Motorcycle Roadkill

by S. P. Shane

  I'm half way up the stairs when she hollers up at me.

  "I will... after I remind everyone there that I'm your mother!"

  As I step out onto the porch, the lights from the news trucks are as bright as the midday sun. Most of the spots in the parking lot are filled and dozens of stragglers make their way toward the church.

  "Caleb..." Lindsey's voice echoes from the parking lot, but I can't find her face among the passerby. It isn't until she's at the top of the sidewalk that my eyes meet hers. There's a strange mixture of worry and longing about her. Worried no doubt about Jimmy. But whatever sense of longing she holds onto remains a secret.

  "Hey." I hop down from the porch and meet her on the sidewalk.

  "Ya wanna go for a walk?" She keeps a casual tone, like there's nothing else to do.

  "Uh... yeah." My mom's expecting me at the service, but by the looks of it, the church is gonna be jammed pack. She'll never miss me. "Where to?"

  "Just around." She turns toward the street and strolls forward.

  "Around? I here it's lovely there this time of year."

  She gives me what would be the over-the-glasses look, if she wore glasses. She shakes her head slowly. "You're such a dork."

  I catch up with her on the sidewalk. "You're not going to the service?"

  "Oh, no. I can't deal with all of that. Jimmy's mom will be there and everyone's gonna be all emotional. I'm just not up for it."

  "What are you up for?"

  She walks close beside me and a moment later her head presses against my shoulder. "This," she says, as she winds her arm through mine and clasps my hand.

  "Oh...Uh, okay. That's... nice." My voice sounds similar to the way one my speak after being doused with ice water.

  She laughs. "Are you always so deliciously awkward?"

  "Uh, no. Sometimes, I'm awkward in a way that's down right repugnant."

  "Repugnant?"

  "It means..."

  "I know what it means, dude. Just never heard anyone actually use it in conversation."

  "Well, I have Word of the Day toilet paper."

  She giggles. "Come on, man. You're killing me."

  What you have to understand is that this is Lindsey. And I know I told you that she's pretty. And I told you that she's smart. And I told you that there's something deep and pleasantly mysterious about her that I just love. But just picture the most amazing person you can think of. And she's there—holding your hand. And with each breath, with each footstep, you're waiting to wake up. Because things like this don't happen to guys like me.

  Apart from a few random giggles, she has surprisingly little to say, but the silence between us doesn't feel awkward at all. It's peaceful...relaxing...soothing. Just walking along close enough to one another to hear each other breathe. To feel the other's pulse. There's so much to talk about, but nothing we really have to talk about. For now, it's just enough to be by her side. And each breath draws me deeper into some sort of trance, where everything's amazing and I don't want to wake up.

  The streets pass like a dream, something we glide effortlessly above. And before I know it, we're standing at the home plate of the overgrown baseball diamond, breathing in the scent of raw dirt, wild onions, and warm grass . The sun's rolling across the horizon, dyeing the sky the color of orange sherbert. The lingering clouds are a spectrum of orange and yellow.

  "Beautiful. Isn't it?" Her voice breaks the silence.

  "Couldn't dream it any better."

  "I've been coming here for years to watch the sunset. Don't know why..." She looks out into the bleachers, with a dreamy glint in her eye, like she's looking back in time.

  I let go of her hand and slide my arm around her. "Is that alright?"

  "Perfect." She leans close to me, as a soft breeze begins to blow.

  My eyes dart about the remnants of the baseball park. Sapling have taken root in the outfield. Rust has eaten away most of the fence and a tilted wooden pole is all that remains of where the scoreboard once stood.

  "What is this place?"

  "The Thunder Hawks used to play here back in the day."

  "Were they any good?"

  She shakes her head. "Alright, I guess. Don't remember much about them. They were one of those independent league teams, but a couple of players got called up to the bigs from here."

  "Anybody I'd know?"

  "I doubt it. They closed this place when I was six." She points toward the dugout with her chin. "Let's sit down."

  As we turn toward the dugout, a gust of wind blows, grabbing a handful of sand and streaming it into the air. I raise a hand and squint, shielding my eyes from the blowing dust. Lindsey turns into me, hiding her eyes against my chest.

  A moment later the wind dies down and we're looking out at the sunset from the dugout.

  "What happened to the Thunder Hawks?"

  "My dad brought me to a game one evening when I was about six years old. In the top of the fifth inning, a guy by the name of Hal Shifferly was on the mound. He was trying to close out the inning with one of his curve balls. But the batter hit it the ball just right--a line drive that caught Shifferly in the chest."

  "Hurt him?"

  Tears fill her eyes. She shakes her head. "Killed him."

  "Jesus! And you saw all of that?"

  "Can't forget it. No one could. Owner ended up moving the team to some town across the state and sold the ball park to the city."

  "That's terrible."

  She's quiet again and we sit for the longest time just kind of leaning against each other. My armed wrapped about her waist. Her hand on my thigh. The sky dims and a choir of cricket song swells around us. She draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

  Bashfulness etches across her face, as her eyes reflect the last hue of the orange sky.

  My hand slides to the small of her back. She inches toward me, tilting her neck slightly. She exhales softly. Her breath falls against my lips. My eyes close. Our lips touch.

  Chapter 20

  Saturday, September 18

  The alley behind Broad Strokes reeks of wet cardboard and used motor oil. A hint of freshly-spilled gasoline is in the air, but there aren't any vehicles nearby. Josh makes a ruckus, as he opens the gate to the trash compound and tosses empty boxes into the alley.

  “You're making a mess.”

  “Just getting started. Come on. Give me a hand.” He gestures for me to come into the trash compound. He hands boxes to me.

  “What is all this?”

  No answer.

  He has a pretty good pile of garbage blocking up the alley, when he lifts a box, and handlebars stick out like rabbit ears from a magician's hat.

  “You hid your motorcycle here?”

  “Yeah. Help me push it out."

  He grabs one side of the handlebars and I grab the other as we push the bike out into the alley. Strapped to the luggage rack is a glossy box that looks like it's made of cherry wood. Roughly twelve inches wide and long, six inches tall.

  "What's in the box?"

  Without glancing up, he reaches over with one hand and slides the lid open. A revolver lays across red felt, its polished barrel throwing back the white light of the morning sun.

  “Jesus, Josh!” He doesn't even have it out of the box and I'm on the verge of a panic attack.

  “Will you RE-LAX? You act like you've never seen a gun before.”

  “Uh, what is it?” It's a pointless question, because I'm clueless about guns.

  “It's a Smith & Wesson...” he rattles off some numbers which mean nothing to me.

  “Ya know we're gonna get caught?”

  "So, what if we do."

  It goes without saying that a little gremlin called 'Worry' has my guts twisted in knots. And a little voice in my head is practically screaming at me “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? This is nuts” But sometimes ya just gotta shut off all that noise in your head. You gotta just grab on and go with it for a while. And that's what I doing—grabbing on.

  The
bike bounces as Josh slides across the seat. I slide onto the bike behind him, grabbing onto the luggage rack.

  “Hold on.” He kicks the starter and the bike whinnies like an angry horse. He grabs tight on the handles and kicks it again... more whinnies.

  “Josh I don't think we're going...” my voice is cut off by a loud roar as my body nearly vibrates of the idling bike. It's so loud that the windows in Eddie Lane's Garage are rattling.

  The Bike lurches forward and the alley passes in a blur.

  When we descend over the knob, the gravel turns to dark gray and cobalt, mixing with shards of coal and pieces of shale. The trees, the weeds, the grasses, the wild flowers—they all disappear. It's just granite and limestone stained black by coal dust. By the time, Josh steers the bike into the bend, there's not so much as a blade of grass shooting through the hard earth.

  "What is this place?" My voice is barely audible over the roar of the engine. As if to answer my question, the bend opens into a flat canyon that's gray as far as the eye can see.

  "Ruby Ridge Mining Company," he yells over his shoulder. A complex of steel buildings, elevated rail car tracks, conveyors, and rusted silos appears ahead of as the road empties into the canyon.

  Breathless awe overtakes me, as tattered silos and discarded mining equipment appear like dinosaur bones in front of me—huge relics that remind me of an era long-forgotten. This might just be the loneliest place on earth.

  Josh opens the throttle. Whatever he's gunning for lies past this labyrinth of wood and steel. But I can't shake the eerie feeling of this place. Men spent their lives here. This was their work. And for so many of them, riding a rail car toward daylight, this was their morning.

  As Josh makes a beeline with the motorcycle, around the edge of the mining complex, my eyes fall upon the elevated rail car tracks. They appear like metal tongues descending into the mouth of the mines. All at once the wind picks up and the tracks shake. The motorcycle rocks beneath us as the drone of its engine is lost in the wind.

  I tear my eyes away from the complex as Josh guns across the clearing. Tiny houses litter the ground about a quarter of a mile ahead of us—boxy prefabricated structures, the kind of buildings the military might put up if they had to build a base somewhere. Flat-white utilitarian huts with tiny windows.

  "This is the mining camp?"

  He nods. "I had a hunch Jimmy might come out here."

  He slows the bike as we approach a row of houses.

  "I figured he's about a thousand miles away by now."

  "Maybe." He eases on the brake and brings the bike to a halt in front of a pale yellow trailer. He lowers the kickstand.

  "Here?" I ask. "Why here?" I throw my leg over and slide down from the bike.

  "Someone's been here." He slides off the bike and stands with his hands on his hip, staring at a trailer.

  "Recently? How can ya tell?"

  "Fresh soot on the flue." He circles around me and slides the lid off the box he strapped to the back of the bike. He grabs the gun and slides it under his belt. "Just in case."

  "Josh, when you're ready to retire your amateur status as a jackass, you might just have a career as a bounty hunter."

  "Jimmy..." Josh calls into the trailer, his voice echoing through the camp. "You in there?"

  No answer. Josh watches the trailer carefully, nods, looks over at me.

  "Don't guess he's here."

  "Yo... Jimmy," he calls.

  "Man, I don't think there's anyone here."

  “Shhhh....” He holds up a hand. A shadow moves behind one of the windows.

  It's all wrong. The motorcycle. The gun. Being out here like this. "Let's just go..."

  "Hey, Jimmy. I'm comin' in."

  "Josh, you can't go in there." I clutch at his arm, but he pulls free.

  "It's cool. Wait out here if ya want." He moves toward the trailer with the cautious footing of an acrobat, ready to tumble to the ground at any moment.

  "Josh... Jesus! What are ya doing?"

  The sensible thing to do is exactly what he said. Wait out here. But if this isn't No Man's Land, I don't know what is. And it's hard telling what kind of urchin lurks in the shadows of this camp. If there's danger, I wanna be near the guy with the gun. Even if he's a lousy shot, he's got more than one.

  It's hardly a gunfighter gait that I'm striking, as I tag behind him. It's more of a short-stepped waddle, like a little kid who's shat his pants.

  At the screen door, he pauses, wraps on it with the butt of his gun. "Jimmy, it's me... Josh."

  No answer.

  "Man, this is a bad idea." My voice stays a whisper.

  He twirls the gun around, catches it by the grip. His index finger feels blindly for the safety. Clicks it off. With his left hand, he yanks open the screen door, and gives the

  wooden door a swift kick with his foot. Already ajar, it flies open.

  "Jimmy, it's just me and Caleb Calloway, the preacher's kid," he calls into the house. "We're not gonna hurt ya."

  "Remind me to kick your ass later, Josh." If dragging me out here wasn't bad enough, he knows how much I hate the whole P.K. label. Why does it matter that my dad's a preacher?

  Josh angles his gun into the trailer, watches carefully. No movement. He steps up to the door, leans forward, checking carefully from side to side. He raises his foot and takes a single step into the kitchen. "Oh, shit!" He wraps his arm across his face and shrinks backward to the doorway. Stumbles out onto the landing.

  "Josh. Man, you alright?"

  He bends forward, gags, coughs, gags again... Spits. His eyes water like he's about to cry. "It smells like something died in here."

  "Uh, maybe it did," is the only thing I can think to say. But it's the worst possible thing. There's no good reason to put that kind of jinx on us.

  "If you come in, you wanna cover your mouth with something." His eyes dart about looking for something to use as a mask. Finding nothing, he flips the gun around and holds it out to me. "Here. Hold this."

  "Uh, what are you gonna do?" Grabbing the gun like it's a small baby.

  He grabs the collar of his T-shirt and shucks it off. "Holy shit! If that's not the worst smell!"

  "If it's that bad, there's no way Jimmy would stay in there."

  He shows no sign of relenting. He wraps the shirt across his face, blocking his nose and mouth. Pulls it tight behind his head. Ties it.

  "You coming in?"

  I nod and hand his gun back to him, thankful to be relieved of duty.

  Leaving my shirt on, I pull the collar up and tuck my nose under it. Josh inches forward. Except for a refrigerator, there are no appliances. No furniture. Empty cans, food wrappers, and newspaper are scattered across the floor. The linoleum is so caked with dirt that it looks like a horse stall. Decaying leaves and clumps of dirt are tracked across the floor.

  He crosses the kitchen with the gun raised, gets to the edge of the living room. He pauses. Cocks his gun.

  Keeping a healthy distance between Josh and the doorway, I slip into the kitchen.

  "Jimmy?" Josh calls.

  My breath squeaks out of me as a clanging sound erupts from behind me—a bunch of glass bottles banging against each other. Josh spins around with his gun. His eyes fix on something behind me—someone.

  Arms over my head, I slide back against the wall.

  "Come on out of there!" Josh barks.

  "Da..don't shoot!" A voice croaks. Its sound paints an image in my mind. Its speaker is too weak and feeble to harm us if he wanted to.

  "Keep your hands where I can see them."

  Out of the corner of my left eye, I peek past my raised arm. An elderly man with a scraggly gray beard, a bald pate, and eyes as big as the moon staggers into the hallway. Two trembling hands raise in the air. His clothing is a quilt work of patches and uneven seams. Black works paints patched with blue denim. Gray boots patched with duck tape. His shirt is a collage of grease stains and spattered mud.

  "I'm... sorry." The ol
d man's voice breaks into sobs. "I... I... had... no where... else to go."

  "It's alright, Sir." I push my hand out, making a keep-calm. "We're not gonna hurt you." Just looking at him makes me wanna cry—the thought of someone living out here in absolute misery.

  Josh lowers his gun. "We're just looking for a friend."

  The old man stumbles against the wall and braces his arm against it, as if he might fall down otherwise. His sobs ease. "A young man. Big. Mean looking. Drove through day before last."

  "Drove?" Josh asks.

  "Yellow... car."

  "Shit..." Josh glances over at me, disbelief spilling from his eyes. "Was his name Grant?"

  The old man shrugs. "Don't... know. Big and mean though. Carried trash bags into the building across the way."

  "Was anyone else with him? A skinny kid? With glasses?" I ask.

  The old man turns his head slowly. "No. No one."

  "Sir, my dad's a pastor at Calvary Hill—over in Crenshaw's Creek. I'm gonna tell him that you're out here. And he'll help you. Okay?"

  The man's gaze meets mine. Confusion is in his eyes. "No... Please don't."

  "He'll just bring food. Some supplies."

  "No... Please, young man. Don't tell him."

  "Look, no one's gonna make you leave."

  He sinks to his knees. "No. No. No. No. No."

  "Hey... Easy, buddy. We just wanna help."

  "Preacher man... He's got blood... on his hands. Blood all over his hands."

  Josh starts toward the door. "Come on, Caleb. Let's just go."

  Exasperated. "But we can't just leave him here!"

  "Can't ya see the old man's crazy?" Josh storms out the door.

  "We'll be back... I promise."

  As I head out the door behind Josh, "stay away" follows after me.

  Chapter 21

  Tuesday, September 21

  Broad Strokes is aflutter with people—mostly out-of-towners--who descend on Main Street, like hippies on Woodstock. Loud, indifferent to the status quo, and tending to run in droves. Cars fill the spaces on either side of Main Street, wrap around the block, and spill over into the alley.

  Though State Police cruisers and unmarked sedans represent some of the cars, most of the traffic belongs to jeeps and pick-up trucks.