The Bell Beneath the Harley
The first time Arthur Bell saw the little brass bell hanging beneath Jonah Mercer’s Harley, he forgot that he was seventy-nine years old.
He forgot the stiffness in his knees.
He forgot the cane hooked over his forearm.
He forgot the paper cup of coffee he had just bought inside the Red Mesa Travel Stop outside Gallup, New Mexico.
He even forgot the dozen motorcycles lined beneath the afternoon sun and the large men in worn leather standing around them.
For one suspended moment, there was only the bell.
It hung beneath a black Road King, tucked behind the frame where road grime had collected in layers. The brass was dull now, scratched and stained by twenty-five years of weather. It was not decorative anymore. It looked like something that had survived.
Arthur stared at it.
Then he dropped his coffee.
The paper cup hit the concrete, split open, and sent dark coffee running toward the tire of a parked pickup.
Arthur did not notice.
He walked straight toward the Harley.
The biker standing beside the fuel pump turned when he heard the uneven rhythm of Arthur's cane.
He was fifty-eight, broad through the shoulders, with a graying beard and faded eyes that looked older than his face. A weathered leather vest covered his denim shirt. Across the back was a faded Road Saints patch.
The man watched Arthur approach.
"Where did you get that?" Arthur demanded.
The biker glanced down.
"The bell?"
Arthur reached for it.
The man did not stop him.
Arthur's fingers closed around the brass charm.
The tiny clapper struck the inside wall.
Once.
A soft metallic sound.
Arthur stopped breathing.
Twenty-five years disappeared.
He was no longer standing in a travel stop outside Gallup.
He was standing in the Bell Plumbing & Heating shop in Las Cruces in 1978.
He was forty-nine again.
His hands were strong.
His back didn't hurt.
His wife Marianne was laughing from the office because their son Caleb had once again left a wrench in the wrong drawer.
Caleb was twenty-three, thin, restless, and always covered in grease.
Arthur remembered the afternoon with painful clarity.
He had made the bell himself.
A little brass bell from an old service truck.
He had punched two letters into it with a steel stamp.
C.B.
Caleb had laughed at the crooked engraving.
Then Arthur had added three words beneath it.
COME HOME LOUD.
Caleb had rolled his eyes.
"That's terrible, Dad."
"It's memorable."
"It's embarrassing."
"Good. Then you'll remember it."
Marianne had stood in the doorway.
"You two couldn't have a normal conversation if your lives depended on it."
Arthur had smiled.
Caleb had laughed.
The memory shattered.
Arthur looked down at the bell in his hand.
"You stole this."
The men around the motorcycles went silent.
The biker's expression changed.
Not anger.
Attention.
"No, sir."
"This belonged to my son."
Arthur's voice cracked.
He hated that.
He hated sounding old.
He hated standing in front of strangers with tears burning behind his eyes.
He tugged the bell.
"His name was Caleb Bell."
The biker looked at him.
Then his eyes moved to the brass.
"Caleb Bell from Las Cruces?"
Arthur's heart stopped.
"You knew him."
The biker nodded slowly.
"Yes."
The anger came before the grief had time to organize itself.
Arthur reached inside his coat.
His fingers found the small pocketknife he carried everywhere.
He opened it.
Three bikers moved.
The man with the beard lifted one hand.
"Don't."
The three stopped.
Arthur noticed.
He hated that too.
He had spent twenty-five years believing men like these were the reason his son had disappeared.
He bent over the Harley.
His hands shook as he cut the old leather strap.
The knife slipped.
He tried again.
Jonah Mercer watched without interfering.
The leather finally snapped.
Arthur stood holding the bell.
Beneath the dirt was the crooked engraving.
C.B.
Below it were the three words.
COME HOME LOUD.
Arthur's knees weakened.
He grabbed his cane.
A county sheriff's cruiser pulled into the parking lot.
Deputy Rosa Medina stepped out.
She looked at the knife.
The motorcycle.
The old man.
The bikers.
Then she looked at Arthur.
"Who wants to tell me what happened?"
The travel stop manager hurried outside.