Page 107 of Thick

“C’mon, Becker,” the woman shouted. “It’s time to go.”

The boy stood and turned to face the couple. After brushing the sand from his legs, he walked to their side.

The camera zoomed in on the family as they walked through the sand.

“Here,” the boy said. “I made this for you.”

He handed the woman the ring. She raised her hand and slipped it onto the one finger that was bare. After admiring his handiwork, she lowered her hand and smiled at the boy.

“Thank you, Becker. It’s beautiful.”

The boy took her hand in his as they walked up the beach.

The camera switched views. The scene was now viewed from behind them as they walked up the beach, toward a palm tree lined street in the distance. The cloudless sky was the bluest of blue, just like I remembered it being when I gave my mother the ring that day on the beach.

From the speakers on the left side of the theater, a low rumble began. As the sound swept from left to right, a group of motorcycles, riding two abreast, rode across the screen. The filming went into slow motion as they passed.

The boy pointed toward the horizon. “What was that?”

“Hells Angels,” the father said. “It’s a gang. A biker gang.”

“A gang? Are they bad?”

The father chuckled. “Only when they need to be.”

The boy glanced at the last bike as it passed by. A tattooed man with a long gray beard lowered his right hand and gave a slight wave.

The little boy raised his hand in return. The camera panned to his face. A gleam in his eye and a smile on his face said what words could not.

One day, he would own one of those glorious machines.

Silently, we watched the movie. In all respects, it depicted the book with an accuracy that made me proud to have played a part in its development. The two hours and ten minutes passed quickly, with not a dull moment in the entire film.

As the final scene began, I squeezed Bobbi’s hand tightly. My only hope was that the crowd enjoyed the ending as much as I enjoyed writing it.

On the back porch of their home, an 89-year-old Becker and an 87-year-old Allison sat side by side in a loveseat and gazed out at the ocean. The camera zoomed out, showing that that were hand in hand, and then zoomed in on their weathered faces.

In her eighty fifth year, Allison had developed cancer. Despite Becker having sought the best doctors in the country, there was nothing else that could be done. Her time had come. Becker, on the other hand, remained healthy as a horse, walking two miles daily through their beachfront neighborhood.

Allison gazed at the ocean. Her gaunt face gave hint to her physical condition, but her brown eyes smiled nonetheless. They seemed as young as the day she met Becker.

She turned to face him and winced in pain.

Becker squeezed her hand lightly.

Her dry lips parted. As she started to speak, she tensed, closed her eyes, and then opened them.

“It hurts,” she muttered.

Becker, with his eyes fixed on the horizon, nodded once. He then turned to face her. His lower lip quivered. “How much longer?”

Her eyes fell closed.

When they opened, he knew exactly what she was afraid to say.

He cupped her left hand with his, taking one last look at the rind he’d fashioned for her so many years before. Wearing a smile that represented a lifetime of memories, he leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek, and then relaxed into the back of the chair.

“The only life I can imagine is a life with you,” he murmured.