The Dust and the Roar Page 3

  “I was a medic in the army. I can help.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why? Stupidest thing I ever heard.” My fingertips dug into his arms, and his cool blade grazed my skin, the smell of metal and dirt rising up. My upper body twisted in his harsh grip. “Gunshot or blade?”

  “Blade,” declared another voice. “He got cut.”

  “Fucking Demon Seeds,” muttered someone.

  A man stepped into my field of vision—the blond guy I’d seen out front talking to Biff. I glanced at his patch, the same one they all had stitched on their vests, and it wasn’t just an eagle, but a bleeding eagle. “Bleeding Eagles MC” was stitched in red. The blond guy pointed at me. “You. You’re Earl Tallin’s kid, aren’t you?”

  I took in his curly dark blond hair, long neck, and thick handlebar mustache. Now I remembered. “The red Shovelhead,” I said.

  A grin split his face. “That’s right.”

  “How’s he know Selma, Willy?” a voice piped up.

  “His pa fixed my baby not once but twice. Did me a good turn and never asked for much in return. We shared a lot of beers together, shot some pool on winter nights—right here at Dead Ringers. Earl did good work. Was a good man. I was sorry to hear he passed.”

  “Thanks.” My dad passing was the reason I signed up for the army. He had deteriorated fast my senior year of high school from stomach cancer, and he’d passed right after graduation. I couldn’t stay at that trailer alone. Uncle Sam needed us anyhow. Noah’s dad was a veteran and had urged us to think hard about our country and our future. We’d signed up, and we left.

  And here we were in our future.

  “You were a doc?” the blond biker asked me.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “11th Armored Cavalry. Got back in ’70.”

  I held his intense gaze, and in that gaze, I smelled the rice paddies in the humidity, the rotting vegetation. Felt the rain seeping through my skin, the shuddering of the metal plane as we took off. I heard the slice and thwomp of the chopper blades above me as I charged forward with my wounded. Mortar rounds and rockets whizzing and exploding around us in rapid succession. Machine gun fire erupting in the darkness becoming light. Light becoming darkness.

  “Willy, he’s got to go.” My head jerked at the sound of that curt voice. I blinked in the bright light of the office.

  “No,” snapped Willy. He turned back to me, shooting me a hard look. “Let him work.” I was released. “Get him a first aid kit, people, something.”

  Biff handed me a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a wad of bandages, tape. Someone gave the pale, young patient a bottle of booze, which he immediately brought to his mouth and glugged.

  “Is my prospect gonna survive?” asked Willy.

  “I’m fine, right?” groaned Jump, the stabbed guy, who seemed more like a kid than a man.

  “Be still,” I said. “Luckily, it’s a clean slice. No damage that I can see, but I need something to stitch him up with.”

  “On it,” said someone, charging from the room.

  Two hours later, Jump was snoozing on the couch high on weed and a half bottle of booze which he clung to like a baby with his beloved teddy bear. I’d stitched him up with a needle and thread that they’d gotten from the motel across the way.

  “Good job,” said Willy.

  “Glad I could help.” And I was glad. Adrenaline washed through my veins, my pulse drummed in my ears.

  I hadn’t felt this alive since … since I’d come back. I hadn’t even seen active duty for two years, had been stuck on a base, in a VA hospital assisting doctors and nurses.

  But this … this was different.

  The three men in Willy’s crew brushed past us to get into the Saloon. “You better keep your trap shut about this, is all,” said one of the men, staring at me, a hand on his gun which poked from his side. I was sure these guys were all loaded up, knives in their boots, at their sides, guns at their backs, in holsters.

  “What you all get up to isn’t my business,” I said.

  “You want another drink?” Willy asked. “Biff, bring Richie here a bottle of—”

  “Jack,” I said.

  “Jack it is.” Willy grinned.

  He couldn’t have been much older than me. “How many tours did you do?”

  “Two,” he replied.

  “You got that Shovelhead with you tonight?” I asked.

  “Of course I do. You want to see her?”

  “Yeah, I’d like that.”

  He took me through to the back parking lot. She stood out from the rest. The others were dirty, patched together, but not Selma. She gleamed. A cut above.

  “Your dad had the part she needed,” Willy said, his voice curling with delight at the memory. “I couldn’t find it anywhere else.”

  “He always had a stash of parts on hand,” I said. “He saved the parts his dad had saved, and he used to scour garage sales or ask around. Always used to say it was worth saving them because you never knew when one would save your ass one day.”

  “Wise man. Sure saved my ass.”

  Willy’s words and wistful tone tugged at my heart. Hearing my father talked about with honor and recognition—that his “tinkering” as my mother used to call it meant something to somebody and had made a difference in someone’s life—was really special.

  Fixing bikes had been Dad’s hobby, and he’d done it for people as a favor. Then word had gotten out how he was good and dependable, and he started charging for his services. We met all kinds of people that way, not only locals but bikers from all over the country who came through the Black Hills going to the Sturgis rally.

  I didn’t mention to Willy that Dad and I had taken his Harley out for a ride after he’d finished the repair, and how she’d roared down the road like some wild creature. I’d felt the satisfaction in my dad’s middle as I’d held onto him, that growling hum vibrating through the very core of us both. Us being part of something greater, something untamed.

  My fingers itched to touch the Harley’s shiny chrome handlebars, the worn, softened leather of her saddle, to slide across the slickly painted gas tank. But I didn’t. I knew that it would have been disrespectful of me. Willy’s pride in his bike as we stood there in the dark staring at her was obvious.

  “She’s one of a kind,” I murmured.

  “You fix bikes too?” he asked.

  “Dad taught me a few things, but I can’t say…”

  “You still got that stash?”

  “Of the parts? Yeah, I got it.”

  “How about you come over to where we’ve been staying and look over our bikes? Some of the guys aren’t that responsible when it comes to upkeep, which is stupid—”

  “And dangerous.”

  “That’s right. We’re planning on a week-long run next month, and I really don’t think half of ‘em are gonna make it. Teach ‘em a thing or two. You’d be helping us out.”

  “Where you all staying?”

  “We keep moving, but the past month we’ve been at this old farm outside of Meager. Family’s trying to sell it, and we’re hanging in one of the barns for however long.” He let out a laugh. “I’m not gonna promise you money because we don’t have much, but what I can promise you is that whatever we got is yours, man.”

  Those words in his warm, even tone were like a salve settling over my chest. “Sounds good.” I jerked my chin at the patch on his leather vest. A vest that all of them wore. “Y’all are a bike club?”

  A grin tipped his lips. “Yeah, nothing real formal, but yeah, we’re a club.”

  “What do you get up to?”

  “We ride.”

  I held his gaze, lost. Found.

  Willy’s lips pressed together. He touched my arm. “Richie?”

  “Yeah?”

  He squeezed my bicep firmly. “Welcome home, brother.”

  My head fell forward. I had yet to hear those solemn words from a fellow soldier. Willy’s firm grip clasped my neck.


  “You done good, bro,” he whispered roughly, and what was left of my heart burned in my hollow chest.

  Chapter Six

  Noah was pale, so pale. And thinner than I’d ever seen him. I lit his cigarette for him, and he sucked in a long drag, leaning his head back against the La-Z-Boy recliner in his living room.

  “Here you go, boys.” Noah’s dad handed us two cans of beer.

  “Thanks, Gary.” I took them and opened them both, setting them on the end table by Noah.

  “I’ll leave you two to it. I’m going to get over to my poker game.”

  Noah grinned. “Give ‘em hell, Dad.”

  Gary squeezed his son’s arm, slapped me on the shoulder, and he left, slamming the screen door behind him.

  Noah took a gulp of beer. “He hasn’t been to that poker game in a long time. Doesn’t want to leave me alone.”

  “Well, his poker night can be our night out too, man.”

  He snorted. “Where am I gonna go like this?”

  “Noah, come on. We can get you to the Roadhouse with the wheelchair—”

  “No way. What a hassle. I hate that fucking thing.”

  “I know you do.”

  “You don’t know.” He glared at the metal wheelchair that lay abandoned and rejected by the front door. “Always knocking into things, ass gets numb. People looking at you funny. Can’t get in and out easy or on the sidewalks. Fucking hate it.”

  “Takes getting used to, I expect. Like anything else.”

  “There’s no getting used to this shit, Richie. No fucking way.” His eyes hardened, glaring at me, and I winced. He was right, I didn’t know what it was like for him now, and even though I knew what it was like for him in Nam, we still hadn’t discussed any details. We didn’t have to. We didn’t want to give those experiences words because words would conjure their power, and that was something we both skated away from. Every day was a new test of wills of pushing it back, pushing it back.

  “You look good, man,” said Noah. “You feel all right?”

  I took in a breath. “Yeah. You know. Sleeping isn’t so easy.”

  He let out a low laugh as he adjusted the sheet around his waist, the stubs of his once long, muscular legs moving underneath the white cotton fabric.

  “You don’t have to hide ‘em from me, Noah.”

  Noah had come home earlier than I had, and he’d been here stewing. From what his dad had told me earlier, our friends from high school had stopped visiting him a while back.

  “No more dirt bikes, no more motorcycles, no more driving.” He sucked hard on his Marlboro. “That’s all we used to do, you and me. Tool around. Now I’m stuck. Stuck in my bed, in a chair my dad manages to slide me into, on the goddamn toilet. Stuck in this house.” His jumpy gaze landed on a shelf filled with his baseball trophies. “Just fucking stuck.”

  “I brought you something.” I handed him the baggie filled with weed.

  “Thank fuck.” He got busy, and within seconds licked the edges of the paper he’d rolled up tight. He lit up and smoked. “There’s cash in the tool drawer in the kitchen. Grab whatever.”

  “Nah, I got it.” I took the joint from his fingers and took a hit. “Not that great, huh?”

  “We’ve had better, right?” He grinned. “But it’s better than nothing.”

  The pot helped him with the pain. Getting your legs blown off needed ongoing medication long after the multiple surgeries.

  Leaning his head back, Noah let loose a thick stream of smoke. “In the hospital in Nam, a bunch of us in the ward smoked dope. One day this medic tells us to cut it out because the major, who was the medical officer in charge, was on his back about it. Next day the major himself comes in our ward and says to me, “Young man, do you smell a pungent aroma?” And I said, “Dynamite adjective, sir!” We all busted a gut, of course, he didn’t think it was so funny.

  “That night, I lit up as usual, and the major happened to be writing up charts or some shit at the nurse’s desk close by, and he marches in and rants at me. I just kept smoking, staring up at the ceiling. Then he threatens me with an Article 15. That’s when I finally looked at him and said, “What are you going to do to me, sir? Send me to Vietnam?” All of us started laughing, and he went back to his charts.”

  “That’s the best thing I’ve heard in a long time,” I said, laughing.

  Noah passed me the joint again. “So now you’re out, you got big plans?”

  I shrugged. “Not sure yet. Should I become a college prick, since the government offered to pay the bill?”

  “You going to be a doctor for real? Lot of years, lot of school.”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think I could sit still like that anymore.”

  “Don’t you want to get the fuck outta here?” he said, his tone bitter.

  “No. This is home.” This was where my dad was, buried in the ground, where my memories of him and me having good times were rooted. I didn’t want to leave, didn’t see the need—not yet, at least. But South Dakota wasn’t home to Noah anymore, was it? It was a prison, a final stop, and I hated that for him.

  “I feel bad for my dad, you know,” he said. “He’s gotta cook and clean for both of us. Help me do my thing and get to work”—he coughed hard—“then all over again when he gets home.”

  “He loves you. He’s so happy to have you back home, and there’s nothing that man wouldn’t do for you.” Gary had become father and mother to his kids when his wife had suddenly died of pneumonia when we were starting high school.

  Noah dropped his head back. “He even paid a hooker to come do me. You believe that?”

  “What? You lucky shit. Any good? Should I get her number?”

  We laughed. It was good to hear him laugh again.

  He rubbed at his eyes. “It was the worst, man. Humiliating. I couldn’t relax, and no matter what she did—and she was trying hard—I was all knotted up. And you know what?” His voice lowered, an ache fracturing it. “I felt sick touching her, felt sick being touched.”

  “Noah—”

  “Couldn’t get hard, couldn’t get it up. I felt cold. My skin down to my bones. It was awful on top of more awful. She tried everything in the book too. Even called me daddy. That’s when I told her to get off me and go.”

  “Oh, man.”

  “But the worst was when my dad came home. He was so pleased with himself, pleased for me. We got into a fight, I was so fucking mean, and he apologized. I hated that. I hated that I made him feel that way. I hated that he felt he had to pay for me to get laid, that he wasted his hard earned money on my broken body. I should’ve lied and said, yeah, it was great, you’re the best.

  “That’s what sucks, you know? More than the phantom pain of legs that aren’t there anymore. More than waking up in the morning and forgetting, for one second, that I don’t have legs and can’t just get out of bed. What sucks is disappointing him. I can’t help him like I used to. Now, instead of him retiring, passing the business onto me, he’s gotta work twice as hard to keep me. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Richie.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” I murmured.

  “He doesn’t deserve this.”

  “You don’t deserve it either,” I said.

  “All washed up at twenty.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re not.”

  He stared at me with those dull eyes. “You aren’t either.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I have these dreams every night. I see that boy.”

  “I know, Noah.”

  “I see his face right before he let that pin loose. Thought he was gonna cry, the way he—”

  “Noah—”

  A little boy had thrown the grenade that had taken Noah’s legs and killed four men in his unit. I couldn’t bear to hear Noah tell it, because he wasn’t telling it. He was living it, and I would be there with him. My breathing picked up, that cold sting twisted through my gut. I grabbed the can of beer and sucked the cool brew down, but it di
dn’t drown the sting.

  “We use to dream about coming home, didn’t we?” I said. “About the smell of the pine trees in the Hills? When we were sweating like pigs in the jungle, we’d be thinking of the cold wind in the winter freezing our faces off, snow storms in April. Well, we’re home now, and the Hills are right here waiting for us.”

  He only chewed on his lip, his watery gaze distant, removed.

  “We made it home, Noah, and not in one of those bags I used to zip up all the time. Not in one of those government issued boxes. Think about that. We made it home alive.”

  His dull gaze finally met mine. “This ain’t alive. Can’t fuck, can’t walk, can’t ride, can’t work. People look funny at me.”

  “Fuck people.”

  He raised his hands and dropped them again. “I know I’m moaning. Sorry, man. I got to stop.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “No one else gets it, though, you know? I can’t talk like this with Pa, I mean—”

  “I get it. I know. Look, the VA should be kicking in with some more programs—”

  “Yeah, the motherfucking VA.” He raised his can of beer in a mock salute and took a swig.

  “I’ll come over regular, and we can get you in the wheelchair and tool around. We’ll work out together. You can develop your upper body, your arms, your shoulders—”

  “And be the fastest wheelchair rider in the county?”

  “Be the strongest you can be.”

  “Look at you, Mr. Positive.”

  I was trying for both of us. “That’s what we got, Noah. We can do this. You got me in your corner. You can count on me. We’re brothers, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah, man. Yeah.” The lines of his face pulled in.

  “Lay low. Fight hard. Together onwards,” I said. It had been Noah’s unit’s motto, and he’d taught it to me.

  Noah nodded absently as he lit another joint.

  “I’ll bring you more weed in a couple days.”

  “Groovy.” He let out a soft chuckle.

  “I got to find a job, see what’s around.”

  “Right.”

  “Hang tight, Noah. My house phone is disconnected, but I’m going to get the line back up.”