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I always laugh at how she only went to town on a single bitch that one time, yet the rumor mill acts like she’s a violence-prone hellcat.
The real Austen is much softer, although she has told me on many occasions how she appreciates my ability to hold a grudge. That’s her way of saying I shouldn’t forgive the Carter family. Instead, I focus on her and the kids.
I see so much of myself in Folsom. The towheaded boy just wants to play, laugh, and cuddle. I’m his favorite person. The little guy always wants me close. However, if he’s truly upset or scared, only his mom can soothe him.
Austen is a confident mother. She doesn’t even get flustered when our second baby arrives less than fifteen months after our first.
Meanwhile, Folsom is devastated by his sister’s birth. He often looks at her and cries. I feel guilty over how jealous he becomes. Suzanne swears Austen hated Hunter for the first year before they became friends.
My son doesn’t take that long to come around to his sister’s value. One day, he sits next to Austen, whimpering over how his sister is hogging their mom’s lap. Baby Poe reaches over and wraps her little fingers around his hand. He stops mid-sniffle and looks around to see if we notice how she’s touching him.
My baby girl gives him a sloppy smile. Folsom stares at her face. For a second, I think he might lash out. His gaze is so wide and direct. Suddenly, he smiles and wraps his free hand around where she holds him.
“My sister,” he tells his teary-eyed mom.
Just like that, Folsom and Poe are best buddies. Once she can walk, they’re unstoppable forces. I’m always running after them in the yard. By then, our golden cockapoo is past his rambunctious puppy stage and dutifully follows the kids everywhere.
I often take the three of them on long walks around the property. During one outing, Tolstoy hurts his paw. My kids instantly turn into vets, caring for the limping pooch. The dog heals up just fine, but for days, he’s coddled by the entire family. Even our orange cat Melville gets into the action, curling up with Tolstoy in his dog bed.
My kids love animals. They’re riding horses before kindergarten. Always wearing her cowboy hats, Poe looks so much like her mom up on those powerful animals.
While I’ll never love riding horses like I do my motorcycles, I get the hang of it. My horse Donatello is a gorgeous black beast that loves to run.
Austen, Folsom, Poe, and I frequently take treks across our property, sometimes crossing through my club brothers’ land. We’ll ride for hours, stopping to eat lunch in the shade.
Several times a month, Austen brings the kids to Mack’s house. While she checks the horses, Poe and Folsom spend time with their surrogate grandfather. He gets a kick out of their antics. Poe definitely reminds him of Austen as a child. Occasionally, I’ll catch him eyeing my daughter and clearly reminiscing.
Poe is a feisty kid with a big mouth and stars in her eyes when it comes to her brother. Meanwhile, Folsom comes off as easygoing. His long, blond hair and easy smile fool people into viewing him as a hippie.
When they’re older and start school, kids will sometimes think they can push Folsom around. He tries to tolerate their bullying as if knowing he’s too tough to waste time fighting weaklings. Poe offers no mercy to anyone screwing with her brother. More than once she gets in trouble at school for fighting kids who mess with Folsom or her buddies, Meadow and Clementine.
Folsom and Poe fit in well with my club brothers’ kids. When they’re all running around together behind the Pigsty during one of our parties, I can imagine a day when many of them will ride for the Steel Berserkers Motorcycle Club.
“Can we be veterinarians and bikers?” Folsom asks one evening as his sister and he stretch out on the back porch and admire the moon with Austen and me.
“You can be whatever you want,” Austen says immediately.
Poe says wistfully, “I’m going to punch a lot of people, just like Mom.”
Austen snickers at how her reputation as a brawler refuses to die.
“Your dad is the tough one,” she insists to the kids more than once when they claim they heard she beat up truckloads of people. “I just defended Aunt Coco once, and I still almost got beat up.”
“Aunt Xenia helped you,” Folsom says, seeming to put together how people can become more powerful with their own tribe.
As a kid, I always knew my strength came from sticking close to my friends. Poe and Folsom learn the same lesson.
When we’re at the movies with Meadow, Clementine, and RJ, I catch sight of my biological brother talking shit to a few young men. He’s there with his grandkids. I can tell my brother is in over his head yet too arrogant to walk back the trouble he’s started with men capable of laying him out.
Squatting between Folsom and Poe near the concession stand, where my brother writes checks his body can’t cash, I ask, “That is a brother from my first family. Should I help him out?”
Poe and Folsom look at each other and then back at their uncle before focusing on me.
My daughter takes my hand, studying my knuckles bruised after a run-in with a man troubling the club. She looks at her brother again and then shakes her head.
“Don’t spill blood for those who don’t matter,” she says, and Folsom nods.
When her blue eyes hold mine, I see Austen looking back. My wife loved her father so much, even putting him on a pedestal.
