The Biker's Brother

by Peter Edwards

  To my parents, Ken and Winona Edwards, for letting me dream big

  —P.E.

  “My barn having burned down, I can now see the moon.”

  —Mizuta Masahide, seventeenth-century Japanese poet and samurai

  Brenda’s standing near the roadway. There are those eyes again, those soft bunny rabbit eyes, but this time, she’s pale and trembling and scared. She looks like she’s in shock. I can see she’s been crying. A lot.

  All the action’s centered on the garage.

  A Volvo SUV with a sign reading “CORONER, Dr. Edward James” in the back window pulls up by the police command post. A man of about sixty with a shock of graying hair steps out. His glasses are perched at the end of his nose and his hair is trimmed in a brush cut, only higher.

  “Dr. James,” one of the cops says, and leads him toward the garage.

  He’s calm enough. I imagine he’s been to plenty of nasty crime and accident scenes. It’s time to go, before the attention shifts from him to me.

  As I press on the gas pedal, another police car pulls up, and Brenda gets in the back. For an instant, she’s alongside me. I’ve thought of her almost nonstop since the party, but I never once imagined the lost expression I see on her face.

  Her eyes meet mine and she mouths some words. I can make them out clearly even though I can’t hear her. They couldn’t hit me harder if she was screaming them out loud.

  “He’s dead.”

  Chapter

  1

  She is standing there under the Confederate flag looking like a goddess, between the tub of beer on ice and the meth whore. The band attacks some old song that might be the Rolling Stones or might be Lynyrd Skynyrd or might be an original, previously unheard composition. What they don’t destroy with their musicianship is finished off by their amplifiers, which mush any surviving clean notes into a nasty, unrecognizable pulp.

  Happy hillbillies stomp about the barn floor in a white-trash semblance of dancing. It’s not clear if they’re actually dancing or just making fun of the whole idea of dancing, or a bit of both. Heavy boots, a lack of natural rhythm, a poor band, and undanceable tunes conspire to make them look like zombies on a hot plate.

  “Mankind has evolved to this?” I say.

  It’s as good a line as I’m capable of, and she smiles in a conspiratorial way that makes it easy for me to ask my second question.

  “Want to dance?”

  I know she’ll say yes. Girls who say no don’t come to these parties.

  “Josh Williams?” she says.

  I nod. She remembers my name. We’re off to a promising start.

  I definitely remember her name: Brenda Wallace. Brenda reminds me of a teenage Scarlett Johansson, but a taller, leaner version. Brenda’s somehow beautiful without really trying, graceful even when she’s standing still. Today, she’s super-feminine in loose-fitting Levi’s red-tab jeans and a white denim shirt with shiny snaps and the sleeves cut off. She has no visible tattoos, and no piercings that I can see, and her hair appears to be its natural blond. In a barn full of people making gimmicky, clichéd personal statements, her big thing seems to be having no gimmick at all.

  Her eyes are the exception. Her makeup is dark and exaggerated and somehow leaves the impression of what happens when a little girl experiments in front of a mirror with Mommy’s eye shadow and mascara, imagining she’s all grown up. Her eyes look just the way I remember them: mysterious, but also soft and bright and reminding me of a bunny rabbit.

  She’s probably a little bit older than me, but not much. A girl half as hot could intimidate me under normal conditions with her looks alone, but not today. Somehow today feels special.

  It’s perfect July weather: not too hot but clearly summer—just right for an afternoon barbecue, especially now that she’s here. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in months.

  Brenda appeared last September in the halls of our school, but we didn’t have any classes together and she vanished halfway through the year, when I hadn’t advanced past the smiling-at-her-in-the-halls stage. We didn’t have any friends in common. I don’t actually recall her having any close friends at all, or belonging to any clubs or teams. But now we’re the only teenagers at the party, and it seems natural that we finally talk.

  Brenda doesn’t really fit in here—she’s younger and prettier and not as worn-down as the other women hanging around—but she owns the room anyway. Her expression is one of curiosity if not surprise, somehow combining sweetness with adult intelligence.

  “What brings you here?” I ask, swigging from a Coke.

  “A Harley,” she replies.

  Beautiful and witty, though not entirely original. Definitely sassy. If this isn’t love, it’s dangerously close. Is there any better proof of the existence of God than having a hot girl joke with you and not needing to fake a laugh?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Billy Davis through the open barn doorway. He’s just getting off of his bike. Billy’s the only black guy here, which isn’t that odd since there just aren’t many black people in our town. His nephew Cal plays football with me; he’s a pretty good running back and a nice guy. Billy’s smiling as he surveys the scene.

  That smile transforms into a look of alarm as he sees a club member named Trollop walking fast toward him with a younger biker named Wally at his side. I can tell by Trollop’s gait that he’s upset about something.

  Trollop’s in his early fifties and he likes to gives off an aura of power, as though he could take down anyone in the club. He might have been tough back in the day, but that day is long past, if it ever existed at all. He has long, scraggly white hair that he likes to pull back in a ponytail, when he’s cleaning up. He’s not skinny but he’s definitely not heavily muscled. I’m sure lots of people at the party could tune him up in a couple of minutes, but there’s still something nasty and dangerous about him.

  Billy barely gets the word “bro” out of his mouth before Trollop catches him hard on the side of the face with a fist. It’s a clear sucker punch. Billy freezes. He doesn’t even attempt to defend himself, just crumples by the doorway as Trollop proceeds to put the boots to him. Wally stands nearby, just in case Billy somehow miraculously gets up and starts to rally.

  Billy curls into a fetal position as Trollop gives him one last kick that’s mostly for show. Then he looks over at a guy I’ve never seen before, a huge biker from the Popeyes Motorcycle Club who’s wearing a red vest. The Popeye gives a slight nod and Trollop responds with a smirk.

  “Better not come back,” Trollop says as he walks away from Billy and back into the barn.

  Chapter

  2

  It all happens so quickly, probably less than a minute from start to finish. Fights aren’t that remarkable in my brother’s world. And this party, this biker club—it’s my brother’s world. And here, you can punch a man at 9:00 p.m., hug him and have another beer with him at 10:00 p.m., and then punch him again, repeating the cycle for as long as your energy and beer and knuckles hold out.

  Today, though, something feels different. This thing with Trollop wasn’t a joke or someone just acting tough. It feels like something big’s about to happen, like something’s about to snap. Maybe it has to do with the Popeyes. It’s the first time I’ve seen them at a party, not that I go to all of them. The Annihilators, the local club my brother belongs to, love to throw punches and act tough, but the Popeyes are from the big city, and have a reputation for pulling triggers and planting bombs and burning places down. They also have some pretty strict rules: I’ve heard that some of the big clubs don’t allow black bikers to join, or even attend their partie
s. Is that what I just witnessed with Billy? I can’t see my brother, Jamie, being comfortable with that.

  Whatever just happened, no one’s dead and it doesn’t seem to have fazed Brenda. She’s lost in her dancing, exaggerating her movements and facial expressions in a jerky-but-almost-graceful brave way I love but don’t really understand. There’s something exposed and magical in how she dances, and I’d rather think about it than whatever is going on with Trollop. She seems so far away, and then she looks me straight in the eyes and holds my gaze like she can see right inside me, and I couldn’t possibly feel closer to her. Whatever she’s dancing to, it’s coming from inside her head, not the band. Their music’s from a different generation, though that’s fitting since the Annihilators are like something out of a time warp. Don’t hold your breath waiting for any Kendrick Lamar, Calvin Harris, G-Eazy, or Drake here.

  I hear a Harley start up and I assume it’s Billy Davis riding away.

  From across the barn, Jamie looks over in my direction. He’s chatting with a husky, scruffy Popeye who looks like he’s spent some time in the gym. Jamie gestures for me to come over. Brenda sees this and grins.

  As I make my way toward my brother, I see that Brenda is following me. It’s insane what a rush that gives me—to have this great girl at my side, like we’re together. I wonder if Jamie can see how stoked I am. I glance over at him, trying to send a secret brother-code signal for “Dude, check this out,” but he’s not paying attention. Someone else is, though. Perched on a stool not far from my brother is Carlito, a young member of the Annihilators. He’s in his early twenties, somewhere between my age and Jamie’s. With his sharp features and brooding expression, he looks a little like a young Al Pacino—unoriginally, his nickname comes from an ancient Pacino movie that I’ve never seen. His self-styled trademark is his black lizard cowboy boots, tipped with silver on the toes and heels. He’s watching us as we walk across the room—and he isn’t smiling.

  I try to ignore him as I make the introductions.

  “Jamie, this is Brenda.”

  It seems inadequate, given how I’m feeling, but I don’t know how else to introduce her. She’s relaxed, though, and there’s no awkward silence.

  “Hi, Brenda. Pleased to meet you.”

  Jamie’s jet-black hair is longer than mine, and he always has what looks to be a three-day scruff of beard. His smile is broad and genuine and stays on his face as he welcomes her.

  “I’m Trent’s sister,” Brenda says.

  Jamie’s face goes a little tight for a second before he forces a smile and nods his head, then turns toward his friend.

  “This is Tom from Quebec.”

  Tom gives me a biker handshake, our thumbs interlocked.

  “Tom played football. He tells me he was pretty good.”

  Tom rolls his eyes and grins at the little joke.

  Jamie loves to introduce me as a football player. He was okay himself when he was my age.

  “Shouldn’t you be rehabbing instead of dancing?” he says, turning back to me.

  He’s talking about my knee, though it’s pretty much a hundred percent now. I can hear just a hint of the old stammer in his voice; these days, he typically speaks in little spurts so that you can hardly notice it. His mumbly growl might make him sound tough, but I know the stammer’s still there. I bet a lot of his biker buddies don’t.

  “And really, you call that dancing?” Jamie adds. “Don’t make me go out there and show you how it’s done.”

  He’s facing Brenda now, smiling. She’s clearly enjoying the moment too. It’s all polite, not flirty.

  “Don’t mean to keep you from better things,” Jamie says, still looking at Brenda.

  “You couldn’t if you tried,” I reply.

  Jamie and I smile at each other, and Brenda blushes a little.

  “My big brother,” I tell her as we walk away.

  “Bro?” she asks. The sarcastic edge is back in her voice.

  “Biological bro.”

  She appreciates the distinction and beams in a way that pulls me closer. Her smiles are addictive. There are plenty of worse things in this barn to get addicted to.

  “I kinda figured that out,” she says. “He looks like you.”

  Something in her expression suggests that’s a compliment. I’m more buff and less tattooed than Jamie, but I suppose there is a resemblance. Mom likes to say that my toddler pictures are almost identical to his, and that even she has trouble telling them apart sometimes.

  “He wishes,” I reply, smirking.

  “There’s my brother, Trent, over there.” Brenda gestures to a weedy-looking guy over by the beer tub.

  I knew already. I’ve heard a bit about him. He’s the club’s cook—specializing in methamphetamine, not food. Even though I’m not in the club, it’s pretty common knowledge. Jamie hates that the Annihilators are now involved in that stuff. I wonder if Brenda sees me flinch a little at the mention of his name. If so, she doesn’t let on.

  “I’m staying with him,” she says. “For a while.”

  She’s not smiling now.

  Chapter

  3

  I think Brenda’s about to tell me more, but she just dances on. Instead of talking about Trent, she gestures toward Trollop and some other bikers, including Wally Parkinson, the guy who backed Trollop up when he attacked Billy Davis.

  “All that’s missing is the circus music,” Brenda says.

  Wally’s a meth-head, so no surprise that he’s just staring vacantly in the direction of the band. He’s from nearby Stratford, famed for its theater festival, and is wearing a T-shirt with a picture of a fuzzy-eyed Shakespeare and the slogan “Stratford: Come for the Macbeth and stay for the meth.” Wally’s not a full member of the Annihilators, although I’m sure he’d love to be. Anything above the level of public nuisance would be an upgrade for Wally.

  Now Trollop’s undoing his club vest to show Wally his T-shirt, which bears a cartoon image of a dead rat lying on its back with its feet in the air and Xs over its eyes. Around the dead rodent is a big red circle with a red line through it, and underneath are the words “Rats Must Be Exterminated.” The back of the shirt reads, “Progress is made one funeral at a time.” Talking with Wally is a biker called Tiny who tips the Toledos at well over 350 pounds and is wearing a tight T-shirt with the slogan “I beat anorexia.”

  Not far from them are the “old ladies,” the wives or steady girlfriends of club members. The most eye-catching of the group is a hot blonde whose boobs are so big and firm you could comfortably land a small plane on them. She’s dressed like one of those models you see on calendars in ancient auto body shops, but she’s not as young or as hot. Still, I’m betting most of the guys on the football team would happily attempt a hookup, but she’s totally untouchable. Her husband is a full patch member of the Spartans, a biker club from London, one town over. He has a shaved head, a nasty prison record, and a lightning bolt patch on the front of his vest, indicating that he’s killed for the club. He also has a teardrop tattooed under one eye, another not-so-subtle announcement that he’s taken a life. You don’t see him around much, and today he seems more interested in the Popeyes than the Annihilators. The Spartans have an on-again, off-again relationship with the Annihilators, so it’s interesting to see any of them here today at all.

  The old ladies keep an eye on a half dozen or so splashers, the current term for unattached women at the bottom of the social order who like to party particularly hard. Today, they’re writhing to the music, as if it really were danceable and even hypnotic.

  The splashers are an eager-to-please bunch, and the old ladies worry that they might steal away their men or at least infect them with some nasty disease. I don’t say this from much experience, just observation. They make you want to run from them and laugh at them and use them and warn them and protect them, all at the same time
.

  A splasher staggers by wearing tight jeans accessorized by a “YIELD” sign on her chest and a “STOP” sign on her back and nothing in between. You might think this would be sexy but you’d be wrong.

  She’s clearly stoned, and I wonder if she’ll remember any of this tomorrow. The creepiest part of the whole sick mess is Trollop cackling away at the sight of her, looking somehow triumphant and expectant.

  Brenda is immediately at her side, quietly offering comfort and support with an arm around the woman’s waist. She doesn’t pause to look at me, or her brother, for direction or approval.

  An old biker named Ripper smiles gently and steps in. With his gray ponytail and full beard, Ripper looks like a warrior version of Santa. He leads the splasher away to a kitchen area, where he directs some old ladies to take care of her. Trollop gives them a dirty look that turns into a smirk as he resumes chatting with his friends.

  Brenda had just started dancing with me again, as if what just happened is no big deal, when a voice rings out across the barn.

  “Little bro!”

  That’s Trollop, addressing me—I’m the only one who gets called “little bro” around here. He seems particularly proud of himself since he put the boots to Billy in front of the Popeye from Quebec. He has a cell phone in each hand, as though he’s too busy and complex a man for just one phone, or one universe. He’s carrying a beer too, pinning the can against his ribs with an elbow.

  I’m trying to think of a clever comeback, but it doesn’t matter. Trollop has no intention of stopping to chat; he’s already swaggered past me and is on his way toward Carlito and a couple of other Annihilators, with Wally and Tiny close behind. I watch them talk: as a non-member, I can’t just barge into that conversation without some sort of invitation, even if I wanted to—and I don’t.

  Carlito’s watching us again. I’m not sure if he’s smiling or smirking but there’s something about him I just don’t like. I know he went to my school before I got there, although I’ve never heard of him distinguishing himself in sports, or in anything else for that matter.