Father's Day (16 page)

“These are fast bikes,” Jason told her. “Dangerous bikes—which means you can always get parts for them, because so many get wrecked by inexperienced riders.”

Harvey told him to pick something out. “I'm working now, Dad,” she said. “So if you see a jacket or some awesome boots, or if there's a bike you just love, let me buy it for you.”

“That's wild,” Jason said. “You win the lottery or something Harv?”

In another shop, the salesman asked Jason if he wanted to sit on their latest café racer, but he politely said no.

“Go on, Dad,” Harvey insisted, then noticed the bike was in a narrow space, and it would have been impossible for him to get his leg over.

When they were back on the street, Jason bought two apples from a fruit stand, and they ate them walking.

“When I think of all the bits I welded together,” he said, “it's amazing my bikes even ran.”

“Why don't you get one of these new bikes, Dad?” Harvey said. “I'll buy it for you. Come on.”

Jason laughed and smoothed the back of his ponytail.

“You should wear your hair down sometimes, Dad,” Harvey told him.

“I've gotten too lazy in my old age to fuss with it.”

Putting his hair in a ponytail was something new. One
night, drying it in the mirror after a bath, Jason couldn't believe how much it had thinned—more medieval than metal, he thought. And in a ponytail, no one could tell he was slowly going bald.

Near the Métro, Harvey said they should find somewhere for Jason to open his Father's Day gift, so they kept walking until there was an empty bench.

The gift wasn't a token from Chuck E. Cheese's but a poker-chip key chain. Jason sniffed it. The original one had reeked of oil.

“So you finally figured it out, huh, Harvey?”

He could see from her tears that she had.

When it all happened, she had been so angry—so disappointed in him.

She felt he'd let her down. But now she understood.

Now she understood what had happened.

F
OR
H
ARVEY
'
S NINTH
birthday, Jason got tickets for
The Lion King
on Broadway. Harvey had seen the commercials on TV and said it was her dream. The plan was to go into the city by train, then have McDonald's after the show.

Jason was going to pick her up from school at recess, then drive to the Long Island Rail Road station. Her fourth-grade teacher, Miss Hills, said she wished that more parents were into theater. Jason had never been to a live show with people acting, and he wondered if it would be anything like TV. He called the box office several times to make sure their seats would be near the front so Harvey could see everything.

The night before the show, Harvey complained of feeling tired and went to bed early. When Jason checked on her later, he noticed she was burning up. He opened the window to let cool air fill the room.

He set his alarm for earlier than usual, so he'd have time to cook a big breakfast: sausages, eggs, bacon, baked beans, toast, and pancakes, all Harvey's favorite things.

It was still dark when he got up, and the first thing he did was make coffee. Then he heated some oil in the pan and dropped the sausages in one by one.

When everything was cooked, he made up a birthday tray with chocolate milk, SpongeBob napkins, birthday cards
(from him, Wanda, and Duncan), and a small bear he got on sale at Party City.

Harvey was already awake when Jason pushed open the door with his foot.

“I don't feel good,” she said.

Then she smelled what was on the tray and ran to the bathroom. But there wasn't anything in her stomach, so it was just muscles pinching and the dry growl from her throat.

Jason carried Harvey back to bed and propped her up with the pillows. Then he filled a glass with cold water, but she wouldn't drink anything, so he just sat with her.

Before he took the tray back to the kitchen, Harvey asked if she could have the bear. “Sorry I ruined breakfast, Dad.”

While Jason was in the kitchen covering the food, he remembered a thermometer in the first-aid kit Wanda had left in the laundry closet. He carried the box into Harvey's room, read the instructions, then told Harvey to keep it under her tongue without moving. After a few minutes, the thermometer beeped and Jason took it out. It read 104.6.

“What shall we name him?” Harvey said weakly, touching the bear's nose.

Jason was still looking at the number on the thermometer. He imagined her eyes lolling back as the fever spread to her brain, then rushing her out to the car, tearing through traffic, her limp body rolling around on the backseat. He saw the hospital staff in their baggy green pants and rubber shoes, imagined yelling at them as machines and wires were attached to keep her alive.

He took up Harvey's hand and stroked it. Her face was red
from vomiting, and the bedclothes were hot because she was sweating.

When he tried Wanda, her phone rang a few times, then went to voice mail. It was too early to call Social Services, so Jason went online and typed in Harvey's symptoms. But there were too many things to choose from, and when he typed her temperature into Google, a message flashed on the screen:

IF YOU HAVE A FEVER OVER 103.5 F

PLEASE SEEK PROMPT MEDICAL ATTENTION

When Jason checked on Harvey again, she asked if they were still going to
The Lion King
and McDonald's.

Jason had saved up for the tickets. He had played over their trip to the city so many times in his mind that he'd witnessed a thousand shows, and was prepared for any crisis—except the one that was actually happening.

When he took her temperature again, it was even higher. He rushed into the kitchen and filled a bowl with ice, but when he got to Harvey's bedside she was throwing up again, though it was just the sound and her tongue coming out.

Shit, fucking holy shit,
Jason said. And underneath panic, the sting of his loneliness. The truth that he had no one to turn to.

When she couldn't keep her eyes open, Jason went into the hall and grabbed his jacket and motorcycle boots. He combed his hair quickly in the mirror and told Harvey to sit tight.

“Don't leave me,” she said, starting to cry. “Please, Dad!”

“I ain't leaving you, kid. I'm going for help.”

The air outside felt good and he gulped it down. He jogged quickly up the neighbors' driveway, then bounded onto the porch, knocking his head on a hanging basket. When he couldn't find a doorbell, he banged with the side of his fist.

A moment later, a shape appeared behind the glass. Jason heard the security chain being attached, then a teenage boy appeared through the crack.

“Where's your mom?” Jason said.

“Mama!” the boy shouted.

Jason wondered why he was still in his pajamas and not in school.

“Who is it?” came a woman's voice from somewhere in the house. Jason could hear the sound of dishes being stacked.

“The guy from next door!”

The sounds abruptly ceased, and over the boy's head Jason saw his mother rushing down the hall in her slippers. She closed the door to release the chain and stood in front of her son. “Can I help you, mister?”

“I'm your neighbor,” Jason said, pointing in the direction of his house.

“Sí
,
sí
. You have a little girl living with you?”

“Well, she's real sick.”

“Oh no, I'm sorry to hear that.”

“She's burning up.”

“Did you take her temperature?”

“It's a hundred and five point something.”

“That's very high. What you have given her?”

“Nothing. She won't eat or drink.”

The woman nodded and looked down at her bare feet, but Jason could tell she was thinking.

“Go home,” she told him. “I'll get some medicine and be right over.”

H
ARVEY WAS IN
the bathroom when Jason got back. The door was open, and Jason saw her feet dangling a few inches off the floor.

“You pooping?” he called out. Harvey leaned forward but was too weak to answer.

Jason lifted her off the seat and looked into the bowl.“That's diarrhea,” he said. “You've got diarrhea.”

“I can't wipe,” she mumbled. “Get it off, Dad.”

The smell clung to the air, and there were traces of it on her fingers from where she'd tried to clean herself.

Jason spooled off several squares of toilet paper, which he held under warm running water. The diarrhea had dripped down her legs and into the seat of her pajamas.

“You're gonna have to step out of your pj's,” Jason said, turning the shower on. “I'm gonna run a little warm water on your legs so you don't itch, okay?” Then he lifted her into the shower. Her legs were shaking with cold.

When Harvey was clean and back in bed, someone knocked on the front door.

“Is that doctors?” Harvey said.

“No it's the people from next door.”

“The ones I'm not allowed to wave at?”

“Yeah, them,” Jason said.

Mrs. Gonzales had brought little bottles in a white plastic bag, along with a small container of Gatorade. “Is it okay if my son sits out here and watches TV?” she said. “He's off school today.”

Harvey had pulled the sheets up to her neck when Mrs. Gonzales entered her room. “It's okay, sweetie,” Mrs. Gonzales said, putting the bag of bottles on the dresser. “You'll feel better soon.”

“It's my birthday,” Harvey said. “I got sick on my birthday.”

“Oh, you poor thing. You so brave.” Mrs. Gonzales put the back of her palm on Harvey's forehead and made a sad face. “You're burning up, baby girl.”

Harvey held up her bear. “Look what my dad got me.”

“Your own little friend. That's so nice of Daddy.” Mrs. Gonzales took one of the bottles from the white bag and measured some purple liquid into a plastic shot glass. “I'm going to give her this,” she said. “It's what I give my own kids. She allergic to any medicines?”

“No. I don't think so.”

“You'd know by now if she was, but I brought some Benadryl just in case.”

After Harvey had swallowed the medicine and was getting comfortable, Mrs. Gonzales's son, Hector, appeared in the doorway and said he needed the restroom.

Jason pointed. “Second door on the right.”

“I'm going to sit with Harvey awhile, if you don't mind,” Mrs. Gonzales said. “Make sure she keeps the medicine down.”

“What can I do?” Jason said.

“Maybe make sure Hector is okay?”

Hector had finished in the bathroom and was just standing around. The television was on and there were Spanish voices, but he wasn't interested. Jason handed him a glass of root beer, then asked if he liked motorcycles.

“Yeah, sure,” Hector said. “They're pretty cool.”

“Want to see one getting built?”

T
APED UP ON
the brick walls of the garage were posters of panheads, choppers, bobbers, and Fat Boys. Women in bikinis and platform heels leaned over immaculate, gleaming machines.

Jason asked Hector to point out his favorite bike. The boy pointed to a photo of a blond woman bending over the front forks of a custom Harley chopper in a bra and thong panties made from beads and brown suede, Native American–style.

“That bike's a killer,” Jason said. “No rear suspension, no front brake.”

“I think it's cool,” Hector said.

Jason took the poster down and rolled it up. “Here,” he said, handing it to Hector. “Something to dream about.”

Then Jason pulled the dust cloth off his bike and they stood beside it. Chrome pipes sparkled in the garage light.

“It's
so
awesome,” Hector said. “I can't believe you built this.”

“It's taken almost ten years,” Jason said. “Sit on it, if you want.”

Hector put his leg over the bike, then moved around in the seat.

“Hold on to the handlebars, Hector. Get a feel for it.”

Hector reached over the teardrop gas tank and put his hands around the grips.

“Looking good, Hector. You were born to ride.”

A poker-chip key chain dangled below the gas tank, and Hector asked what it was for.

“It's attached to the ignition key,” Jason said. “Turn it.”

Hector cautiously followed the silver chain until his fingers rested on the key. Jason told him to go ahead and turn, but when he did, nothing happened.

“Still needs a battery and some electrical,” Jason said. “One day soon, though, it'll be finished.”

“My dad could help you,” Hector told him. “He's a really good electrician.”

Jason pictured the man he'd seen glaring at him from the minivan whenever they passed his house. “I don't think your dad likes me much.”

Hector nodded. “It's because he thinks you broke our mailbox with a beer bottle.”

Jason bent down and rearranged a few of his tools. “It was nice of your mom to come over and help. I was really freaking out this morning.”

“Oh, she's nice to everybody,” Hector exclaimed, still holding the handlebars. “Did you like the flowers we planted when your daughter first came to live with you? There was a bunch left over from the ones at church, and Mom asked if she could have them. She even got my dad to help.”

B
Y THE NEXT
morning, the medicine was doing its work, and Harvey's fever had fallen below a hundred. Mrs. Gonzales had written down a list of danger signs that Jason should watch for, which he taped to the refrigerator door.

In the late afternoon, after her husband was home, Mrs. Gonzales returned to see how Harvey was feeling, and to stay with her while Jason went to the drugstore for supplies.

By the weekend, Harvey was picking at fruit cups, fish sticks, and french fries. She spent the daylight hours on the couch in her pajamas, watching TV, and the early evening on her father's bed, listening to him read the third Harry Potter book.

Duncan was there too, and had made friends with the bear from Harvey's breakfast tray.

The following week she was back in school, and life went on as before, with excursions on Saturday to playgrounds, or the beach, or Marshalls for new shoes or a winter coat. On Sundays, Jason did laundry in the morning while Harvey put her toys away or did homework. In the afternoon, if there was nothing special on TV, she kept Jason company in the garage, glancing up from her dolls now and then at her father on the ground in dirty jeans as he hammered or wrenched something into place.

One evening when they were on the couch with nothing
to do, Jason showed Harvey a video about a disabled man in Florida who'd built a swing arm mechanism into his Kawasaki sport bike.

“It comes out at red lights,” Jason said as the video played. “See, Harv, look at that—it stops the bike from tipping over.”

“Are you going to get that, Dad? So you can ride?”

“I'm going to make one myself,” Jason said. “I just have to figure out how it works, then get the parts.”

“So you can take me to school on the back when it's done?”

Jason nodded. “Oh, sure.”

“Wait till you see their faces, Dad!” Harvey said. “When I pull up to school on the back of a motorcycle!”

Jason explained that most bikers with disabilities ride trikes, but Harvey couldn't picture such a thing, so Jason went to find a picture in one of his old magazines. When he returned, Harvey was watching a cartoon.

“Look what I found in the garage, Harvey, it's one of my old scrapbooks from back in the day.”

“But I'm watching this show right now . . .”

“C'mon, Harvey—I gotta show you this.”

Jason fixed her another glass of juice, then muted the television. “My brother and I used to make these scrapbooks when we were kids. This one even has my mom in it.”

Jason sat down and peeled open the book. “That's your grandmother, Harv.”

The photos were very small, with a child's handwriting beneath a few of them.

“We had a real basic camera,” Jason said. “Jesus, look at that! It's Steve with the dog we found!”

“Birdie?”

“That's right. We called him Birdie because he was always chasing pigeons.”

“Is this my dad as a little boy?”

“That's him.”

“He has a nice face.”

“He was a sweet kid. Saw the best in everybody—even me.”

Jason turned the page.

“Look, Harv, here's me building my first bike in the driveway. It's so weird to see it after all this time.”

“You've got long hair!”

“That's right. I had long hair then. Maybe I'll grow it out again. It was curly though. Once I dyed it blond, and everyone started calling me Goldilocks, so I dyed it back.”

“Can I dye my hair?”

“No. It'll get screwed up. Now, look at
that
bike!”

“Why would I screw it up?”

“I bought this one as a rolling frame, then built it from the ground up, learning as I went along.”

Jason's first machine had been featured in the Readers' Rides section of
Back Street Choppers
. It was orange with chrome springs in the front and a small nickel headlamp. Jason had cut the picture from the magazine and pasted it in the scrapbook. “That bike really stood out, with those extended forks.”

Harvey's finger pressed down on a chrome pipe. “What does this long thing do?”

When Jason explained its function, Harvey's finger slid to another part of the engine.

“And that's part of the ignition, Harvey. Some bikes have an electric start,” Jason told her. “Others have to be kicked.”

Harvey thought that was funny and wanted to know if you could kick it anywhere.

Jason had bought the frame and wheels for only a few dollars when he was a freshman in high school. There was also a box of parts that came with the sale, but most turned out to be for a different machine. He worked on his bike in the driveway and kept the rain off with a blue cover.

When his father was dying of cancer, he sometimes went outside and pulled the tarp off. Once Jason caught him out there, leaning on his cane and rolling his eyes over the half-built machine.

“C'mere, boy,” he said, pointing at something in the engine. “That bit ain't right. See there . . .”

Jason listened as his father listed all the things he was doing wrong. The old man's once giant hands were now small and birdlike. He hadn't been able to drink for months and was too weak to put up a fight. It was the first time Jason and Steve had seen their father sober for longer than a few hours, and he'd begun telling them things about his life. Made them agree never to join the military, and to listen to their mother—do what she wanted.

A week later, Jason's father was out in the driveway again, this time on his knees, doing something with a wrench and cursing when it wouldn't latch. When Jason got home that night, his mother was loading bedsheets into the washer.

“Your father said to tell you he fixed your chain,” she said. “And that you did a good job with the gears.”

Jason just stood there. “He didn't say that. You're making it up.”

A week later, Jason's father died. The television was on, and his eyes stayed open even after they laid his body down.

For the next two nights, Jason worked to get his bike running. He had told his mother he wasn't going to the funeral, but then followed the hearse on his motorcycle and watched from a distance as strangers in military uniforms lowered the casket. When they lifted their rifles to fire, birds flew out of the trees.

O
N ANOTHER PAGE
of the scrapbook was a teenage girl on a 1937 Indian Chief.

“There's my mom again,” Jason told Harvey. “When she was seventeen.”

The bike belonged to Jason's father before the war. His mother was in high school when they met. In the summer they used to pack towels and drive to Long Beach. Sometimes the bike broke down, but someone always stopped to help.

In another picture, Jason's mother was standing on a boardwalk in a hula-girl outfit. In the background couples danced. Jason said it was most likely Robert Moses, maybe the Rockaways.

“I'd wear that,” Harvey said, pointing at the grass skirt and coconut top. “Do you still have it?”

Jason said it was long gone and that Steve must have rescued the scrapbook before their mother's house got sold.

There were two very old photographs loose in the book near the end. Both were dated 1910. Jason didn't know who the people were, but Harvey said the man in the bow tie could have been Jason's great-grandfather because he was the only person in the picture not smiling.

On the final inside page of the scrapbook was a color pho
tograph that had been torn up, then taped back together. It was of a woman on a couch in a basement. She was quite young and had on a white T-shirt and tight blue jeans. She was laughing at whoever was taking the photograph, laughing so hard that her eyes were closed. Her hair was long and straight and very dark.

Harvey pointed to it. “Who's that?”

“No one,” Jason said, closing the book and getting up.

“She's pretty,” Harvey said, but Jason was already halfway back to the garage.