Then I noticed something tied beneath the seat.
A small envelope.
DAD.
My knees nearly gave out.
Ray stepped back.
I opened it.
The letter wasn't long.
Marcus apologized for not telling me everything.
He said he knew I'd try to fix something that couldn't necessarily be fixed.
Then came the part that broke me.
He wrote:
Dad, you taught me a man's possessions should never become more important than people.
So don't get mad when you hear what I'm doing with the Harley.
I laughed and cried at the same time.
Of course he knew I'd be mad.
At the bottom he'd written:
Please help Ray get a fair price.
I folded the letter.
Then looked at Ray.
"Your sign is terrible."
He blinked.
"What?"
"Nobody's paying twenty-eight grand with that ugly thing."
For the first time, Ray smiled.
"What do you suggest?"
"We clean the bike."
So we did.
That Saturday, seven bikers came over.
All men who'd known Marcus.
We washed the Harley.
Polished the chrome.
Changed the fluids.
Marcus had left it nearly perfect.
Three weeks later, we found a buyer.
Twenty-nine thousand dollars.
More than Marcus expected.
I couldn't watch the motorcycle leave.
I thought I could.
I couldn't.
When the new owner started the engine, I walked inside the workshop.
Caleb was there.
The twelve-year-old boy Marcus had been mentoring.
He was organizing sockets.
He looked at me.
"You're Marcus's dad?"
"Yeah."
He swallowed.
"He taught me how to rebuild a carburetor."
"Sounds like him."
Then Caleb reached into a drawer.
"I think this belongs to you."