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seven
The grand opening seemed like a success, despite her unpleasant interaction with the guys from Dude’s Bikes. But a week later, Delaney had only made a few sales and lined up a couple small jobs. No major work sat on her floor yet and despite her advertising, things were pretty quiet.
Rather than mope, Delaney decided that this was the perfect time to put the Qua-sinterbronze clutch in ’33. She’d inspected every inch of the bike after shipment, and nothing had gotten dinged up, but the clutch had been slipping when the throttle rolled open for some time now. Dad had never gotten around to fixing it, and now, he’d never have the chance.
As she set up her workspace, the thought briefly crossed Delaney’s mind that if Dad had fixed the clutch, he might’ve been riding ’33, instead of his Harley Softail, when that asshole changed lanes without looking. Man, that would’ve pissed Dad off. That would’ve pissed him off so much he probably would’ve come back to haunt Jerry Meyers—the man who’d murdered Dad with his obscene, gas-guzzling SUV. If Dad had survived the crash and not hemorrhaged out on the side of the road, he would’ve been pissed enough at Jerry Meyers to make his life a living hell. But if Jerry Meyers had ruined the Indian Four? Even from beyond, Dad wouldn’t have been able to let that go. Jerry’s wife would’ve found him dead in his bed one day, the only clues a ghostly scent of motor oil and some rye bread crumbs. Dad loved a good tuna on rye.
Delaney wasn’t sure how long she waited, frozen, as the oil drained from ’33 into a pan, while she pictured what Dad might’ve looked like at his death. She didn’t want these images in her head, but because she’d never actually seen Dad at the site of the accident, her brain made things up as replacement. He probably looked something like he had at the morgue, when she’d gone to identify him. The closed eyes and shredded flesh hadn’t bothered her as much as the fact that he’d seemed so much smaller than he was in real life. Delaney remembered thinking,How big the soul must be. How much must it fill you up? Now that it’s gone, Dad looks like a shell.
Delaney closed her eyes to quiet the burning behind them. Once it passed, her lashes fluttered open and she faced the clutch cover. There were two of them because her eyes were blurry, but once that passed, and the clutch cover was back down to one, Delaney removed it. The gasket beneath tore when she pulled it out, which she expected. She grabbed a razor blade from her setup and scraped off all the stuck-on bits. She heard Dad’s voice in her head:The gasket needs a perfect seal. Delaney was seven the first time she helped with a clutch. She remembered that her hair was in braids—Boom showed her how because he did his daughter’s cornrows—and that she wore jeans and work boots that matched Dad’s. It was an exciting time because in the past he’d let her mop up oil or polish bikes or fetch him tools, but he’d never let her actually get into the guts of the motorcycle before.
Don’t cut yourself, Dad had said as he handed her the razor blade.Even a tiny touch will make you bleed. Scrape slow and careful.
Delaney hadn’t been afraid of blood. She’d been afraid to disappoint Dad, because that might mean he’d never let her help with the guts again, and she’d be forever stuck wiping up oil and fetching wrenches. She’d trade all the blood in her body for Dad’s approval.
She hadn’t cut herself, and she got all the sticky bits off so that the new gasket had a fine seal. Dad had been pleased, and by the time Delaney was twelve, she was fixing clutches all by herself.
Fixing the clutch on ’33 today was bittersweet. Delaney took out the spring bolts and then laid out her clutch pack one plate at a time, on the workbench next to her, along with the jutter springs. Just as she suspected, the ’33’s friction plates were discolored and the steel plates blue from overheating. Delaney grabbed the tray holding the new Qua-sinterbronze, where the plates had been soaking in oil since this morning. She didn’t have much worry they’d do well in the bike, as Delaney had worked with sintered bronze her entire career in motor transport. She slid the plates on, seven in all, in the same order she’d taken out the old ones, then replaced the springs and pressure plate, added a brand-new gasket, and finally the cover. She tightened the bolts and had just finished putting in new oil, enjoying the bite of the breeze to cut the humidity as it floated through the open bay, when her favorite furry friend poked his head inside.
“Sinbad.” Delaney stood and wiped her oily hands on her jeans. The name still sounded wrong, but she didn’t know what else to call him. “What you up to, my man?” She lifted her phone and texted Sunny the dog emoji. Last time Sunny had picked up the pit bull, on the day of the grand opening, they’d agreed that until this problem was solved, texting shorthand was in order.
“Just text the dog emoji and I’ll be over ASAP,” Sunny had said.
After she hit Send, Delaney faced Sinbad. “You look hot.” The pittie was panting against the humid air, his pink tongue lolling to the side, making it look like he was smiling. “I thought you might show up again. Even though Sunny said she fixed the hole in her fence.” Delaney had a feeling that fixing a hole wasn’t going to stand between this dog and his need to wander. His front paws were coated in dirt, like he’d just dug himself a new tunnel out of prison. Delaney nodded toward one of her shallow kitchen bowls, which she’d filled with water and left just inside the bay.
The dog lifted his muzzle into the air, as though sniffing it out, then turned and dove into the bowl, nose first. Loud, thirsty slurps followed. Water splashed outside the bowl with his aggressive lapping. When he was done, he sauntered over to Delaney and sat.
“Door’s open.” Delaney nodded toward the storeroom. That was part of her opening routine for the shop now. Open the bay, unlock the main door, flip the sign from Closed to Open, wake up the register, change the water in the dog bowl and open the storeroom, just in case Sinbad arrived while she wasn’t looking and needed his bed.
Today, Sinbad didn’t budge. In fact, he circled the motorcycle, sniffing the wheels, the seat, the kickstand, even the clutch cover. When he faced Delaney again, he had a little bit of oil on his face, a smear next to the eye that didn’t have the patch.
“Look at you.” Delaney clucked her tongue. “Sunny’s not going to like you getting all dirty over here. I’ll be labeled the bad aunt who lets the kids eat junk food and stay up all night. She won’t let you keep coming. Not that she’s letting you come now.”
Sinbad woofed, which marked the first time Delaney had heard him speak. It wasn’t just any old bark, either. This was a bark with attitude. The pit bull tilted his head back, danced on his front paws and gave a determined woof that truly sounded like he was trying to talk to her.
“The hell you say.” Delaney squatted down and opened her arms, hoping the dog would come to her.
He stuck close to the bike instead, circling it a second time, his tail wagging a mile a minute.
“Are you kidding me?” Delaney watched the dog dance and spin and get all excited. “You like the bike?” She wracked her brain, but could think of no good reason why Sinbad would like the motorcycle. Maybe that was the only reason he’d stayed with the Dudes at all? Maybe he would’ve been running back to Sunny’s shelter every day if the Dudes hadn’t owned a bike shop. And maybe he hadn’t noticed the bike the last time he was here, because there was a buffet of meatballs to distract him. Delaney smiled to herself, kind of liking the idea that this poor, homeless dog who had never had anyone to trust had a thing for motorcycles.
Why not? The motorcycle was the ultimate symbol of freedom.
You don’t have to follow anybody’s rules, Dad would say.It’s just you, your bike and the road. You can go around everyone else. You can fit places the cars can’t. You don’t need walls. You can park anywhere. You can fix any problems yourself, unlike all these fancy, computerized, gas-guzzling monsters. And when you’re riding, it’s just you, the road and the wind.
Delaney lifted a shop rag off her countertop and wiped the rest of the grease from her fingertips. “Well, go ahead. Check her out. She’s not just any motorcycle, my friend,” she said to the dog. “This bike here is an American classic. Back in the day, only the wealthy could afford it.”
The pit bull woofed again, this time leaning back, rump in the air, into what yogis called “down dog.”
“It’s true,” Delaney insisted. “A four cylinder in 1933 was a luxury item. Clearly not something my backlist of poor, low-life thieves would’ve been able to afford. Which raises the question of where my great-granddaddy would’ve got it in the first place.”
Sinbad settled next to the bike, head between his paws, and huffed.
Delaney laughed and strode around the shop, tidying up the goods and thinking things were kind of perfect right now. Twenty years in the Marine Corps in the books. Her own bike shop. A wild dog.
The picture of Peter Fonda on theEasy Riderchopper caught her eye. “Wyatt,” she said, without really thinking. She looked over at the dog, perfectly content lazing next to the motorcycle. “How do you feel about the name Wyatt?”
The pit bull thumped his tail.
