by Weston Ochse
Divorce.
Until recently, Matt had never heard the word. Now it was part of his daily life … and the scariest thing he’d ever learned about. He’d never even considered a life without his parents living together.
“So what are you gonna do?”
“My cousin is staying up in Sturgis for the big rally. Did I ever tell you about him?”
Matt knew that the Sturgis Rally was one of the largest gatherings of motorcycles on the planet, where hundreds of thousands of bikers converged on the western edge of South Dakota. “Is that the cousin who wears the feathers?”
Reggie grinned, a little brightness returning to her features. “No, he’s over at the reservation, Sun Dancing for the tourists. I’m talking about Ali Baba, the one in the band.”
“Oh yeah—the crazy one. Plays rock-and-roll music and pretends to be Arabic.”
“He’s not crazy,” Regina said patiently. “He’s smart. You know, there are a lot of people who don’t like American Indians. That’s one reason he does it.”
“I don’t know why people don’t like them,” Matt said, getting serious. “They’re all right.”
“You know I’m half Indian, right? And weren’t you pretending to shoot them earlier?”
“Well, yeah. But that’s different,” Matt said.
She smiled slightly. “Is it?”
“Sure. So what about your cousin?”
“He told me that if things got rough, I could go visit him. He’s got a gig at the Buffalo Chip Campground and I think I’m gonna take him up on the offer.”
“Really? You’re running away?”
“Not really. He’s family, so it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong.”
“Are you gonna tell your mom?”
“No. She’d just get worried. You know how moms get. Honestly, I’ll be all right.”
“When are you gonna leave?”
“Tonight, just after midnight.”
“So that’s why you’ve been working so hard on the motorcycle.” Matt turned to stare at the ugly German contraption. When her father had brought it home from the junkyard, it had been little more than a mass of rusted metal. It had taken her dad two years to rebuild it.
“Yep.”
They sat together and stared at the hills for a few more minutes. Ideas flitted through Matt’s mind like leaves on the wind. “If my dad left, I don’t know what I’d do,” he finally said.“I know.”
“Do you think this is what it’s like to grow up?”
“I hope not.”
“Me neither.”
««—»»
The wind rose again later in the afternoon. Long gusts tore savagely at the trees, lifting trash and tossing it aside like multicolored confetti at an invisible parade. Twice Matt fell to the ground, until finally—reluctantly—he scrambled inside the trailer with Kubla bounding after him. It was like the Great Plains was feeding the wind, making it swift and mean. Long ago the settlers had traveled in covered wagons, and it was easy to see why they’d called them prairie schooners. Instead of blue ocean waves, the canvas-topped wagons sailed waves of grain, the wind pushing and pulling them along, as if they were ships on the high seas.
Which is how Matt felt now, pushed and pulled by the actions of others. It had never been his wish for his parents to fight, much less separate, and speaking with Reggie hadn’t helped much. In fact, she’d done more to worry him than make him feel better. What if his father turned out like hers?
All through dinner Matt eyed the phone. It was already well past the time his father was supposed to call and Matt remembered Reggie’s words—That’ll change. At the time he’d told himself she was crazy, but now he wondered just how true her words might be.
What if his dad got tired of calling?
What if his dad wanted a new family, one that was easier to deal with?
It wasn’t until after he’d helped his mom clean the dishes that the phone finally rang.
“Hey, Nipper.” His dad’s voice sounded tired.
“Hi Dad!” Matt couldn’t help his excitement. Circumstances had reduced a day with dad to five minutes, so there was no time for boredom—Where have you been?—or recriminations. “How was your day?”
“Oh, it was all right. Same day, different trash. I’m on break right now, still have another few hours of work.”
His dad worked clean-up at the Rushmore Mall. Not a particularly fancy job, his dad had once said, but it brings in the rent.
“It’s really windy here,” Matt said, then mentally kicked himself. There was so much he wanted to say, but that was all he could think of.
“Same where I was. So what did you do today?” “Same as always. Me and Kubla played cowboys and Injuns. Raisin and Jacket got bossy. Reggie was working on her motorcycle. Same as always.”
“Raisin and Jacket still hanging around, huh?” His dad sounded amused.
Matt turned, covered the phone and whispered his reply. “Sure,” he said. “’cept Raisin’s fading fast. Reggie’s growing up and doesn’t believe anymore.” His mom didn’t like him talking about his make-believe friends. She’d never believed they were real, like his dad did.
“It’s important to believe in something.”
Like family, Matt wanted to reply. Instead, he said nothing. “Yeah. Hey, we gonna go to the batting cages this weekend?”
His dad drew in a breath, but instead of answering, Matt could tell he had turned away from the phone to talk to someone else. “Hold on, I’ll be there in a minute. I’m talking to my kid.”
“Dad?”
“Listen, I gotta go, Nipper. We’ll talk about it this weekend.”
“But you promised, Dad.”
“I know, but something’s come up.”
“Daaad,” Matt said, drawing out the word.
“I know, I know. Listen, you have a good night. I really gotta run.”
“Okay.”
“Love you, Nipper.”
“Love you, too.” As the dial tone cut off his dad’s voice, Matt met Jacket’s gaze across the table. His Guardian tried to smile, but it came off looking grim. Finally the old ghost turned and stared off into the night.
««—»»
The wind buffeted the side of the trailer and a skewed square of moonlight lit the carpet beneath Matt’s window. The branches from the tree in the yard cast crazy shadows that danced along the carpet like the long, crooked fingers of a dozen-handed monster. There was a time when he’d been afraid of the wind and the night and the shadows. Jacket’s presence eased Matt’s fears. Even now, his Guardian stood in the corner of the room, hands stuck deep in his pockets as he leaned against the wall.
“Jacket?”
“Go to sleep, kid.”
“Don’t wanna,” Matt whispered. He could feel the sticky web of dreams drawing him in, but so much was on his mind. Reggie was running away later tonight. She had no one with her except Raisin, and what good would he be if she couldn’t see him?
“You had parents, right?”
“I didn’t grow from a tree, if that’s what you mean.”
Matt felt stupid for asking the question. He fought off the fuzziness of sleep and tried again. “I mean, are they still alive?”
“I don’t know. I doubt it. Last time I saw them was 1955.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Go to sleep, kid.”
Matt struggled to ask one more question. “Do you miss them?”
After a few moments, Jacket answered. “Of course I miss them. Everyone misses their parents; even folks who never had any.”
Matt couldn’t make sense of the answer. He wanted to ask another question, but while he was thinking of what to ask, he fell asleep.
III
INTO THE BLACK HILLS
Matt woke with a start. The wind had stilled, and all he could hear was the usual creaking of the old single-wide trailer. Water dripped from the sink in the bathroom. It felt like the middle of night.
So
what had awoken him? He heard it again, the squeak of metal against metal. Matt fought off the bedcovers and scrambled over to the window. In the wan light of the moon, he saw Reggie easing shut the front gate to her yard. He watched as Raisin stood in front of her, his hands out pleading. From the distance, he couldn’t make out the words, but he could tell the spirit was frantic.
But Reggie walked right through him, ignorant of his plea, her own Guardian Spirit sadly invisible to her. Raisin jumped in front of her again, and again, she walked right through him. His scream of frustration rang clear in the night, but other than Matt, the only other witness was Jacket.
Matt watched as Reggie dropped a backpack in the sidecar. As she checked her watch, Matt checked the time on the clock on his nightstand: one in the morning. An idea had been dancing through his mind off and on all day. Now he had only a moment to decide whether he was going to act on it. He locked eyes with Kubla and saw the joy of the hunt barely contained. That was all he needed.
Matt spun and yanked off his pajamas. In less than a minute he was dressed in the previous day’s garments and stuffing his own pack with clothes and the odds and ends that littered the nightstand and his dresser.
“What do you think you’re you doing?”
Matt ignored Jacket’s question. His mother might hear him if he answered, and then everything would be ruined.
“Matt Cady, I am talking to you!”
He opened his door carefully and tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom. With Kubla silently following his every move, Matt grabbed a toothbrush and comb, then moved on to the kitchen.
“You are not doing what I think you’re doing!”
Matt grinned but still didn’t answer. He snatched three apples and two oranges from the fruit tray. Beside the telephone was a dry erase board on which his mother left messages. He filled the empty space with his hurried, messy scrawl: Running away. He stepped back, frowned, then hastily added I love you beneath the two stark words.
“You are doing what I think you’re doing!” Jacket’s rough voice was filled with dismay and he stepped directly in front of the door. “No—I won’t let you leave.”
Matt paused to stare at the middle-aged biker who’d been his friend for just about forever. Sighing, he stepped through the figure, feeling the frigid air of the spirit swirl around him as he did.
“Too late,” whispered Matt, skipping down the steps and sprinting across the yard.
Jacket moaned and turned. “Nothing good can come of this—you know that, right?”
As Jacket stepped down the stairs after him, the German shepherd shot out the doggy door and glued himself to Matt’s side, wary of even the smallest brush with the Guardian Spirit.
Fifty feet down the road, Reggie trudged with her head down and shoulders hunched as she pushed the motorcycle. She didn’t dare start it—the noise of the engine would surely wake the sleeping neighborhood.
Matt pulled himself over the fence with Kubla close behind. He caught up to Reggie and grabbed at the fabric of her jacket. She jumped and spun to face him, then the fear etched across her face melted into anger.
“Take me with you,” Matt pleaded. He was almost out of breath from running to catch up.
Her eyes went wide. “Are you crazy?” she demanded. “I can’t do that!”
“You gotta take me with you, Reggie. You just gotta!”
“Go on back to bed.” She turned, grabbed the handlebars, and began to push the motorcycle again. “It’s way past your bedtime, little man.”
Matt stood, rooted to his spot. He began to shake, hands clenched at his sides. He wanted to scream, but knew that would wake everyone up as sure as a revving engine.
“I’ll tell.” It was all he could think to say.
His words were like daggers. Her back arched and she turned slowly. “You can’t.”
“But I will … if you don’t take me with you.”
“This isn’t about you. This is for me.”
“It’s for me too. I need this as much as you do.”
She didn’t answer and Matt grabbed the chance to press his idea home. “If I run away, they’ll get worried. They’ll get back together—I just know it.”
“But you don’t know that for sure. Maybe it won’t work.”
“You don’t understand. It has to work. This is my last chance.”
He didn’t say his next words out loud, but they both knew what they were.
I don’t want to end up like you.
««—»»
The German-made Ural IMZ motorcycle growled at the night as it wound its way into the hills. It had been made for battle, with thick, heavy metal and unyielding suspension. Matt stared over the small hinge in front of him, imagining that the machine gun was mounted and he was staring down the barrel. His trigger finger twitched as he mowed down the shadows, clearing their path with supersonic lead. The night didn’t scare him, but the Black Hills did. There were just too many legends for all of them to be lies.
Reggie had taken most of her things out of the sidecar and placed them by her mailbox. “My mom will find them tomorrow,” she’d said. Now Matt and Kubla were squeezed inside, each staring wild-eyed at the monolithic dark trees as the motorcycle tore down the road.
The ride was anything but smooth, forcing Matt to continually wrap his hands around Kubla’s neck for both stability and to keep him from leaping. Matt was uncomfortable, and already he was almost regretting the entire thing. The ride was nothing like the times Reggie had taken him for a spin around the trailer park. Each time his goggles slipped down, the wind brought tears to his eyes. The strap from the helmet dug painfully into his neck.
Reggie stared hard at the illuminated night in front of her. By the curve of her jaw, it was clear she wasn’t happy. On the other side of her, in the oncoming lane, rode Raisin and Jacket. Twice now, cars had come zooming down the road. Unflinchingly, the spirits had ignored them. “Come on, suckers!” they howled. “You can’t win a game of chicken with ghosts—We’re already dead!” They whooped and yipped as the cars sliced through them, the sheer fun of it sending them into fits of giggling guffaws as they nearly lost control of their spectral motorcycles. They were like wild teenagers on the road again after years of domesticity.
Raisin rode a silver 1965 Honda Scrambler. It looked half dirt bike, half street bike. He was always being teased by Jacket for owning a Japanese motorcycle, but he gave as good as he got, calling Jacket’s motorcycle a dusty old antique. Matt wasn’t an expert, but with its dual side exhausts, Raisin’s machine looked faster than Jacket’s.
Jacket rode a chrome-and-red 1952 Harley Davidson. Matt had heard enough stories of riding the back roads on this bike, and it was just as he’d imagined it would be. The machine had been Jacket’s pride and joy … until it had failed to navigate the curve on that rainy night outside Hill City.
After an hour winding their way up the highway into the Black Hills, they reached the outskirts of Sturgis. The closer they got, the more bikers they saw, until it was the occasional car that seemed out of place. Motorcycles of every variety rumbled along the roads, from the shining complexity of three-wheeled chrome masterpieces to the perfect simplicity of a 1932 Indian. Streetlights sent pools of light into the darkness where hardcore leather bikers could be seen comparing engines and frames with businessmen dressed in designer leathers. Here and there engines revved, filling the night with monster roars. Long-haired women sauntered past, their hands gripping the bulging biceps of tattooed bikers with scraggly beards. An argument erupted, but before any fists flew, the guys passed from view. Two men stumbled arm-in-arm down the sidewalk, singing off-key as they drank from liquor bottles.
“Looks like we finally made it to heaven,” Raisin shouted over the noise.
“If only we could stay!” Jacket stared wistfully at the rows of parked cycles and shook his head in regret.
With the two spirits riding unseen beside her, Reggie drove through Sturgis and out the other side. Three mil
es down the road they turned at a large, well-lit sign that read BUFFALO CHIP CAMPGROUND. Matt knew what a buffalo chip was and sure wouldn’t make the mistake of dipping one into a bowl of salsa. Tall pines grew high over the road, blocking out the sky and the moon. Matt stared up at the dark, shadowy branches, thinking it felt like a church. Even Raisin, who’d been jabbering since they hit Sturgis, fell silent, recognizing the solemnity of the moment. The only sound breaking the spell was the rumble of Reggie’s motorcycle as they passed beneath the vaulted natural ceiling.
They pulled into an immense parking lot already half-filled with nearly a thousand motorcycles, RVs and muscle cars. Beyond the vehicles, rising like a glittering desert encampment, lay the oasis-like campground. Hundreds of tents of every color and size had sprung up, each connected by cables of lights. A band played somewhere out of sight, and the thumping of drums and the electric whine of a guitar wove through the night.
Matt felt his heart leap in his chest. His breath caught. He was definitely doing something special.
IV
THE CAMPGROUND WHERE MONSTERS DWELL
Reggie pulled the motorcycle to a stop beside a large RV. Along the side was a mural of a gang of bikers riding through the desert. Instead of helmets they wore turbans, many with the cloth ends wrapped all the way around their faces, the other ends of the fabric dancing on invisible wind. Behind them rose an immense figure with shadowed eyes, arms aloft as if he were casting a spell upon the riders. Scrawled in large looping letters across the top of the picture was ALI BABA AND THE FORTY THIEVES. Matt quickly counted. Sure enough, there were forty of the bikers forever roaring outward from the picture.
Matt’s father had read the story to him once, and Matt remembered it from the Arabian Nights book. Ali Baba reminded him of an Arabian Robin Hood. It was a cool story, almost as cool as Aladdin or Sinbad, both of which he’d seen on television. Matt had watched Sinbad with his father one night, and he’d been scared of the Cyclops and had hid his face every time the monstrous creature had appeared on the screen.
