother came too.
She almost refused.
Motorcycle clubs frightened her.
Not because Arthur had hated them.
He had never hated them.
But she had spent years watching her husband come home late after fixing somebody else's emergency while bills waited on their kitchen table.
She had associated motorcycles with the part of Arthur's life she never completely understood.
Then Jim Mercer walked up to her.
For once, he looked nervous.
“Mrs. Hayes?”
She looked at the enormous biker.
“Yes.”
“I'm Jim.”
“I know.”
He glanced toward Leo.
“Your husband saved that motorcycle more times than we probably deserved.”
She smiled faintly.
“He said Dutch treated engines like they were disposable.”
“That is accurate.”
Jim looked down.
“I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“We should've checked on you when Arty got sick.”
She did not answer.
Jim continued.
“We knew he was proud. We knew he kept his home life separate. We respected it.”
He shook his head.
“Sometimes respecting somebody's distance becomes an excuse for not showing up.”
Leo's mother studied him.
“You didn't know what we needed.”
“No.”
“But?”
“We could have asked.”
She looked toward the motorcycles.
“You're asking now.”
Jim nodded.
“Yes.”
That was enough for the moment.
Dutch's FXR arrived on a trailer because nobody wanted to risk an unnecessary failure before the ride.
A strange hush moved through the crowd when it was unloaded.
Some recognized the engine before it started.
Others touched the tank.
One old rider pressed two fingers against a scratch near the rear fender and laughed because he remembered where it came from.
Jim rolled the motorcycle toward the front.
Leo stood beside Rusty.
“Think it'll start?”
Rusty looked down.
“You asking me?”
“Yes.”
“After this week?”
“Yes.”
Rusty smiled.
“I think it'll start if you remind Jim about the switch.”
Leo laughed.
Jim mounted the FXR.
This time he remembered.
He reached beneath the tank.