Page 3 of Carver
“I sold them.”
She doesn’t pull her head out. “To one person?”
“Yeah. All of them.”
“You didn’t message me about a pickup. Something like that would have been a big venture.”
“I-it wasn’t a big deal. I met a guy online. I wanted to clean up the yard and I posted some of the old junk that’s been lyingaround.” I don’t even know why I did it, other than in that exact moment, I hated this place so viciously that it eclipsed whatever nostalgia I might have been able to dredge up. It was a moment of weakness, and a stupid one at that, but it ended up being a blessing in disguise.
I’m not used to those.
Not used to good things happening.
That’s such a fucking lie. The best thing that ever happened to you is standing right here in your kitchen, waiting to love you, and you keep fucking pushing her away.
I swallow hard, my throat so dry that I stumble over to the nasty old sink, crank a tap that barely works, and pour water into a glass. There’s sediment floating in it, probably dirt too, but I gulp it back. Having water that tasted like metal was the least of my problems living here, and now I’m just used to it.
One of the only positive memories I have of my dad is him standing at this sink, laughing about the discolored water, telling me it would put hair on my chest.
Later that night, he got drunk off my uncle’s shine, tore the house apart, and then went racing through the fields, screaming that something was chasing him and was going to kill him.
His demons, probably.
It took my uncles two full days to find him.
Even at eight years old, I understood that he went out there to die.
“And this person came to buy junk and saw your work and bought… almost all of it?”
“He bought a bunch of scrap parts to restore one of the old bikes.” And restore it, Dravin and his club fucking did.
The Triumph is parked strategically in the only standing outbuilding left on my property. I can’t ride the bike right now, but maybe one day I will.
I’d been messaging back and forth with Dravin for a few weeks before he came out here to buy that scrap. He’s a good man. I actually liked him. He’s an ex-SEAL, with scars all over the place. Meeting him put me at ease, men like that don’t judge. He brought his old lady out with him, and she was good shit too.
Dravin’s club is in Hart, a few hours away, but he was all about wanting to show the sculptures to his club. He thought they might buy a few to beautify their place. He and some of his club brothers made the drive. He arranged for them to come out the same day he brought the Triumph. He spun it like he wanted to show me the bike once he’d restored it.
And then he gave me the damn keys and told me it was mine.
I’ve never had anyone but Bronte and her family show me such kindness.
Bronte shuts the fridge. “This guy, he’s into old bikes? Or just old things in general?”
“He’s a biker. A one percenter. He’s prospecting with the club in Hart.”
Even out here, we know all about the Satan’s Angels. They have a reputation. Not for being criminals, but for cleaning up Hart a good while back and making sure that the city stayed that way. Sure, people talk about them with fear and prejudice, but there are others whose tone rings with respect, bordering on admiration.
Bronte’s one of the smartest people I know. Her mind works fast. “He brought his club back out to see your work?”
“It’s odd, but not that strange. They wanted some statues for parks and shit in Hart. A few for in front of their clubhouse.”
“That’s almost… nice of them.”
“They paid my asking price. I didn’t give them a group discount.”
I’ve been trying to think of how to tell Bronte about this. Part of me didn’t want to because I know that it’ll give her false hope, but the realistic parts of me knows that she’d show up here while I’m gone and panic when she can’t find me.
Now that I’m about to drop this on her, it’s almost a relief. “I’m going to Hart, Bronte. I have enough money for surgery and the club has a private physician. He’s a plastic surgeon. Dravin asked if he could send the guy my information, and after reviewing it, he’s confident that he can do… something.” Realistically, just aboutanythingwould be an improvement. The initial surgery dealt with the functional side of things, but from a cosmetic point of view I’m no oil painting.
