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Authors: Jason Melby
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screen-door for his brother.
Josh balanced two boxes of Huggies on his arm. "I bought the good ones like you asked," he said.
Sheila rolled her eyes. "You got the wrong size again."
The infant cried in fits and starts.
Sheila countered with a gentle bounce and a vigorous pat on the back. "How come you never told me you had a brother in prison?"
"Ahh... probably because it was none of your business."
The baby screamed.
"I'm on parole," Lloyd confessed.
"For what?" asked Sheila.
"Doesn't matter," Josh defended his brother.
Sheila switched the baby to her other shoulder. "You promised me you were clean."
"I am," Josh argued.
"Then what is he doing here?"
"He came to see me."
Sheila rolled her eyes. "Exactly."
"What does that mean?"
Sheila tore a fresh diaper from the box and carried the baby away. "I think your brother should leave."
"He's family."
"Not to me."
Lloyd let himself out. "I'll catch up later."
Josh followed him to the driveway. "Wait up."
"I've got a long ride back," said Lloyd. He threw his leg over the bike and centered the front wheel. Then he keyed the ignition and started the motor.
Josh looked back at the trailer. "She gets like this when she's on the rag. You just have to tune her out."
Lloyd checked the view in his mirrors. "It's cool."
"What are you doing tomorrow?"
"I haven't thought about it," said Lloyd.
Josh pulled a business card from his wallet. "I manage a car wash in Plant City about forty minutes from here. We could use some extra help. The pay sucks, but it's better than nothing. If you come by early, I'll introduce you to the owner."
Lloyd kept the bike in neutral. "I've got a curfew at ten."
"We close at seven."
Lloyd rolled the bike backwards. He pulled the clutch and notched the transmission in gear. "I'll think about it."
Chapter 11
Lloyd parked the Triumph near the base of a thirty-foot flagpole at the entrance to the Seaside Cemetery. Offshore winds rifled Old Glory to attention. Dark clouds gathered in tight formation, threatening to resolve the semi-drought condition with a copious amount of rain.
At the opposite end of the property, a Cadillac hearse led a funeral procession toward an open burial plot marked with fresh bouquets from mourners gathered at the site.
Lloyd dismounted the bike and stretched his arms above his head. He could smell the salty air and almost taste it on his tongue.
The sound of ruffled canvas followed him to his father's grave marker. He read the short inscription. The simple words conjured memories of the father he loved and respected. A man who left him wondering, What happened and why?
Thunder pounded the sky above him.
Despite the ensuing crescendo of dime-size raindrops bouncing at Lloyd's feet, he hung his head and said a silent prayer for the man who taught him right from wrong; the man who showed him what it felt like to be part of a normal family.
He opened the crumpled envelop Brenda gave him and read the ink-smeared note he found inside:
Lloyd,
I'm sorry for what has happened, but this was God's plan not mine. I accept what you have done, and I forgive you. No man is perfect. Sometimes we succumb to our temptations despite our best intentions. I hope this letter finds you in good health and good conscience. I wish I could offer you more. If you need an escape from reality, dig up Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Forgive me for not expressing myself to you in person, but as you know, I have never been a man of words.
Love, Robert.
* * *
Soaked to the bone on the Triumph at fifty miles an hour, Lloyd punched holes through the asteroid field of steady precipitation pelting his eyes and face. Stay alert and stay alive, he told himself, enduring the white-knuckle ride over wet pavement blended with an oily sheen of hydrocarbon residue.
He hugged the double yellow line to avoid the lake-size patches of runoff water. With tire friction at a premium, he kept the bike nearly upright through
Josh balanced two boxes of Huggies on his arm. "I bought the good ones like you asked," he said.
Sheila rolled her eyes. "You got the wrong size again."
The infant cried in fits and starts.
Sheila countered with a gentle bounce and a vigorous pat on the back. "How come you never told me you had a brother in prison?"
"Ahh... probably because it was none of your business."
The baby screamed.
"I'm on parole," Lloyd confessed.
"For what?" asked Sheila.
"Doesn't matter," Josh defended his brother.
Sheila switched the baby to her other shoulder. "You promised me you were clean."
"I am," Josh argued.
"Then what is he doing here?"
"He came to see me."
Sheila rolled her eyes. "Exactly."
"What does that mean?"
Sheila tore a fresh diaper from the box and carried the baby away. "I think your brother should leave."
"He's family."
"Not to me."
Lloyd let himself out. "I'll catch up later."
Josh followed him to the driveway. "Wait up."
"I've got a long ride back," said Lloyd. He threw his leg over the bike and centered the front wheel. Then he keyed the ignition and started the motor.
Josh looked back at the trailer. "She gets like this when she's on the rag. You just have to tune her out."
Lloyd checked the view in his mirrors. "It's cool."
"What are you doing tomorrow?"
"I haven't thought about it," said Lloyd.
Josh pulled a business card from his wallet. "I manage a car wash in Plant City about forty minutes from here. We could use some extra help. The pay sucks, but it's better than nothing. If you come by early, I'll introduce you to the owner."
Lloyd kept the bike in neutral. "I've got a curfew at ten."
"We close at seven."
Lloyd rolled the bike backwards. He pulled the clutch and notched the transmission in gear. "I'll think about it."
Chapter 11
Lloyd parked the Triumph near the base of a thirty-foot flagpole at the entrance to the Seaside Cemetery. Offshore winds rifled Old Glory to attention. Dark clouds gathered in tight formation, threatening to resolve the semi-drought condition with a copious amount of rain.
At the opposite end of the property, a Cadillac hearse led a funeral procession toward an open burial plot marked with fresh bouquets from mourners gathered at the site.
Lloyd dismounted the bike and stretched his arms above his head. He could smell the salty air and almost taste it on his tongue.
The sound of ruffled canvas followed him to his father's grave marker. He read the short inscription. The simple words conjured memories of the father he loved and respected. A man who left him wondering, What happened and why?
Thunder pounded the sky above him.
Despite the ensuing crescendo of dime-size raindrops bouncing at Lloyd's feet, he hung his head and said a silent prayer for the man who taught him right from wrong; the man who showed him what it felt like to be part of a normal family.
He opened the crumpled envelop Brenda gave him and read the ink-smeared note he found inside:
Lloyd,
I'm sorry for what has happened, but this was God's plan not mine. I accept what you have done, and I forgive you. No man is perfect. Sometimes we succumb to our temptations despite our best intentions. I hope this letter finds you in good health and good conscience. I wish I could offer you more. If you need an escape from reality, dig up Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Forgive me for not expressing myself to you in person, but as you know, I have never been a man of words.
Love, Robert.
* * *
Soaked to the bone on the Triumph at fifty miles an hour, Lloyd punched holes through the asteroid field of steady precipitation pelting his eyes and face. Stay alert and stay alive, he told himself, enduring the white-knuckle ride over wet pavement blended with an oily sheen of hydrocarbon residue.
He hugged the double yellow line to avoid the lake-size patches of runoff water. With tire friction at a premium, he kept the bike nearly upright through
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