The Most Important Thing Page 4

  Billy raced after him. “Thief! Thief!” he yelled. He got to the end of the block and took the turn the kid had taken, only to find he had disappeared.

  Boiling with fury, Billy searched one street after another. Both thief and bike were gone.

  Billy tore over to the police station. When he got there, he had to wait in line. First, there was a couple who were having an argument. Then there was an old man reporting that his Social Security check was missing.

  When Billy finally got up to the desk, it was the same desk officer he had spoken to before.

  “Hey, Billy. Got some news?” the policeman asked.

  “Some kid on Alameda Street has it.”

  “Good for you!” The policeman reached for a pad and pencil. “What’s the kid’s name?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Where’s he live?”

  “Don’t know that, neither.”

  The policeman put down his pencil. “Hey, Billy, I thought you said you found it.”

  Billy said, “The kid who stole it was on the street. Riding it. I told him to give it back, but he just cussed me and took off.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Don’t know.”

  The officer sighed and leaned over the counter, elbows down, hands clasped, and said, “Billy, there’s not much we can do about it if we don’t know who took it, or where it is.”

  “But I can’t win without it,” Billy cried. “And the race is in three days!”

  “Tell me about it. I’m the finish-line judge. Look, I’ll put in a call. Can you describe the kid who had it?”

  Billy did the best he could. He told about the white T-shirt. The tattoo.

  “Where was the tattoo?”

  “On his left arm. An American eagle.”

  “That’s useful,” the policeman said. “We’ll try.” He did not sound hopeful.

  “I’ve got to get it back,” Billy pleaded.

  The officer turned to the police call box and in a loud voice began to alert the town’s two squad cars.

  When Billy reached home, his mom was there. Full of fury, he told his tale. His mom said, “Come on. Get in the car. We’ll go look.”

  They searched, focusing on the area where Billy had seen the teenager with his bike. There was no sign of the boy or the bike.

  “Maybe when you found him, you made him nervous,” Billy’s mother said as they drove slowly home. “Made him so nervous, he dumped the bike, and the cops will pick it up now.”

  Billy stared out the window. “I got to get it to win,” he said.

  Come Saturday and Sunday, Billy spent all of his time roaming Staltonburg. He checked in with the police station three times. By this time, the desk officer greeted him like an old friend.

  “Hey, kid,” the policeman called to him as Billy, long-faced and sad, walked by after checking the bike cage yet again. “Come on over here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The policeman clasped his big hands together and leaned forward. “Look here, son. I don’t think your bike is going to show up. And I know you want to be in the race tomorrow, right?”

  “I really need to win.”

  The officer lowered his voice, and leaned forward. “Okay, now what I’m suggesting,” he said, “isn’t exactly dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. I’m just saying you could go into the bike cage, find yourself a bike. Then you could tell me it’s the one you lost, and I could sign it over to you. After a few months, when no one claims them, we sell ’em anyway.”

  Billy did not say anything.

  “And if you didn’t want to do that,” the policeman continued, “you could, you know, just borrow it, and then bring it back after the race. Am I making myself clear?”

  Billy shook his head. “I only want to race my bike,” he said. “It’s the winner.”

  “Okay, kid,” the officer said. “Just trying to help.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Billy. Feeling desperate, but not knowing what to do, he dragged himself home.

  Memorial Day proved to be glorious. The sky was deep blue with a few fluffy clouds moving along like lazy sheep, the air as mellow as warm pancake syrup. Trees were dressed up in leafy green. Lilacs were in bloom, along with some lilies and even some early roses.

  The Staltonburg Memorial Day Parade always took place along Market Street. It formed up at the corner of Rochester and Elm at ten a.m. sharp. In the lead was the Boy Scout honor guard, two Eagle Scouts who carried the national and state flags. Soldiers with white rifles flanked them. There were Cub Scouts and Brownie outriders, beating out a snappy marching rhythm on small snare drums. The drums were held over their stomachs with red, white, and blue sashes.

  Lots of other town groups marched by, from the Veterans of Foreign Wars, to the Friends of the Library.

  At the wag-end of the parade came the kids on their bikes, from toddlers on tricycles and tiny two-wheelers with training wheels, on up to the older kids.

  Billy — with his Coca-Cola racing bib on — watched from the sidewalk along with his mother, looking for his red bike. He and his mom had worked out a plan of action. Billy had remembered the teenager saying he intended to be in the race. If he saw him or his bike, he would tell his mom. Parade or no parade, she promised she would wade right in and do what she had to do to get Billy’s bike back.

  Trouble was, Billy didn’t see his bike. Twice, he thought he did. Once he even called, “Mom!” False alarm. The parade went by without any incident. Or Billy’s bike.

  “Maybe,” Billy’s mother suggested, “he’s afraid you’ll see him, so he won’t be in the race.”

  Billy shook his head and said, “That bike’s a winner.”

  “Come on,” his mother said. “Let’s watch the races.”

  The races, run by the police and fire departments, were held in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot where portable bleachers had been set up. On the far right, a starting line had been marked off with bright orange road cones. A policeman with a pistol that shot blanks stood by.

  At the far other end of the lot was the finish line, marked by more cones. Standing by that line as judge was Billy’s friend, the policeman. A card table was set in front of the bleachers with a bunch of shiny plastic trophies lined up for the winners. Each trophy held an envelope with twenty-five dollars in cash. A reporter from the Staltonburg Defender hovered around to take pictures of the winners.

  Billy and his mother found themselves some seats in the stands, up high, so they could see everything.

  “If you see that boy,” Billy’s mom said, “just point him out. No fighting.”

  First up were the toddlers on their tricycles. Just as many girls as boys. When the starting gun went off, some of the little kids were so scared they just sat there and cried — which brought laughter. One kid went the wrong way. A red-faced little girl crossed the finish line, kept going, and had to be hauled back to be told that she’d won. She looked bewildered and happy at the same time.

  The races went on, one after the other, gradually working their way up the age ladder. After each race, the finish line was adjusted so the course became longer. Billy, increasingly tense, watched intently.

  When they got to the twelve-year-old level — Billy’s race — he stood up, straining for some sign, any sign, of his bike. His mother, just as anxious, stood right there with him, hand on his shoulder.

  They didn’t see a thing.

  Some other kid — Billy had never heard of him — won. His pal Joey came in second. Billy slumped a bit, but insisted on standing, watching.

  The final race was for the teenagers. There were many kids, all jumbled up around the starting line. It was mostly boys, though a couple of girls joined in.

  “If he’s coming at all, he’ll be there now,” Billy heard his mom say. Billy had already had that thought.

  The policeman lifted his pistol and fired a blank to start the race.

  At first, the racers were bunched up, so it was hard to see who was in th
e lead. Bit by bit the pack stretched out and the leaders settled in.

  That’s when Billy screamed, “There it is!” and pointed.

  His mother looked. In the lead was the short chunky boy, pedaling furiously on a red bike that was too small for him.

  “That’s him. That’s my bike!” Billy kept screaming. “It’s winning!” He scrambled down from the stands, his mother right behind him, trying to keep up by saying, “Excuse me, please. Sorry,” as she worked her way through.

  By the time they got down to the ground Billy’s red bike had zipped across the finish line — first. The kid riding it lifted both arms high over his head as if he had scored a touchdown.

  Billy tore after him.

  The teenager had spun the bike around and was facing in. Billy’s friend, the police officer, was at the finish line. He was moving toward the winner, hand extended for congratulations. So was the photographer. That’s when the policeman noticed Billy charging across the lot. The teenager saw him, too. He spun the bike around and took off. If he moved fast when he was racing, he was doing double time getting away. No picture was taken.

  Billy, trying to catch the thief, kept running after him. Not that he could catch him. Within seconds, the teenager was gone. With the bike.

  The policeman, who had seen the whole thing, figured out the situation right away. “Was that your bike?” he asked Billy. “Was that him?”

  “Yes, sir,” Billy gasped. “It was.”

  The policeman took a step in the direction the thief had taken, but seeing how useless it was, he stopped. “He’s gone,” he said.

  “But — but my bike . . .”

  “It’s gone, too, Billy.”

  The look on Billy’s face said something to the policeman.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  He started walking back along the course. Billy followed, as did his mom, who had caught up.

  The policeman reached the trophy table. He beckoned Billy over. “We got some kind of a tricky thing here,” the officer said to the fire chief, who was sitting behind the table. “The winner of the last race was riding a stolen bike. The bike belongs to this kid. I can vouch for that.”

  The fire chief looked at Billy, then at the policeman. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked.

  The policeman said, “The bike won, didn’t it? You should give the trophy to this boy.”

  Billy spoke right up. And what he said was, “I don’t want it.”

  “Hey, kid,” the policeman said. “Your bike won. So you won.” He looked at Billy’s mother, trying to get her to do something.

  Billy’s mom just stood there. She didn’t know what to do.

  “I didn’t win!” cried Billy, and ran off.

  The cop picked up the trophy. “Are you his mom?” he asked.

  Billy’s mom nodded.

  The officer did not offer the money, but he did hold out the trophy. After a moment, she took it.

  Back at the mobile home, Billy’s mom found him on his bed, one hand behind his head, the other holding the picture of his father.

  “You won the trophy,” she said, holding it up.

  Not wanting to show his mother his pain, Billy rolled over so she could not see his face. “Just because I can’t see Dad,” he said, “doesn’t mean he’s not somewhere. Has to be. You don’t understand,” he cried. “The bike was the winner. Not me. He’ll never find me, because you’re not a winner unless your picture is in the paper.”

  Billy’s mom stood there, gazing down at her boy. For just a second she considered reaching out and taking the picture away. Instead, she sat down on the bed by his side, stroked Billy’s hair, and said, “Billy, you’ve convinced me. The kitchen table in our house does need to be bigger. Just in case someone shows up for dinner.”

  I stood in front of my bathroom mirror brushing my hair, but I wasn’t paying much attention. I was thinking about the dance that night at St. George Episcopal Church. The dance, run for neighborhood kids by our church, was held four times a year. Anyone between the ages of thirteen and eighteen could go as long as they did not smoke, drink, use drugs, or make trouble. I had no interest in any of that, but, uneasy about going, I brushed my hair this way, that way, ten different ways, never getting it right. It would have helped to have looked.

  Whenever my school had a class party or a dance, I went. They were easy. I knew the kids, knew the chaperones, and knew how it all worked. I felt comfortable. I could — and did — have a great time. The dance at St. George would be different. I had never gone before. A live band was promised, so a big crowd was expected. My classmates didn’t usually go, so I would probably know only a few kids.

  The reason I was going was that Alice Rollack suggested I come. I liked her a lot. Not that I had ever told her. As far as she was concerned, we were just friends. I wanted it to be more. During the past week, we had talked in school, and she said she was going to the church dance with a bunch of her girlfriends. “Why don’t you come?” she said.

  Feeling as though she had asked me out — I’m sure I blushed — I promised to go. But when I told my best friend, Arlo, that I was going to the St. George dance and suggested we go together, Arlo shook his head. “No way I’m going,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Lot of rough stuff at those dances.”

  I felt instant alarm. “Like what?”

  “Like gangs.”

  “Gangs?” I said to Arlo, my stomach churning. “That true?”

  “Hey, buddy, would I lie?”

  I never thought of myself as particularly brave. When it came to things like fighting, or any kind of violence, I shrank from it. Just the thought of it made me tense. Not that I ever told anyone. Not even Arlo. I was convinced that if people found out, they would think less of me. At the same time, I have to admit, fighting, rough stuff, was not part of my life. Now there was Alice, the dance, my promise that I would go — and Arlo’s warning.

  Which is why I went to the kitchen where my mom was preparing dinner. As casually as I could, I said, “Thought I’d go to the dance at St. George tonight.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “But . . . I don’t know if I should.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Arlo said there might be gangs.”

  Mom paused in her work to look around with anxious eyes. “That doesn’t sound so great. Better talk to your dad. He’ll be home soon.”

  Dad always gave me good advice. That wasn’t only because he was a successful trial lawyer whom people called constantly for guidance. Or that — as he often told me — he was the head of the family, with the responsibility to solve complications and organize us all. Or even that he had been a champion boxer at Michigan State University. I admired him for all of those things, but also because when I went to him, he mostly made me feel like he was there to help.

  Mostly, but not always. Because there was something about him that scared me. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t scared he would hurt me physically. He didn’t and wouldn’t. My fear was that he would think poorly of me, consider me in some way a failure. Not up to his mark.

  He was a big man, six foot three, and broad chested. His wide shoulders were thrust forward, adding to a powerful presence. His face was swarthy so that even though he would shave in the morning, he’d shave again if he and Mom went out. His eyebrows were dark and craggy, too, which gave him a fierce appearance — an appearance, he claimed, that helped him in the courtroom. “You have to dominate,” he once told me.

  People who saw Dad and me side-by-side often said I looked like him. There was the same dark complexion, the same heavyset body, the same pale, gray eyes. They also said — because of my large feet — that I would be bigger than he was. Sometimes when I’d look into my mirror, I’d see his face in my face. I liked that, but as far as wanting to be another Dad, with all that bigness and strength, though I thought it would be great, I didn’t think it was likely. That was also something that troubled me, not that I ever spok
e about it.

  That night, shortly after six, Dad got home from work. It being Friday, he sat in his big chair, jacket off, shirt collar open, tie askew and pulled down, drink in hand. That’s when I approached him.

  “What’s up, Charlie?” he said. “You look troubled.”

  Unsure how to explain my uneasiness, and not certain how he would take it, I became anxious. “It’s about a dance, at St. George,” I began. “Tonight.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Well, I was thinking of going. But . . . they said there might be gangs there.”

  “Gangs at a dance?” Dad repeated. “At our church?” He had a habit of repeating information, a way — he once told me — that allowed him, when in court, to take a little time so as to think out the strongest response.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many . . . gangs?”

  “Don’t know. One. Two.”

  Dad smiled his I-know-the-answer-before-you-ask-the-question smile. “Charlie, try to be precise. A sloppy mind makes the world sloppy. Now, how many gangs?”

  Flustered, I said, “Maybe one.”

  “Maybe one. Is this fact, rumor, gossip? Who told you?”

  “Who told me? Ah . . . kids.”

  Those big eyebrows of his went up. That smile again. “Someone in particular?”

  “Well . . . Arlo.”

  “Ah, Arlo.”

  His ah made me wince. Dad was not impressed by Arlo. “All I can say about Arlo,” he once told me, “is: it’s smarter to have smart friends.”

  Sure enough, Dad said, “How does Arlo know?”

  I shrugged.

  “Has he been to one of these dances?”

  Don’t think so,” I admitted. Long ago, I had learned to be truthful to Dad. He could catch out a lie the way Sherlock Holmes detected clues. Dad had brought me to court a few times, so I could see him in action. Now, as if he were addressing a witness, he jabbed a finger toward me. “So Arlo doesn’t know for certain about this. He wasn’t actually there.”

  Not wanting to reveal any more about my nervousness, I just said, “No, sir. I guess he doesn’t really know.”

  Dad smiled again. “You want to go to the dance, don’t you?”