From the Ruins

by Janine Infante Bosco

  It was the part I dreaded most.

  Trying to find my voice, I laid my hand on top of the mahogany coffin and paused.

  “If I was a good man, I’d tell you I was sorry. I’d apologize for ever lookin’ in your direction. But we both know I’m a selfish bastard and I’ll never apologize for lookin’ at you darlin’,” I murmur as I slide my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose. With the pad of my thumb, I wipe away the lone tear trickling down my cheek before repositioning the glasses on my face and cover my eyes.

  “I’ll take you with me wherever I go. When I ride, you’ll ride,” I promise as I lift my hand and press my lips to my fingertips. Dropping them to the top of the coffin, I swallow the lump in my throat and continue.

  “Fly high, babe.”

  Then I take a step back and give the gravediggers a curt nod. Obeying my command, they usher to the sides of her casket and lift it. The priest stands alongside me and together we watch them carry her into the tomb. Not willing to watch them push the casket into the drawer, I turn my cheek and stare at my bike parked on the lower end of the hill. Remembering the bouquet of flowers stuffed in my saddlebag, I trek my ass down the hill to grab them. By the time I return, they’re about done and are sealing the drawer. The priest speaks but I ignore him and focus on the flowers in my hand.

  A few minutes later I hear his car door shut and I lift my head just in time to catch sight of the gravediggers as they close and lock the tomb.

  It’s done.

  I wait for them to disappear before I make my way closer. I rest the bouquet on the steps of the mausoleum before bracing one hand against the door. I wrap my other hand around the iron bars and bow my head as I silently pray for the dearly departed. For my grandparents who purchased the tomb many years ago, for my mother who joined them too soon, and now my wife who never so much as heard me speak of them.

  “Amen,” I whisper before pushing off the tomb. Turning around, I shove my hands into my pockets and start for my bike, but when I raise my head I’m shocked to find Blackie standing ten feet away from me.

  “What’re you doing here?” I ask, clearing my throat. He doesn’t answer right away and I start to size him up. The first thing I notice is he’s not wearing his vest. Dressed all in black, he stands there solemnly with his arms crossed against his chest. In that instant, he’s not the acting president of a dying club but just another widower.

  “It’s Saturday,” he points out. I lift my hand and scratch the top of my head, trying to decipher what the fuck that means. To me it’s just another day on the calendar and the day I buried my wife.

  “What’s your point?”

  “Every Saturday I come here to see Christine,” he reveals, but it’s not much of a revelation. Everyone who knows Blackie knows he makes it his business to bring his wife flowers once a week. Dealing with my own loss, it must have slipped my mind.

  “Doesn’t explain why you’re standing in front of my wife’s tomb,” I grunt.

  “It doesn’t get easier,” he says, uncrossing his arms. “The guilt…it doesn’t go away. That shit sticks with you and becomes part of your core,” he adds as he steps closer to me. “Said goodbye to you wife today, did you?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Hate that you thought you needed to do that alone, Pipe,” he admits honestly. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Not the club’s concern,” I snap.

  “I’m not standing here as a Knight,” he points out, waving a hand down the length of his body making the absence of his cut known. “I’m here as a friend, as a man who lost his wife too. Do you remember when Christine died?”

  I couldn’t forget that day if I tried. I had peeled Blackie off the floor of a bathroom several times but each of those times he was either drunk of high as fuck. That day, he was stone cold sober unwilling to let go of his bride.

  “You didn’t try to get me to leave her like the rest of the brothers did. You threw them all the fuck out and locked the bathroom door. Then you sat next to me on the floor and watched me cry. You told me I’d never be ready to say goodbye, that I could’ve spent my whole life preparing for that moment and I still wouldn’t be able to let her go.”

  “Where you going with this, Blackie?”

  “Then you swore on your mother’s grave…” he continues and juts his chin toward the Jameson tomb, “…whoever was responsible for my hurt would pay.”

  “I don’t reckon I delivered on that promise,” I mumble. We both know that cocksucker Brantley had a hand in Christine’s death and that jerk off prances around this city unscathed. I gave my word to a brother and I failed him.

  “Wrong,” he says, causing me to snap my attention back to him. “Christine died because I was a greedy motherfucker who loved drugs and money more than anything else. That was something I realized the first time I overdosed. You remember, don’t you? You should, you’re the one who found me at her grave with a needle hanging out of my arm.”

  “That was a long time ago,” I tell him as the memory of him lying unconscious flashes before me.

  “I remember waking up and you being there. You smacked me upside the head and told me never to ride faster than my angel could fly.”

  Yeah, I did.

  I thought it would knock some sense into him and get him off the shit he was polluting his veins with.

  “You also told me I was done paying the price for her death. You said retribution was on the streets waiting for me. That’s when we started steering clear of the drugs and ruining any motherfucker who tried to push them.”

  “You got clean and so did the club,” I say with a shrug.

  “You helped me in my time of need.”

  “It’s what brothers do.”

  “I am your brother,” he replies. “I’m standing here not as your vice president but as your brother, Pipe, and I’m going to tell you the same thing you told me. Don’t ride faster than your angel can fly. You’re feeling some kind of way, I get that, man. I swear I do, but I promise you with every fiber of my being I’m going to do everything in my power to give you your revenge. Now, I know it’s different, there ain’t no smack to flush, but there are a whole slew of motherfuckers to slaughter and torture. The club’s got your back and Jack and I have a plan.”

  Pushing my sunglasses on top of my head, I cross my arms and widen my stance as I level him with a look. The poor bastard truly believes there’s hope for the Satan’s Knights.

  “Everyone thinks we’re finished,” he starts, and because I’m not a total dick I repress the urge to laugh in his face. “Jack doesn’t think Charlie Teardrops did this to avenge Boots’ death.”

  Just the mention of those assholes lights my fire. If we never got into bed with the mob none of this shit would’ve happened. After Pastore whacked the Corrupt Bastards’ supplier, the G-Man, they declared war on us. We killed their president Boots and in turn Charlie Teardrops took the throne of their club.

  “Teardrops sent Ronan into our clubhouse with the intent to wipe us off the map so he could push his product through our streets and our harbor. Now he thinks he’s won, and it’s time to prove to him he underestimated us. It’s time to show him and every other fucking club from here to the west coast that the Satan’s Knights will rise up.”

  “And how do you plan on doing that when all you’ve got it six men who can ride and no bikes,” I sneer.

  “We’re working on the bikes and after I leave here I’m heading out to Bergen County,” he reveals. “Jack says they owe us a favor or two,” he explains.

  The Bergen County chapter doesn’t owe our club shit but they sure as hell owe me. About three years ago their president, Smoke, found himself in a situation. We were out in Reno doing a gun trade when the call came through that he ran into a bit of trouble with some Mexican drug cartel. Jack sent me and Wolf to do his bidding—something Wolf wasn’t too happy about. He bitched and moaned the entire ride down, and instead of duking it out like the gentlemen we were,
I threw a pipe bomb into the warehouse they were holding Smoke in and took all those papi chulos out. Wolf grabbed Smoke and we made a run for it, making it back in time for the big guy to partake in a Texas Holdem tournament, since that’s all he fucking cared about.

  So yeah, Smoke owed me a fucking favor.

  “When do you plan on doing this?”

  “We head out tomorrow,” he answered.

  “And you want Bergen County to ride with you.”

  “Well, yeah. I ain’t rollin’ up to Boston with Riggs. Imagine that,” he says.

  Fuck, no.

  Sighing, I glance over my shoulder at the tomb and the flowers laying in front of it. Part of me wants to hang on his every word and believe leaving a trail of blood in Boston will ease my conscience, but I’ve been around long enough to know the truth. This ride Blackie’s talking about, it isn’t revenge. It’s fucking suicide.

  It’s a one way ticket to a reunion with Oksana.

  “Figure out the bike situation,” I say finally. “I’ll go meet with Bergen County. It’s been a while since I sat down with Smoke,” I add, turning my attention back to Blackie. “I’ll meet you at the garage, ready to ride. Now, get the fuck out of here and let me say goodbye to my wife in peace.”

  Scratching the scruff that lines his jaw, he tries to hide the curve of his lips.

  “And put your fucking cut back on. You’re the goddamn leader of this club now.”

  “Aye,” he says, mocking me. I flip him the bird and watch as he shoves his hands into his back pockets. A moment later he’s out of my sight and I turn back to the mausoleum. Like before Blackie interrupted me, I climb the steps and brace one hand against the door.

  “I’ll see you soon,” I promise.

  Then I step down and prepare for my final ride.

  My last run as Satan’s soldier.

  I bid farewell to my bride and drive my ass down to Bergen County. Smoke offers me his condolences and agrees to a meeting. He rounds up his brothers and I lead the pack back to Brooklyn so we can sit down with Blackie and plan our attack. Just as I instructed, Blackie, Riggs and the nomads are at the garage and when I pull up with Bergen County behind me, they drawer their weapons. It’s what happens when you’ve been burnt more times that you can count. You think everyone is your enemy. Intent on surviving, you move to shoot first and think later.

  After I get them to lower their weapons, Blackie fills Smoke in on the details of the run. They shake hands and the road to retribution is paved. With everything in place, I drag my exhausted body back to the woods. Craving poison, I can almost taste the whiskey waiting for me back home, but as I turn onto the dirt road I’m caught off guard by all the signs of life.

  A dilapidated piece of shit Toyota packed to the gills with boxes and luggage is parked in the driveway next to mine and the house itself is lit up like the fucking Taj Mahal. To be fair, my neighbor could have had a single candle flickering in the window and it would’ve appeared livelier than my place of gloom. I turn my chopper into my driveway and slowly roll it into the garage. Killing the engine, I pull of my helmet and hang it from the handlebars before dismounting. As I step out of the garage, I take in the lit up house and snarl. Just yesterday the thing looked abandoned.

  So much for peace and quiet.

  Reaching for my keys, I cross the patch of grass in front of my house and climb the rickety wooden steps leading to the front door. I turn the key and kick the door open as my eyes drop instantly to the pair of red shoes sitting on the mat.

  Soon, babe.

  We’ll be together soon.

  Shuffling my feet through the empty house, I don’t bother flicking the lights on until I reach the kitchen. The second the light illuminates the old kitchen, I’m reminded of the three nights I’ve spent desecrating my liver and trashing the place. Stepping over the broken chairs and shards of glass, I grab an unopened bottle and unscrew the top. With the piss warm bottle of booze in my hand, I turn and head back into the living room. I drop down onto the sofa and prop my feet on top of the coffee table in front of me. I wallow in the darkness and take my first sip. My eyes drift toward the front door, to the shoes that sit neatly in front of it and I take another swig.

  I think about the plan and wonder what made me agree to ride. I still believe the club had a hand in Oksana’s death but the idea of them riding without me isn’t an option. Jack and Blackie want revenge, they want to ease their conscience and absolve themselves of all the blood on their hands. Me, I want to torture, maim and kill. I want to take Charlie’s tear drops. I want to bring that pig to his knees. I want to hear him beg me to let him live before I slice his fucking throat.

  Picturing all the blood that will pour from his pathetic body has me reaching for the bottle once again. I take one greedy gulp, then another. My throat burns and my stomach feels hollow, but the night is young and I’m just getting started. I close my eyes and will my memories to keep me company, but I’m quickly distracted by a crash.

  Unsure if I imagined the noise or not, I pause and listen for it again. Sure enough I hear some more clatter and realize it’s coming from outside. I lean forward and set the bottle on the coffee table before forcing myself to stand. Once grounded, I sway slightly and head for the front door. Pulling it open, I shuffle onto the porch and glance around.

  I hear someone cough and turn my attention toward my garage. Hurrying down the steps as quickly as my inebriated body will allow, I drag my ass down the driveway.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?” I growl, charging forward to where some punk ass kid straddles my bike and tokes on a joint. His eyes widen and he burns his finger on the smoking paper in his hand.

  “Shit,” he mumbles, choking on a mouthful of smoke. The joint falls from his fingers as I step closer.

  “The fuck you doing in here?” I growl as I lunge for him. My hand collides with the side of his face before I grab a hold of his shirt and pull him off the bike.

  “I’m sorry,” he cries breathlessly. “I live next door and saw you ride up earlier. It’s a badass bike—”

  Abruptly, I release him and watch him tumble onto his ass in front of my bike.

  “You live next door?” I question, remembering the piece of shit Toyota out front.

  “Yes, sir,” he replies instantly. Keeping my gaze trained on him, I see the fear in his eyes and it provides me a sliver of satisfaction. The little shit looks like he’s about to piss his pants and damn if that doesn’t make me smile.

  He struggles to his feet and glances around the floor, likely searching for the rest of his joint.

  “Eyes up here, kid,” I bark, snapping my fingers for extra emphasis. Immediately his eyes lock with mine and I take a step closer to him.

  “I ever see you near my bike again you better fucking run and you better be fast because if I catch you I’m going to put the fear of God in your eyes,” I hiss through clenched teeth.

  “Yeah, it won’t happen again.”

  “Better not.”

  Then his gaze sweeps over the floor one more time.

  “Get the fuck off my property, kid,” I shout.

  His eyes widen and he jumps slightly before his beat up sneakers skid across the cement in an attempt to get lost. It’s then I spot the half joint next to my boot. Bending down, I grab it and lift it to my lips. As I fish my pockets for a lighter, I turn back to the kid who is standing at the door of the garage with his mouth agape.

  “Welcome to the neighborhood,” I sneer as I flick my lighter and burn the end of the joint.

  His lips smack shut and something that resembles anger flickers in his brown eyes as he continues to stare at me, watching as I take a hit.

  Go on boy.

  Go tell your daddy the big bad neighbor stole your weed and made you piss your pants.

  Tell that motherfucker I’m waiting for him.

  “Tommy! I thought I told you to grab the boxes from the van,” a feminine voice calls as I blow out a ring of smok
e. The sweet sound draws closer with every word she utters and before I know it she’s standing alongside the little trespasser. “What are you doing over here?” she asks her son as I stomp out the joint with the heel of my boot. Turning my attention back to my new neighbors, I watch as the boy wraps his hand around his mother’s wrist.

  “Let’s just go,” he tells her and moves to drag her away from the garage.

  With her feet planted firmly on the ground she studies him for a moment before turning toward me.

  Jesus, fuck.

  In all my years, I’ve been on the receiving end of a lot of dirty looks but never did I feel the effects of one down in my gut. This bitch could fucking slice and dice a motherfucker with her death glare.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Come on, Ma, let’s go it’s late.”

  “Listen to your boy,” I tell her as I step out of the garage. Walking around them, I leave the mother and son duo in my driveway and climb the stairs to my house. I open the door, glance at the shoes and remind myself tomorrow will come and we’ll have our reunion.

  Fuck everything else.

  Fuck the little shit next door.

  And fuck his mother too.

  Fuck everyone.

  Chapter Six

  If my life had a theme song, it would undoubtedly be Whitesnake’s ‘Here I Go Again’. Born an only child, raised to be independent, that song has gotten me through every downward spiral and heartbreak my life has taken. It doesn’t matter how hopeless the situation may seem, I simply play that song and my confidence in myself is restored. It’s a reminder I don’t need anything or anyone to validate me.

  Not a job.

  Not a man.

  Nothing.

  However, something tells me if I were to turn on the stereo and blast the beginning chords of the song, it wouldn’t help much. Slamming the door behind me, I watch as my sixteen-year-old son, Tommy, throws his jacket on the floor and stalks toward the staircase. The times have changed since I was a young girl hanging out the sunroof of her car, blasting a song in front of her ex-boyfriend’s house. It’s not my best friends who ride the turbulent waves of life with me. Now it’s my children.