SLIVERS: Short Stories & Other Shards

Just Around the Bend

Forgive me if this comes out all wrong. It's been a while.

Though I've gone over this day so many times in my head, I've never put it into words before. So many things from my childhood have faded, but this one moment remains bright and clear.

It was the day after my 8th birthday. Or maybe it was my 9th? Either way, I had just gotten a new bike—actually new, not just 'new to me' like the rusty hunk of junk that I had previously inherited from one of my older cousins. I remember the bike vividly. I had never felt such pride. It was beautiful in a gleaming ruby red with white-walled tires and glittering streamers sticking out the ends of the handles.

On my birthday, I hadn't been allowed to ride it. Well, no, that wasn't quite true. I did ride it a little bit as a little show for all the gathered family—mom and dad, both pairs of grandparents, all my aunts and uncles, and a hefty handful of cousins. They all stood on the front lawn as I pedaled up and down the street, back and forth, cheering me on like it was something worth watching.

But that didn't count.

That wasn't a real ride.

A real ride was speeding down the back roads that wove between the farms that circled my small hometown. My scrawny legs were pumping as hard as they could, fast enough to kick up the sun-choked dirt. My neighbor was rattling alongside me on my old bike, puffing and panting with all the effort it took to keep up with me.

Thinking about it now, we should've taken the rattle as a warning, but I was too focused on our unequal race.

Our finish line was the last crossroads before the mountain and we were closing in fast. I remember my legs starting to ache from the effort. I didn't understand how my neighbor, so much smaller than me, could keep up on that old hunk of metal. She seemed propelled by determination alone.

Then I heard a noise. I'll never forget it. A sharp metal keening and a cry. When I looked back, all I caught was my friend flying over her handlebars and landing with a crunch. She tumbled down into the ditch on the side of the road, disappearing into the tall grass.

I immediately skidded to a stop and turned around, dropping my prized bike at the edge of the road before wading into the grass to find her. I found her quickly enough. She was sobbing, whimpering for her mom. She had been scraped up real good, and her arm was bent twice... once at the elbow and once in the middle of her forearm.

It didn't take a genius—and I was never that smart of a kid—to figure out something was wrong.

I knew I had to get help. She begged for me to stay with her, but I knew it was the only way. This was a time before every toddler had their own cell phone, y'know. There were only landlines back then. I had to find a house.

The houses out in the country were few and far between, but I had seen one about a mile back. It had been painted a bright sunshine yellow. That's why I remembered it. I had never seen a house painted that color before. I remember thinking I'd like to paint my own house that color one day, but I never did...

Anyway, I ran back to my bike and started back the way we came, shouting promises to return. In my panic, the fields on either side of the road seemed to stretch on forever. But soon enough, I rounded a bend, and, like the sun over the horizon, the yellow house came into view. I skidded into their driveway, nearly toppling myself. I hoped someone was home, but I quickly decided if there wasn't, I'd bust in and apologize after. They'd understand. They were country folk, after all, they had to understand necessity.

I ditched my bike next to the large tree that leaned close to the house and clomped up the porch. At first glance, it did seem like someone was home. There was a radio playing soft music somewhere inside, and the door was open, leaving only the screen. But when I pounded on the doorframe, no one came. I called out, too, but still no answer.