Defiant Heart

by Steere, Marty

He nodded. “It’s not a problem. I can walk. It’s really not that far.”

  They ate in silence, and Jon assumed the conversation was over. After a couple of minutes, however, his grandmother spoke again.

  “You know,” she said, “there may be an alternative. I’ll show you after dinner.”

  #

  When they had cleared the dishes, Jon’s grandmother motioned for him to follow her. She walked to the back door, stepped out, and went immediately to the work shed, Jon nervously in tow. At the door, she paused, and it appeared to Jon as though she was debating with herself. Then, as he had seen her do so many times, she squared her shoulders. Lifting the latch, she pulled the door open.

  She flipped on the lights and stepped up onto the threshold, where she again paused. After a long moment, she strode purposefully to the back of the shed, turned around and pointed to an object resting against the pegboard wall opposite the workbench. Jon had previously noticed it, a shapeless form covered by an oilcloth, but he had not paid it much attention.

  “What do you think of this?” she asked.

  Jon stepped up into the shed and looked from his grandmother to the object and back. He made an inquiring gesture with his hands, as if to lift the cloth, and she nodded. He gripped the cloth with both hands and pulled it up and over.

  Beneath the cover stood an old bicycle on two flat tires.

  “I was thinking that, perhaps,” she said slowly, “you might be handy enough to get this old thing back in running condition.”

  He could not be sure, but Jon thought he might have detected just a bit of wry humor in his grandmother’s tone. He certainly wasn’t going to take any chances.

  “I’d like to try. Thank you.”

  “Good,” she said with finality. “I believe you’ll find all the tools you could possibly need right here in this shed.”

  #

  Jon’s dad had not been particularly handy about the house. He could hang pictures and, in a pinch, unclog a drain. But most repair jobs he left to “people who know what they’re doing.” That is, with one major exception. From the time he was a child, Frank Meyer had worked on bicycles.

  Some of Jon’s earliest memories were of sitting with his father, watching him repair bikes. And not just his own. It seemed that, whenever anyone in the neighborhood had a problem with a bike, it eventually made its way to the small garage behind the Meyer home, where Frank would spend hours in the evening after dinner happily tinkering.

  When Jon and Sandy were old enough to ride bikes, they accompanied their father to the dump out past Great Neck, where, for a couple of dollars, the supervisor let them pick through a collection of discarded junk until they found two likely candidates and an ample collection of spare parts. Then Frank, with Jon and Sandy assisting, rebuilt both bikes. Over the next several years, with their father’s help, Jon and Sandy retrofitted their prize possessions with whatever was the new rage, from balloon tires to aerodynamic fins, from headlights to speedometers. Somewhere back on Long Island, Jon reflected sadly, were a pair of bicycles that had been the envy of Nassau County.

  His grandfather’s old bike was certainly no Schwinn. It was a basic utility vehicle for a working man. Behind the seat, his grandfather had rigged a large, sturdy frame to hold a set of canvas saddlebags in which, his grandmother informed him, he had carried his tools and materials. Jon could tell the bike had been well-maintained at one time, but years of sitting untouched in the work shed through a succession of hot summers and frigid winters had taken a toll. In addition to the two flat tires, a couple of the wheel spokes had sprung, and the insidious onslaught of rust had spread to most of the metal surfaces.

  Jon first disassembled the bike, separating the major components. He removed the tires and checked the tubes for leaks. One was fine, but the other had to be patched. The tires themselves were still in decent shape, so he cleaned those and set them aside. From Dahlgren’s, he ordered replacement spokes with corresponding nipples, and, when they came in, he restrung and trued the wheels. The saddlebags were too worn and frayed to be of further use, so he discarded them and their support structure.

  He spent several evenings laboriously scrubbing rust from the frame and priming the freshly cleaned surfaces. At the moment, he was in the process of repacking the bearings in the rear hub. It was a very messy job.

  Jon could not remember the last time he’d been so happy.

  A noise at the door of the shed caused him to pause and turn. His grandmother stood just outside the opening, illuminated by the soft light spilling from the structure.

  “Do you mind if I come in?” she asked.

  “Of course not.”

  As she planted a foot on the threshold, Jon pointed a greasy finger at the bicycle frame he had mounted on a makeshift stand just inside the door. “Careful, there are still some wet spots.”

  She stepped up into the shed, holding her robe close so as not to rub against the freshly primed metal. She stood straight and squared her shoulders. With an intent expression, she slowly surveyed the interior. Jon could see it was not the look of someone viewing something new or unfamiliar. Instead, it was the frank, appraising gaze of someone who knew what she was looking at and what she was looking for.

  Finally, she nodded and said softly, “This is good.” She turned in a complete circle and nodded again. “Yes. He would be pleased.”

  She made as if to leave, but, with one hand on the door, she turned slightly.

  “Don’t stay up too late. You need your rest.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jon said. But she was already gone.

  #

  On Sunday, it was ready. Jon had reassembled all the parts, adjusted the brakes and checked the wheels for proper alignment. As a final touch, he had painted the frame a glossy black, using a pint of enamel he’d found under the bench in the shed. The black made the freshly polished metal of the spokes and crankset stand out. Though it was still just a utility vehicle, it had what Jon considered a snazzy look. Without admitting it to anyone else, he was as proud of this bicycle as he had been of anything he’d ever possessed.

  He wheeled the bike around the side of the house, through the wooden gate and up to the curb in front of the stoop. His grandmother had left earlier for church, and the street was deserted, so there was nobody to observe him. It didn’t matter to Jon. He didn’t know anybody anyway.

  He took a deep breath and swung a leg up over the seat, planting a foot on the raised pedal. He looked in both directions, suddenly uncertain where he should go. Then, for no reason other than the fact that the bike was already pointed that way, he shifted his weight from the foot resting on the curb, stepped down hard with his other foot, and allowed the bike to roll in the direction opposite the town.

  Jon was immediately engulfed in a feeling at once familiar and unfamiliar. As his speed increased, the air washed over him, and it felt like a cleansing breeze. He had the sudden, irrational feeling he was escaping, as if a great, unseen force had somehow reached down and begun stripping away cobwebs and tentacles he’d not realized had been holding him.

  Before he knew it, he was on a two-lane highway, pedaling at a rapid clip, fields and pastures whizzing by on either side, and not another vehicle or person in sight. The sense of freedom and exhilaration was overwhelming.

  Through the euphoria, Jon only vaguely realized he was crying.

  4

  When Jon awoke on the morning of the first day of school, a thin shaft of light was peeking through the edge of the window shade and had splayed itself across a portion of the wall above his bed. It carried the promise of a bright, sunny day. With a sense of nervous anticipation, he hoped the weather would be a harbinger of good things.

  Though it was a Monday, and, therefore, bridge day, Jon was surprised to find that his grandmother was not in the house when he emerged from his room. Unperturbed, he served himself breakfast. When he was finished, he cleaned his dishes, retrieved a notebook and a set of pencils from his room and made his
way to the work shed.

  The bike was sitting as he had left it the evening before, propped against the side wall. However, as he stepped up into the shed, he noticed something different. Hanging from the handlebars was an old khaki knapsack. Curious, he opened it and saw that it contained a brown paper bag. He pulled out the bag and looked at the contents. On top, he could see a sandwich neatly wrapped in wax paper. Beneath the sandwich he found an apple, and, nestled against the apple was something Jon hadn’t seen in a long time. It was a package of one of his favorite treats, a Twinkie bar.

  Jon shook his head in wonder. His grandmother had packed a lunch for him.

  #

  The ride to school took Jon no more than five minutes. Though his first sight of the building brought a momentary unpleasant memory of the encounter with the pickup truck, it passed quickly. The scene that confronted him this morning was completely different. What had been an empty parking lot in the rain was now a beehive of activity on a sun-splashed day.

  Jon steered the bike into the lot and picked his way carefully across the uneven gravel surface to the front of the building, where he found a rack in which a half dozen other bicycles of myriad colors and styles had already been parked. After placing his bike in the rack, he shrugged off the knapsack, retrieved its contents, and hung it from the handlebar. He then followed a group of students up the broad steps to the large double doors.

  In the vestibule just inside, Jon found a series of tables had been set up around the edges of the large entryway. He located the table with the letters “K‌—‌M” taped above it. Seated behind it was a wiry, athletic looking man who, at the moment, was sharing a laugh with two boys standing to the side of the table.

  A line of students had formed in front of the table, and they were waiting for the man to finish his conversation with the two boys. Jon stepped up to the back of the queue and looked at his surroundings.

  Light banter, punctuated by occasional outbursts, echoed off the tiled floor and marbled walls with a natural amplification that made a sound much louder than it would have been in a more open area. The faces of some of the students, particularly the younger ones, reflected varying levels of anxiety, but, for the most part, there was a sense of gaiety. It was not so different, Jon reflected, from his old school. He found that, by squinting and blocking out all but the general shapes in the milling crowd, he could believe he was back in Glen Cove.

  As he reopened his eyes and focused, he was surprised to see another pair of eyes staring back at him from across the room. They were a pale, iridescent blue, almost transparent. Eyes like Jon had never seen before. They were so mesmerizing, in fact, that it took Jon a second to realize they belonged to the girl with the tousled blond hair, the one he’d seen on the Fourth of July. She stood calmly looking at him. Not in a judgmental way. Not in a curious way, either. She was just looking at him.

  They both stood that way for a long moment, eyes locked. Then someone near the girl said something, and she turned, laughing as she did.

  A movement next to him drew Jon’s attention. A boy about Jon’s age was gesturing with one hand. He pointed past Jon and said, “Line’s moving.”

  Jon saw that, indeed, the line had grown shorter. In fact, there was only one student ahead of him, and she was just turning away from the table with an envelope in her hand. Jon took a step forward. Suddenly, something very large and solid was in the space between Jon and the table, and Jon was staggering sideways, his lunch bag and school supplies falling in a scattered pattern on the hard floor. Jon was able to catch himself before he also hit the floor, his right hand reaching out in an instinctive gesture and grazing the tiles as he shuffled his feet to avoid falling. As he regained his balance and straightened, he found himself looking up into the face of the blond boy he’d first seen on the Fourth of July. The boy was at least ten inches taller than Jon, and, with his broad shoulders and sturdy build, he towered over him.

  “You don’t mind if I cut in, do you?” Without waiting for a reply, he added, “Of course you don’t,” and turned his back on Jon.

  Without thinking, Jon tensed and was about to take a step toward the bigger boy when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning reflexively, he saw the face of the student who’d previously spoken to him. It was a ruddy face, with full cheeks dotted by freckles. The boy increased his grip on Jon’s shoulder and gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.

  “Nice pick,” he heard a voice say, and, turning, he realized it was the man behind the table who was speaking. “But watch that rear foot sliding over. Wherever it is, plant it before the contact. Then, when you lean into the defender, don’t make it so obvious.”

  The blond laughed and said, “Hi ya, Spitz,”

  “King, good to see you,” the man replied. “Been workin’ out like I told you?”

  “You bet.”

  Jon kneeled and collected his belongings from the floor. When he stood again and faced the table, the giant was sauntering away. The man seated behind the table gestured impatiently.

  “Name?” he barked.

  “Meyer. Jonathon.”

  “Meyer,” the man repeated, leafing through the box of envelopes on his table, until he found the right one.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, glancing up and, for the first time meeting Jon’s eyes. “You’re the new kid.” He leaned forward and looked at Jon more carefully. “You play basketball?”

  Jon let the question dangle for a moment. Then, with as much calm as he could muster, he replied, “No.” And, after a beat, added, “Sir.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed and he stared at Jon for a long moment. “Your loss,” the man said, finally, tossing the envelope down on the table in front of Jon.

  #

  From across the hall, Mary watched the exchange between the new boy and Vernon, and the reaction, or, more to the point, the non-reaction of the teacher, and it made her angry.

  “I honestly don’t know who’s the bigger bully,” she said to Sam, without turning, “Vernon or Mr. Spitzman.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Sam said. “You want to get run out of town on a rail, is that it?”

  Mary looked at Sam. “No, that’s not it. I just think there’s too much importance placed on the basketball team. It’s great that the town has something to be excited about. And I’m all for school spirit. But sometimes I think people get a little too carried away. And,” she added quietly, “I don’t think much of Mr. Spitzman.”

  “Well, he’s only the most successful coach we’ve ever had. Everyone’s saying we have a real chance this year to go to the state finals.”

  “Believe it,” said a voice behind them, and they both turned as Billy Hamilton walked up, Gwenda at his side, her right arm linked protectively around Billy’s left.

  “This is our year,” Billy said, proudly. “We’ve got all five starters returning. Most everybody else lost important players, including just about every school in our division. We can do something really special this year. Put Jackson on the map, maybe.”

  Mary nodded. “That would be special,” she acknowledged.

  Turning back, she watched as the new boy and Mr. Spitzman spoke. “Does anybody know who that guy is?”

  Sam shook her head. “Never seen him before.”

  “I do,” said Gwenda. “Missy Lambert told me he’s from back east. He moved here this summer to live with old Mrs. Wilson. Must be a relative or something. She said she saw him there when she was taking piano lessons.”

  “He’s been working at your father’s store,” Billy added. “I noticed him a few weeks ago.”

  Mary turned, surprised. “Really?”

  Sam looked at Mary. “Your father never mentioned it?”

  Mary gave Sam a sideways glance.

  “Oh, right,” Sam said. “Never mind.”

  “He’s in our class,” Gwenda said. “Or at least our class,” she amended, squeezing Billy’s arm and gesturing toward Sam. “Isn’t it great we’re all going to be in the same cla
ssroom again?”

  “Yes,” Mary agreed. The Jackson High student body was so small that the seventh and eighth graders shared classes, as did the ninth and tenth, and the eleventh and twelfth graders. Early the previous year, Mary’s teachers had realized that, as a freshman, she’d been exposed to and had already mastered the sophomore curriculum. Their solution was to move her into the upper class, and she’d been separated from Sam and Gwenda. Now, that she was in twelfth grade, and other girls were in eleventh, they would once again be sharing the same classrooms.

  Taking in the group, Mary smiled brightly and added, “This is definitely going to be a special year.”

  #

  The first thing Agnes Tremaine did after entering her classroom was check the contents of the two boxes that had been left on the floor by her desk. Satisfied that the boxes contained the correct number of books, she took a seat at the desk, opened her leather folio and extracted a stack of papers. On top was a master roll. In addition to her normal task of teaching English for each of the six grades at Jackson High, she would be serving this year as the home room teacher for the combined eleventh and twelfth graders.

  She scanned the list of students and noted a couple she did not expect to see in her classroom, if at all, until later in the semester. They were boys who lived on farms well outside of town and would almost certainly not appear until after the corn harvest was in.

  The names on the list she knew well. This was Agnes’ eighth year teaching at Jackson, a job she’d taken shortly after her graduation from Bryn Mawr. She had taught each of these students from the seventh grade on. There was only one unfamiliar name: Jonathon Meyer, the transfer from New York. She had been given a copy of his transcript, and he appeared to be a very good student. He was one of the two subjects occupying her thoughts this first morning of school.

  The other was Mary Dahlgren. What was she going to do with Mary this year?

  That Mary was a superb student was beyond question. The problem, or, better yet, the challenge, Agnes reflected, was going to be finding a way to keep Mary engaged. The year before, Mary had devoured not only the readings for the eleventh graders, but she’d taken it upon herself to read each of the works on the twelfth grade reading list. When she had sat for her final exam the previous spring, she’d done something unprecedented, taking both the eleventh and twelfth grade exams at the same time. Moreover‌—‌and, frankly, this had come as no surprise to Agnes‌—‌Mary had posted the highest scores on each exam. And it wasn’t even close.