Every time I think it's not possible to love him more, I realize I do.
Later, Sheila finds me in the kitchen doing inventory. She's got her reading glasses on and the look on her face that says she has opinions and is about to share them.
"You should have named him Shadow," she says.
"What? Why?"
"Shadow. Instead of Stormy. That boy follows you around like a shadow. If you go left, he goes left. If you go upstairs, he goes upstairs. If you stand still for more than thirty seconds, he materializes beside you like a ghost."
"He's not that bad."
"He followed you to the bathroom this morning, and stood outside the door."
"Maybe he was getting a towel."
"There are no towels on that floor and we both know it. I'm not complaining. That boy looks at you like you can walk on water. I wish you could see the look in his eyes when he'swatching you from across the room. It's like you're the only solid thing in his whole world. The only thing that's real."
I lean against the counter and look at this woman who has been my second mother for fifteen years. She held me together when my dad died, and accepted Stormy into her kitchen without a single question.
"I love him, Sheila."
"Baby." She takes off her reading glasses and folds them. "I have known that since the first day I laid eyes on him. Maybe before the first day. Maybe from the phone call when you told me about him and your voice did that special thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing your daddy's voice used to do when he talked about your mama. Like the whole world got softer. Your daddy used to talk about your mama and the whole room would go quiet because the man sounded like a poem and didn't even know it. Big, loud man just like you. Couldn't whisper to save his life. But he'd say her name and his voice would drop half an octave and every person in this bar would suddenly tear up. You do the same thing with Stormy. You don't even hear yourself do it. But I hear it every time."
I don't have a response to that. Instead, I pretend to study the inventory sheet and blink a few times.
"Mama Sheila, I need to tell you something. And I need you to listen and not react the way you're going to want to react. This is important."
She puts the glasses back on. The playfulness drops. Sheila in operational mode is a different person entirely.
"Stormy is in trouble. Someone from his past is going to come looking for him. A bad man. I can't tell you everything but I can tell you that he hurt Stormy and for a long time,and he considers Stormy his property. He's dangerous and he's patient. He may show up here. No, I take that back. Hewillshow up here."
Sheila's lips tighten as if she's ready to go to war.
"If you see anyone at this bar who doesn't fit. Someone who isn't a regular, isn't a biker, isn't a tourist. Someone asking questions. Someone who looks like they're looking for a person instead of looking for a drink. You immediately get Stormy out of sight first. Upstairs, back room, wherever. Then you find me. Do not confirm that Stormy is here. Do not confirm that you know anyone matching his description. Do not engage with this person. You get Stormy out of sight and come find me. Stormy doesn't have any family or friends coming for him. If someone is asking questions about him, they're bad."
"What does he look like?"
"Big, not as big as me though. Thick arms, wide shoulders. He'll look friendly. Normal. He'll smile and shake hands. He might say he's a deacon or a business owner or a concerned friend looking for someone who went missing. He'll be polite. That's how he operates."
Sheila's quiet, but her eyes are hard behind the reading glasses. I've seen this look before. It's the look she gets when someone threatens someone she loves. It's the look that preceded her chasing a man out of a bar with a cast iron skillet who pissed her off. I know the story because I was there.
"That boy is my family now too," she says. Her voice carries the weight of a woman who raised three kids, buried a husband, and has never once in her life backed down from anything. "Nobody is taking him out of this bar. Not while I'm breathing."
"Sheila—"
"I heard you. Get him out of sight, find you, don't engage, don't confirm. I understand the instructions. But I want you to hear me, Tex. If that man puts a hand on Stormy in my presence, the instructions change. You can't expect me to sit by quietly and watch it happen."
"Mama Sheila."
"Don't Mama Sheila me when Stormy's in trouble. I'm telling you now, that man touches Stormy, I'll make him regret it. The instructions will change significantly. Nobody hurts Stormy. End of discussion."
I don't argue with her. There's no point. She's decided that Stormy is hers to protect and God help the man who tests that.
Later that evening, while Stormy is upstairs showering before the evening shift, I step outside and make a phone call. Denny Briggs picks up on the second ring. Denny's been coming to the bar since my dad ran it. He's sixty-two, built like a fire hydrant, rides a Heritage Softail, and operates a shop. The shop officially does motorcycle repair and restoration, and unofficially does whatever else needs doing with motorcycles that need to stop being the motorcycles they currently are.
