Motorcycle Roadkill

by S. P. Shane

  "So, whose choice was it? Yours?"

  She snorts and nearly laughs at the absurdity. “Lord no! You think I'd choose to come to this godforsaken place?” She lets out a sigh, backs away from me. She winces slightly. She's probably afraid that she's said too much.

  “So... Dad was fired?”

  “Fired? Maybe not the word that was used, but the result's the same.” She takes a sip from her coffee.

  “Why?”

  “Mister Harrison went all out with this story that your father was using church funds to cover gambling debts."

  It's like I've been sucked out of my body and I'm looking down on myself from above. I'm sitting in a chair across from Mom. Her lips are moving, but I can't hear a word she says. She's like Charlie Brown's mom, just a bunch of sounds in the background.

  In my mind, I'm back at Immanuel. They're all gathered around us: deacons, Sunday School teachers, people I've known since I was a baby. They're all smiles, shaking my hand, hugging me, going on with this talk about how much they're gonna miss me. They sign my prison sentence so casually. And they all stand there smiling like a bunch of phonies, saying their good-byes. But they were a part of this. They did this to us.

  “...and that it was just because of Mister Harrison.” I catch the end of Mom's sentence, as I snap out of it. She's sitting there, gesturing with her hands, with this expression like she's all out of words.

  "But Dad doesn't even buy lottery tickets! What gambling debts?"

  "It's just fabrications, really. Nothing more."

  "Why?" My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might explode. Because of Harrison's lies, we're here, starting over in Podunkville. "Why would Mister Harrison do that to us?"

  Mom twists her face and bites down on her lip, but a sense of now-that-we're-telling-secrets comes over her. She nods. "Harrison's had a grudge against your father for years."

  "But why didn't Dad stand his ground? He should have... told everyone.”

  "He was trying to protect his reputation."

  "By caving?"

  "It's not like that! Mister Harrison makes a living by telling lies. If he wanted to smear your father, he had the means to do it and deep pockets to back it up."

  "Mom! Listen to yourself! This is so... wrong!"

  “Caleb, there's no point letting it get to you.” She just sits there, sipping her coffee. I just want to scream at her: “Do something! For once in your life, do something!” But she won't listen.

  “It's not right, Mom!”

  She nods. “I know. But it is what it is.”

  I'm at a loss. Spewing words at her all day isn't going to change anything. My hands go up in surrender. I'm outta here. Grabbing my trapper, I storm out the door.

  So much swims around in my head that I'm not sure how to sort through it. All of this talk that parents and teachers make about how you should just do the right thing is garbage. You end up in Dunksville anyway.

  "Caleb?" Mom calls through the screen door. "Your father's waiting for you in his office."

  "For what?" I call without looking back at her.

  "To take you to school."

  "Does he have to? I can just walk." The last thing I need is show up at my new school with my dad practically holding my hand.

  "We're not just going to turn you loose in some school without checking things out. Plus, I'm sure there's fees that need to be paid."

  "Mom, this sucks!"

  "Don't wanna hear it! Go on now. He's waiting."

  I step off the porch and walk beneath the shadow of the steeple toward Dad's office.

  Chapter 3

  The sun barely peeks over the hill, as Dad swings the Chrysler onto Main Street. The streetlights are busted, and a gray mist rises from the storm sewers. Seems like Steaming Pile would be a more appropriate name for this town.

  "Dad, ya picked a heck of a place to bring us to."

  He's all nonchalant. "Ah, Crenshaw's Creek's not so bad. I grew up in a little town like this. You'll get used to it."

  I roll my window down and turn the side mirror toward my face.

  "What are you doing?" Dad asks.

  "Checking for zits."

  He glances over at me, as if to confirm that I haven't developed leprosy. "Just lay off the potato chips and you'll be alright."

  My eyes are all bugged out and my face is the color of a pig's ear, but no zits. "And masturbation causes blindness. Any other wisdom ya wanna impart this morning, Dad?"

  "I'm gonna impart my foot in your rear end if you keep it up."

  "Speaking of keeping it up... when are ya gonna tell me what happened back at Immanuel."

  "What do ya mean?" His voice is deadpan and his face expressionless.

  "Why did they fire you?"

  "They didn't."

  "Mom said they did... But she also said that 'fired' probably wasn't the best word."

  "Listen, Caleb. Sometimes ya just have to go where you can do the most good."

  My head spins. He makes it sound like coming to this crappy little town's something he did out the goodness of his heart. A minor feat of heroics.

  "Really? That's your answer?"

  Dad eases on the brake as the car drifts toward the curb and stops just before the traffic light. He slides the drive shaft into park, turns toward me, leans across the console, and squints toward the door. "Be right back."

  “Where ya goin'?

  "To get some coffee."

  "But you just had coffee... at the house."

  He climbs out anyway, leaving the engine running and the door ajar. My eyes train on him, as he circles the car, hops up on the sidewalk, and enters a brown brick building.

  The letters on the glass door read: "Broad Strokes Coffee & Art House."

  Inside the shop, all the lights are turned off, except for a few near the counter. A woman who reminds me of the mom on Family Ties steps out to meet him. She's tall, thin, and wears her blond hair in a bob. Her long blue dress makes her look out of place in a coffee shop.

  A few words are exchanged between them, and she extends her hand to Dad. He smiles, looking like Donald Sutherland in his powder gray suit. White hair, white beard, kind of a rosy complexion, and big horse teeth. It's been a while since I saw him smile like that. He continues to hold her hand while they speak. She nods. She smiles.

  “Elliot!” In the distance—in the alley, or around the corner—a man's voice calls, probably looking for his dog. I'm not really paying attention. I'm just aware of him the way you're barely aware of a dream a moment after waking. I just kind of blank out for a minute, trying to clear my head before I go insane.

  “Elliot!” The voice echoes into the street. He's louder and there's a hint of urgency in his tone, perhaps even fear. I'm sure Elliot will find his way home when he gets hungry.

  “ELLEEEYUT!” All at once, something in the man's voice registers with me that did not click before. Elliot is not a dog—he's a child.

  Blue light reflects off the windows of the shop, as a white Crown Victoria passes with its strobes flashing. The siren is silent, but the horn honks. Navy letters stenciled across the side spell out CRENSHAW'S CREEK POLICE.

  The cruiser drifts toward the curb and coasts to a stop a little ways beyond the shop, where a tow truck has run across the sidewalk and is stopped in the grass. A deputy gawks out the window. It's still too dark to make out any facial expressions, but there's something about his slow pause, the gradual turning of his head that says “I can't believe I have to put up with this noise.”

  He shoves his door open and two shiny shoes poke out of the cruiser—legs in navy trousers. He pauses, he plants, he leans forward, and a salt and pepper crew-cut pops out the door. His deadpan face, his cold cutting stare, and his rigid gait still say United States Marine Corps, though his present uniform looks more like a costume. He adjusts his mirrored sunglasses, grabs for his Smokey Bear hat, slings the door shut, and turns toward the tow truck.

  It's hard to tell what the deputy is wa
tching. “Elliot!” A voice calls again. I lean across the console for a better angle. Behind a tall wrought iron fence and two large fountains sits a humongous white house. Tall stone pillars hold up a balcony that wraps around the front of the house. The front windows are some thirty feet high and there's a tall arched doorway with intricate carvings in the wood work. It's not the kind of house I'd expect to see in a three-stop-light town.

  “Elliot, are you in there?” The man doing all the shouting is standing in front of one of the large windows, pounding on it with his fist. Frizzy brown hair hangs past his shoulders, reminding me of a rocker in an Eighties band. And he wears a pair of cut-off jean shorts and hiking boots. No shirt, even though it's a bit chilly this morning.

  The deputy slides through the front gate and ambles along the cobblestone walkway. Everything appears like it's business as usual, as the shirtless man continues to pound at the window.

  “You in there?” The man growls.

  He starts for the porch as if he intends to go inside. “Whoa! You can't go in there!" The Deputy barks.

  He points toward the house with his thumb. “My baby boy's in there.”

  "No, he ain't," the deputy's voice echoes across the lawn. "Why don't ya come along with me?”

  The house door cracks open behind them and a shaggy blond kid comes out with a knapsack slung over his shoulder. If I had to guess, I'd say he's sixteen--maybe seventeen. Apparently, he's not Elliot, because the shouting continues.

  "Hayes," the boy calls to the Deputy. "You got this?"

  Deputy nods. "Go on and get to school, kid."

  The boy hurries down the steps and brushes past Hayes. He sprints to the end of the walkway, where a blue motorcycle is parked. As he reaches for his helmet, a light goes off in my head. It's the Motorcycle Dude from the trail, though I hardly realized he was just a kid.

  He slides onto the bikes, kicks it once, and the growl of the engine echoes through the street. He eases the bike toward the front gate. As his wheels hit the street, he tears loose without looking.

  The engine whines as Motorcycle Dude opens the throttle. He's barely a blur as he approaches the next intersection. A horn screams as a yellow convertible barrels into the intersection. Tires screech. The car swerves. He does not let up. He leans forward, mashes down on the throttle. He wobbles, as if he's about to wipe out, but the convertible skids closer to him. Unable to bear the sight of a gory accident, I close my eyes.

  The horn continues, but the drone of the motorcycle fades away. When I pry my eyes open, the convertible sits alone in the intersection.

  "What was that all about?" Dad's door creaks, as he slings it open. He stares down the street at the convertible.

  "Don't know."

  Dad slides into his seat and I give him a blank stare.

  He gives me this defensive look, as if he suspects a booger's hanging from his nose. "What?"

  "Uh, your coffee? That's why we stopped."

  "Oh," he says, but his confusion is only amplified. "I... decided I didn't want any." He shrugs and appears almost embarrassed.

  "Dad, you're slipping.”

  He pops the car into drive, checks his mirror, and eases on the gas. "I tell ya what... that kid on the motorcycle's gonna get himself killed."

  No point in telling him that I already met the Motorcycle Dude—sort of. And I'm not about to tell him how this kid gave me a ride on his hell machine last night.

  Chapter 4

  "If this doesn't work out, your mom and I are considering setting up a Church School here in town," he says. His Plan B isn't really an option; it's a threat. As much as I'm sure I'll hate Crenshaw's Creek High School, Plan B is much worse.

  He pauses in front of the doors. “Your mother and I are counting on you to behave yourself at this school. Are we understood?”

  My chest stutters, like my heart has just stopped beating. Dad's lips move, but I can't hear him. Silence. It's like someone turned off the sound.

  “Caleb?” I read Dad's lips.“You understand me?”

  I can't even move, let alone talk. There's not any pain, but I'm pretty sure my heart has stopped beating. “How is this happening?” is all I can think. “Teenagers don't have heart attacks.”

  “Caleb!” This time I hear him, but just barely, but it doesn't matter. Dizzied, I stagger, and it's like someone dimmed the lights. A shadow falls over the school, as Dad seems to fade before my eyes.

  Just as I open my mouth to tell him that I'm sick, a motorcycle roars on the street. Tires squeal. “Watch out!” Someone yells. The motorcycle turns sharply, skids onto the lawn, and throws up dirt, as it zips toward the school. When it regains pavement, it turns into the Teacher's Lot, rolls into a spot, and dies.

  Just as the biker spins across his seat, my heart begins to beat—but only faintly. This must be what Doc Finkelstein calls “an anxiety attack”.

  Dad's already eying the biker carefully. He's a real stickler for the rules and I know he sees the sign: “No Motorcycles”. The biker rips his helmet off and a long flowing mop of blond hair falls free from the helmet. He's tall, maybe six-one, with a good build for playing football, but there's something about him that makes me think he's never been much of a joiner. He brushes his bangs from his face and nods 'hello'.

  A feeling, like I've been smacked in the head with a basketball, swims through me—only there's no pain, just dizziness. The world races around in a swirl of motion and color. It's dreamy in a way, like I could drift off into sleep at any moment, but terrifying at the same time. Whatever's happening to me—heart attack, anxiety attack, or whatever—it's something I've never felt this intensely before and I'm helpless to make it stop.

  A soft breeze picks up, scatters a few leaves onto the sidewalk, and blows the gasoline fumes toward the school. Motorcycle Dude hovers beside his bike for a moment, just looking me over. He brushes his hands off on a pair of faded jeans and straightens the collar of his black button-up shirt. The tattered cuffs of his jeans drag along the ground, nearly covering his loafers.

  He tucks the helmet under his arm and comes toward the doors. Dad rares back like a fire dog who smells smoke. “Young man! I don't believe you can park there!”

  The rider steps onto the sidewalk, glances at my dad, then over to me. A grin creeps across his face, as he shrugs and scoots along toward the doors.

  “Woah! Wait a minute! You have to get back there and move that thing.”

  The kid looks back, laughs, and keeps walking, extending the proverbial middle finger toward my dad.

  “Rest assured, I'm gonna report that kid.”

  Chapter 5

  The funk of egg water and sulfur smacks me in the face. Dad sniffles as he comes through the doors and his eyes get red and watery. The stink is everywhere. Either a science project has gone bad or the pipes need service.

  Beige paint cakes the cinder block walls of the hallways and a series of blue cat tracks are staggered across the bricks. The school mascot must be some sort of cat.

  To the left of us are the school offices, where a student aid leans against the counter. She has long brown hair that curls at the ends and black-rimmed glasses that make her brown eyes look twice as big. She dodges advances from some dude in a blue jersey and a blond crew cut. The dude has that look about him, like he's well-practiced in the art of slamming his head against hard surfaces. But she has this no-nonsense quality about her. She looks at him with this twisted expression, like she's not sure whether she wants to kiss him or stab him with something sharp.

  Dad mumbles some gibberish in my ear about how much I'm going to like it here in Crenshaw's Creek, but I'm not paying any attention. He steps into the office and Counter Girl smiles like she's ready for her closeup. "Hiya, I'm Lindsey. Can I help y’all?" Yes, she actually says 'y’all'.

  "Good morning, I'm here to see your principal about enrolling Caleb here."

  "Y’all can go right on in. Principal Manson is waiting for you." She points toward the office, but I jus
t stare at her. She's so odd—and it's not just because she's a girl. In fact, she looks about as out-of-place as I feel.

  "Thank you." Dad moves toward the connecting office, but I'm just kind of lost in my own thoughts. Lindsey stares back at me and there's an awkward moment between us. I have this paranoid feeling, like she can see right through me. Something subtle in her eyes seems to say: “Be careful where you step.”

  "Caleb." Dad tugs at my arm and snaps me out of my daydream. He's all fidgety and antsy, so I stumble into the office with him.

  "Nice to meet you, Caleb." Lindsey's voice follows after me.

  Dad stands in front of Manson's chintzy veneer desk waiting for me to make an idiot of myself. Manson sits behind his desk, delivering a well-rehearsed performance of a Western sheriff. He's bald and shiny on the top, short-cropped silver around the sides, looking over my transcripts through plastic-rimmed bifocals. He nods slightly and then turns the page. I can tell he's not even reading it. It's part of his act. He wants me to know that he's the man with the file and he gets to decide what goes in it. He's the law in this town and he's not going to tolerate any guff from young whipper-snappers.

  "So, you're a junior." It's not really a question, just something that he says, like he's pieced together something brilliant with all his fine detective work. He makes a slight grimace, as if he detects the early stages of a problem with my file. There's a bit of hesitance about him, as if he sees something wrong, but can't exactly put his finger on it. He closes the file and makes a slight shift in his posture, appearing to be willing to set aside his concerns for the moment.

  He comes around the desk and shakes my dad's hand. "Mister Calloway. Pleasure to meet you, etc. I'm Doug Manson." They stand there for a moment doing their Alpha-Dog nonsense, waiting to see who blinks first. He's still staring down my dad as he leans toward me.

  "You must be Caleb," he says, as if there's another deduction he could make.

  "Actually, it's Caleb." Even if there's only an outside chance that the 'thew' on my name will cause a brief moment of sensitivity on his gingivitis-swollen gums, I want to take advantage of it.