“The smart ones usually are.”
Lucas spent another twenty minutes testing.
Finally he sat back.
“Stator's good.”
Raymond exhaled.
“So?”
“Bad connection, damaged regulator connector, weak battery from not charging properly.”
“Can you fix it?”
Lucas looked toward his shelves.
“The connector, yes. Cable too. Battery might recharge if it isn't damaged.”
“How long?”
“Couple hours.”
Raymond reached for his wallet.
Lucas raised one greasy hand.
“Not yet.”
“Kid—”
“I haven't fixed anything yet.”
Raymond laughed.
“All right.”
Lucas turned back to the Harley.
He had repaired plenty of machines.
But now that he knew where this motorcycle had been and who had once ridden behind Raymond, it no longer felt like just another machine.
It felt like a moving box of memories.
And Lucas intended to make sure it moved again.
By six that evening, Lucas's hands were almost black with grease.
He replaced the damaged ground cable using heavy-gauge wire he had saved from another project.
He repaired the overheated connector.
He cleaned several contact points that were beginning to corrode.
Then he placed Raymond's battery on a charger while Diane ordered pizza.
Raymond tried to refuse dinner.
Diane ignored him.
Nobody successfully refused food in her house.
By eight, Lucas reinstalled the battery.
“All right.”
Raymond stood beside the Harley.
“Moment of truth?”
“Something like that.”
Lucas turned the key.
The lights came on brightly.
He pressed the starter.
The engine fired.
Raymond's eyes widened.
Lucas held up one finger.
“Not done.”
He connected the multimeter.
Idle voltage climbed.
He increased engine speed.
The charging voltage stabilized.
Lucas watched for another thirty seconds.
“Now we're done.”
Raymond leaned closer.
“That's good?”
“That's very good.”
The old man climbed onto the seat.
He twisted the throttle.
The Harley answered cleanly.
Raymond shut it off.
For several seconds he remained sitting there with both hands on the handlebars.
Lucas understood the silence.
Raymond finally looked at him.
“How much?”
Lucas wiped his hands.
“The connector cost me eight dollars.”
“And your time?”
“Nothing.”
Raymond frowned.
“Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend three hours of work is nothing.”
“Four.”
“That helps my argument.”
Lucas smiled.
“Eight dollars.”
Raymond removed his wallet.
“No.”
He pulled out cash.
Lucas stepped backward.
“I don't want it.”
“Everybody wants money.”
“I want money.”
“Then take it.”
“Not for this.”
Raymond stared at him.
“Why?”
Lucas looked at the green Harley.
He felt awkward explaining.
“Because you weren't fixing a motorcycle.”
Raymond became still.
Lucas continued.
“You were keeping part of your wife.”
“That doesn't make your work free.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Lucas shrugged.
“When my grandfather died, I couldn't open his toolbox.”
Raymond listened.
“Mrs. Alden next door had a snowblower he used to maintain. She asked me to fix it. First thing I touched after he died.”
Lucas looked toward the garage.
“That repair helped.”
Raymond understood.
“So you think fixing this helps me?”
“No.”
Lucas smiled slightly.
“I think keeping it running matters.”
Raymond looked at the money in his hand.
“Eight dollars?”
“Eight.”
“Parts only?”
“Yes.”
Raymond took out a ten.
Lucas reached for change.
“Keep two dollars.”
“Fine.”
Raymond laughed.
“You drive a hard bargain.”
He pocketed the rest of his money.
Then he noticed a stack of technical college brochures on the workbench.
He picked one up.
“Midwest Technical Institute.”
Lucas took it from him.
“I'm looking around.”
“You want motorcycle technology?”
“Automotive first. Then specialized certifications.”
“Good plan.”
“Expensive plan.”
Raymond looked around the garage.
“You're good.”
Lucas shrugged.
“You've watched me fix one cable.”
“I've watched mechanics for fifty years.”
Raymond put on his leather vest.
A patch across the back showed a silver wheel with wings.
IRON HARBOR RIDERS.
Lucas had noticed it earlier but assumed it was simply a motorcycle group.
“You ride with a club?”
“Used to be president.”
Lucas raised an eyebrow.
“That sounds important.”
“It sounds more important than it was.”
Raymond climbed onto the Harley.
“Mostly it meant everyone called me when somebody argued.”
The engine started immediately.
Lucas smiled.
Raymond backed into the street.
Before leaving, he called out, “You work here Saturdays?”
“Usually.”
“Every Saturday?”
“Most.”
Raymond nodded slowly.
“All right.”
Lucas frowned.
“Why?”
“No reason.”
Then Raymond rode away.
Diane stepped beside her son.
“You should've taken the money.”
Lucas groaned.
“Mom.”
“I'm serious.”
“He would've paid at least two hundred at a shop.”
“Probably.”
“And you need school money.”
Lucas watched the Harley disappear.
“I know.”
Diane studied him.
“But you're still glad you didn't.”
“Yes.”
She wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
“You are exactly like your grandfather.”
“That's what you say when you're annoyed with me.”
“Correct.”
They walked toward the house.
By Monday Lucas had returned to ordinary life.
School.
Repairs.
Homework.
Saving money.
Raymond Carter became a pleasant story.
Nothing more.
Lucas had no reason to expect to see him again.
Seven days later, every window on Maple Avenue began to shake.
Saturday morning began quietly.
Lucas was rebuilding a carburetor at a folding table in the driveway.
Diane was inside making coffee.
At 9:17, Lucas heard a motorcycle.
He smiled.
Maybe Raymond had returned.
Then he heard a second engine.
And a third.
Within ten seconds the sound became a rolling wall of thunder.
Lucas stood.
“What the…”
Diane came outside.
“Is there a parade?”
Motorcycles began turning onto Maple Avenue.
Five.
Then twelve.
Then twenty.
Cruisers.
Touring bikes.
A few sport-tourers.
Old machines polished like jewelry and newer bikes covered in road dust.
Neighbors walked onto porches.
Mr. Klein abandoned his newspaper.
Three children from across the street ran toward the sidewalk.
Motorcycles continued arriving until both sides of Maple Avenue were lined with them.
Lucas stopped counting after fifty.
The final group rolled slowly around the corner.
At the front rode Raymond on the green Heritage.
He parked beside the Reed driveway.
Engines shut off one by one.
The sudden silence felt almost as loud.
Raymond removed his helmet.
“Morning.”
Lucas stared.
“What did you do?”
Raymond looked behind him.
“Invited some people.”
“Some?”
Diane folded her arms.
“Mr. Carter.”
Raymond looked at her.
“Ma'am.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Only if Lucas hates motorcycles.”
Lucas finally noticed that nearly every rider wore the same winged-wheel patch.
IRON HARBOR RIDERS.
Men and women climbed off their bikes.
Some were younger than Diane.
Others looked older than Raymond.
A broad woman with silver braids approached first.
“You Lucas?”
“Yes.”
She shook his hand.
“Marisol Vega. I hear you fixed Ray's charging system.”
Lucas looked at Raymond.
“You told everyone?”
“He complains if people don't listen to his stories,” Marisol said.
Raymond sighed.
“Thank you, Marisol.”
A tall man rolled a pickup truck into the street behind the motorcycles.
Its bed was covered.
Lucas became suspicious.
“No.”
Raymond smiled.
“I haven't said anything.”
“You don't have to.”
Marisol laughed.
“Smart kid.”
Raymond walked toward the driveway.
“Last weekend you helped me with something you thought was mechanical.”
“It was mechanical.”
“Partly.”
His expression grew serious.
“That bike was the last big gift my wife ever gave me.”
Lucas looked down.
“I know.”
“I told these people what you did.”
“It wasn't a big deal.”
Raymond turned toward the riders.
“You hear that?”
Someone shouted, “He's sixteen. They're all stupid at sixteen.”
Laughter spread through the crowd.
Raymond looked back at Lucas.
“Most of us learned trades because someone older decided we were worth teaching.”
He pointed toward Marisol.
“Motorcycle technician for thirty-two years.”
Then toward a bald man.
“Gene owns a machine shop.”
Another rider.
“Otis is a retired electrical engineer.”
A woman near the pickup raised her hand.
“I teach welding.”
Raymond continued pointing.
“Bodywork. Fabrication. Diesel. Upholstery. Paint.”
Lucas stared at the riders differently.
Raymond stepped closer.
“You told me you're trying to get into technical school.”
“Yes.”
“You've taught yourself a lot.”
Lucas waited.
“But teaching yourself has limits.”
Raymond turned toward the pickup.
The driver removed the cover.