A Death On The Wolf (20 page)

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I only missed one question on the written test and despite driving a totally unfamiliar car, I managed the road test with only one real issue: parallel parking. It took me three tries and I lost points for that. For everything else, the examiner said I drove like an old pro. Daddy had told Aunt Charity not to expect us back for lunch, so I figured he was taking me to McDonald’s down in Gulfport. But he didn’t. Once we got out of town and headed up 49, he pulled over at the Dixie Pearl Motel, which was right at the junction with 53, to let me drive the remaining fifteen miles back to Bells Ferry.

“
You know this car is titled in my name, right?” Daddy asked as we drove along at a leisurely pace. I was keeping the speed around 45. I’d ridden on this road hundreds of times, but never driven it, so I was being extra cautious.

I looked over at him. “So it’s—”

“
Eyes on the road, son,” he said, cutting me off.

I looked straight ahead and said, “So it isn’t really mine?”

“
It’s yours. It was just easier to do it this way as far as putting tags on it and insurance. When you turn eighteen, I’ll sign it over to you and you can title it in your name.”

“
Okay,” I said. “What are we doing for lunch?”

“
I thought I’d buy you a steak. But first, we’re going by the bank and put your money in your college account.” When Daddy said he was buying me a steak I knew we would be eating at Bobby Dean’s in town, which had legendary Porterhouse steaks. People drove from as far away as Mobile and New Orleans to eat at the little Bobby Dean Diner.

“
Daddy, why do I have to go to college?” I asked. “You didn’t.”

“
I didn’t and it broke my mother’s heart. I was stupid when I was eighteen, Nelson. At sixteen, your head is screwed on your shoulders so much better than mine was then, it’s not even funny.”

“
But you’ve done good,” I offered. I did not like to hear my father being self-deprecating. “You joined the Marines and made sergeant.”

Daddy chuckled. “All you have to do is stay in long enough and stay out of trouble to do that. But I’ve done well, overall, I guess. I just wonder sometimes what I could have been, what I could have done. There was just enough rebellion in me to do it, to enlist, just to spite my mother. I hope I’ve raised you to have more respect for me than that.”

“
Yes, sir,” I said.

“
You’re college material, son.”

“
So were you.”

“
Not like you. I’ve got every report card of yours back to the first grade. I can count the number of Bs from all of them on one hand. The rest are As, and you know that. You can’t waste your brain like I did, son.”

“
Daddy, don’t say that,” I pleaded. “You didn’t waste your brain. You’re…” I was searching for the right words when Parker’s funeral popped into my head. “You’re a good man,” I finally said.

My father reached over and squeezed my shoulder. We rode the rest of the way to Bells Ferry in silence. I was wishing I’d not said anything about going to college, because I really didn’t mean it. I’d always assumed I would go to college, but raising the subject the way I did forced Daddy to admit things to me I’d just as soon not heard.

We finished up at the bank and then headed down the street to Bobby Dean’s. There was a parking space right in front of the diner and I negotiated my new car into it perfectly. When I shut off the engine and set the parking brake Daddy put his hand over to me. “What?” I said as we shook hands.

“
Happy Birthday,” he said and stuck his Bulova in my face. It was 11:50 A.M. I was sixteen years and eight minutes old.

When we walked in the Bobby Dean Diner, the first thing I saw was a hand-painted banner suspended from wall to wall in the back that said “Happy Birthday Nelson!” The place was noisy and packed with familiar faces. Daddy put his arm around my shoulder and shouted “Hey, everybody! My son just turned sixteen eight minutes ago!” Everyone looked up from their lunch plates and started clapping. Daddy steered me to the big table in the back that had a “Reserved” sign on it. Hands were stuck out for me to shake every inch of the way and I got several pats on the back.

Daddy and I sat at the oblong table that would seat six. “I wasn’t expecting this,” I said. “Are Aunt Charity, Sash, and Mary Alice coming?”

“
No, this lunch is for men only.”

Miss Darla, who had been a waitress at the diner for as long as I could remember, brought us iced tea. “Y’all haven’t been in here in a coon’s age,” she said. She looked at me. “Baby doll, you’re gettin’ to be as handsome as your daddy.”

“
Yes, ma’am,” I said. I was blushing, I’m sure.

“
What y’all havin’,” Miss Darla asked.

“
Two of your twenty ounce Porterhouses,” Daddy said. “But we’ll wait to order until everyone gets here.”

“
Alrighty, hon,” she said and went back up front to take care of a couple who had just come in for lunch and sat at the counter.

“
Who else is coming?” I asked.

“
Here’s one now,” Daddy said and pointed toward the door. It was Uncle Rick. One look at him and you knew he was an engineer: short sleeve white shirt, dark tie, and a pocket protector. His NASA badge was pinned prominently to it.

“
Am I late?” he said as he sat at the opposite end from Daddy.

“
Nope,” Daddy said, “right on time, as usual.”

My uncle took a small, gift-wrapped box from his pocket and slid it over to me. “Happy Birthday,” he said.

“
Can I open it now?”

“
Of course,” Uncle Rick said.

I tore the wrapping off and found a box with “Fisher Space Pen” embossed on the top. I opened it. The pen inside was gleaming and substantial looking. “Wow, thanks, Uncle Rick.”

“
That’s the same pen the astronauts took to the moon—I mean they took one just like it, not that pen,” he said and pulled one of the black, government issue, ball-point pens from his pocket protector and held it up. “You know why they can’t use just a regular pen in space?”

“
No, why?” I said and removed my new pen from the case. It was heavy.

“
Because gravity is what makes the ink flow to the tip. No gravity, no flow. No flow, no write.”

Daddy took the box my pen came in and looked at it. “So what’d they do with this Space Pen? Pressurize the ink cartridge?”

“
Exactly,” Uncle Rick said. “It’s pressurized with nitrogen.”

“
Damn, they’ll let anyone in here.”

We looked up to see Dick Tillman standing at our table.

“
Hey, Dick,” Daddy said. “You want to have lunch with us?”

“
Nah, I just ran down here to get me a sandwich and take it back to the station.”

“
You remember my brother,” Daddy said and gestured to Uncle Rick.

“
Sure.” Dick and my uncle shook hands. “Good to see you, Rick.”

“
You, too.”

Looking back at Daddy, Dick said, “So is everything square with the Studebaker?”

“
He hates it. I guess I’ll have to take you up on that offer to buy it.”

Dick frowned at me. “You told me yesterday you liked that car.”

“
I do,” I said. “Daddy’s just pulling your leg.”

“
Good. You got a helluva lot more car than you would’ve with old lady Borcher’s Chevy. Too bad they don’t make ’em anymore.”

Miss Darla walked up carrying a brown paper bag. “Here’s your sandwich, hon,” she said to Dick and handed him the bag.

“
Thank you, sweetheart,” Dick said. “Just put it on my tab.”

Miss Darla looked at Uncle Rick. “You want some iced tea, baby?”

“
A Coke, please.”

“
Fountain or bottle?”

“
Fountain will be fine, thanks.”

As Miss Darla strutted back to the counter, Dick turned back to us and said, “Boy, I’d like to have me some of that.”

Daddy chuckled. “Word is, you already have.” Dick feigned a look of surprise. The worst kept secret in Bells Ferry was the “affair” between Darla James and Dick Tillman. Neither of them was married, so why they insisted on keeping their relationship hush-hush was as much a mystery as it was a comedy.

“
I’ll catch y’all later,” Dick said. “Happy birthday,” he added and pointed to me.

“
Thanks,” I said.

Now that we were past the noon hour, the diner was at capacity and people were standing near the front door waiting for tables to clear out. I was surprised to see Frankie and his dad and brother come in the door.

“
There’s the rest of our crew,” Daddy said. He waved at Frankie’s dad and they headed back to our table.

I knew I was having a small birthday party at our house later, so this lunch gathering, arranged by my father, for just the guys was a nice surprise. Frankie sat beside me and his dad and brother sat across from us. We all ordered steaks, but Daddy and I were the only ones to get the big Porterhouses. When Miss Darla had brought everyone’s drinks, Daddy surprised me again by holding up his red plastic glass of iced tea and saying, “To my son on his sixteenth birthday. No father could ask for a better son.”

Everyone raised their glasses, including me, until Frankie elbowed me and said, “I don’t think you’re supposed to toast yourself, dummy.” We all laughed and then drank the toast to the birthday boy—everyone except me.

Miss Darla had just brought our steaks and steaming baked potatoes the size of pee wee footballs when I saw Peter Bong, the man in black who rode the Black Shadow, come from the door to the back hall where the restrooms were. He had his helmet under his arm, so I figured he must have parked his bike in the rear and come in the back door. He stood there for a few seconds surveying the crowd, looking for an empty spot. There weren’t any; every seat in the place, including the six at the lunch counter, was taken and there were five people waiting to be seated standing by the front door.

“
Peter!” I called to him. Everyone at our table looked at me and then to the man whose name I’d just called.

The man in black turned to see who was calling his name. I waved to get his attention, then turned to Frankie and said “Scoot over and make room.”

“
For what?” Frankie said.

“
For him,” I said nodding in Peter’s direction.

Peter stepped over to our table with a confused look on his face. When he got a good look at me he smiled in recognition. “The Honda Scrambler with the pretty Sheila on the back.”

“
Yeah,” I said, “but her name’s still not Sheila.” Everyone at our table had stopped eating and was staring at this tall, dark, stranger with a ponytail halfway down his back.

Daddy stood up and offered his hand to Peter. “Lem Gody,” he said. “You know my son?”

“
I’m sorry,” I said as I stood. “Daddy, this is Peter Bong. He’s the guy we’ve seen riding the Vincent. I met him at the station the other day.” Daddy and Peter shook hands and then I introduced him to the others.

“
Remind me of your name, mate,” Peter said to me.

“
Nelson,” I replied.

“
I thought that’s what it was.” He pointed to the happy birthday banner hanging behind me on the wall. “You?”

“
Yes. I’m sixteen today.”

“
Happy birthday,” he said, then turned and looked around the diner again. “Looks like I’m going to have to wait awhile. It’s was nice meeting you all.”

“
Why don’t you sit with us,” I offered. I looked at Daddy and said, “Is it okay?”

“
It’s your party,” he said.

“
Appreciate that, mate,” Peter said. He went over to a table for two where a lone patron was sitting and asked to borrow the empty chair. Frankie and I scooted over to make room for him. He took his jacket off and sat down, then put his helmet on the floor and laid his jacket over it.

“
New Zealand or Australia?” Uncle Rick asked.

“
Australia,” Peter said.

“
Is Bong an Australian name?” I asked and started stirring the big mound of whipped butter that was melting on my baked potato.

“
Malaysian,” Peter answered. “My grandfather was from Kuala Lumpur.”

Peter ordered an egg salad sandwich and we all enjoyed listening to him talk as we ate our steak dinners. Daddy asked him about the Vincent and Peter said that he had brought it with him from Australia. He suggested we all go riding sometime and, of course, Frankie and I eagerly agreed. When Uncle Rick asked him what he was doing in the U.S., Peter became evasive and changed the subject, asking me what I’d gotten for my birthday. Daddy and Uncle Rick exchanged looks that told me as friendly (though different) as Peter Bong seemed, they were uncomfortable with him. Evidently, Frankie’s dad had the same impression. When lunch was over and Peter had thanked us, paid his bill, and left out the back door, Mr. Frank looked at his son and said, “You stay away from that man. He’s trouble.”