“She sounds like him.”
Lucy sat opposite.
“Careful.”
“What?”
“Don’t turn her into Luther.”
Gregory frowned.
“I’m not.”
“You are a little.”
He looked offended.
Lucy continued.
“She’s fourteen.”
“Not his memorial.”
Gregory looked through the office glass.
Sky was painting a helmet while Jimmy argued about brush pressure.
“You’re right.”
“I know.”
“You could be less pleased.”
“No.”
The mural began by accident.
Sky was cleaning brushes one evening when she noticed a blank interior wall.
Forty feet long.
Gray cinder block.
“Why is that empty?”
Jimmy looked.
“Because Gregory hates color.”
“I do not,” Gregory called from across the garage.
“You painted your kitchen beige.”
“It’s practical.”
Sky stared at the wall.
“I want it.”
Gregory walked over.
“For what?”
“A mural.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“It’s a wall.”
“Exactly.”
“Walls hold roofs.”
Jimmy laughed.
“Wrong wall.”
Gregory glared.
Sky pulled out her sketchbook.
Started drawing.
Three hours later she showed him.
Iron Jaws riders in a long sweeping turn.
Not menacing.
Not militarized.
Different generations.
Old bikes transitioning into new.
Names hidden inside smoke patterns.
At the center, Luther.
Behind him, a smaller unfinished rider with no face.
Gregory stared.
“How much paint?”
Sky smiled.
“That’s a yes?”
“I asked how much paint.”
It became a club project.
Sky designed.
Jimmy helped with scale and surface preparation.
Jeff built rolling platforms.
Terry donated supplies after claiming he was “only reimbursing costs.”
Lucy bought proper respirators and refused to let anyone argue.
Gregory contributed criticism.
“His bike had lower bars.”
“I know.”
“No, you painted them wrong.”
“I’m looking at a photo.”
“That photo was after he changed them.”
Sky turned.
“Do you want to paint it?”
Gregory immediately left.
The garage changed around the mural.
People came by.
Old Iron Jaws members.
Former mechanics.
Friends of Luther.
Word spread.
That worried Terry.
“Every person who walks in is another person who knows Sky is here.”
Lucy answered:
“Her placement is no longer secret.”
“That doesn’t mean we invite strangers.”
“We’re not.”
Terry looked toward Sky.
“She’s drawing attention.”
“She’s an artist.”
“That’s what artists do.”
One Saturday, a man named Frank Bishop visited.
Seventy.
Retired truck driver.
He had ridden with Luther during the club’s roughest years.
He stood before the mural for almost twenty minutes.
Then asked:
“You really his sister?”
Sky nodded.
Frank’s eyes filled.
“He painted my first tank.”
“What was on it?”
“Wolf.”
“Gray?”
Frank looked surprised.
“How’d you know?”
Sky opened her sketchbook.
Found an old pencil drawing.
Frank sat down hard on a stool.
“I haven’t seen that in twenty years.”