Page 40 of My Veteran Biker

"You know what you're getting into?" he asks.

"I think so."

"And you're doing it anyway?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'm not going to lecture you. You're forty years old, Francis. You don't need my permission. But I'll say this: that boy's been alone since you left. Watched him over the years, working on that house, keeping to himself. If you're with him now, you better mean it. Don't go breaking his heart again just because you're scared of what it costs."

The words hit harder than I expected. "I'm not going to break his heart."

"Good. Because he's a good man and he deserves someone who stays."

We sit in silence for a while. I watch his hands shake, watch him try to control it and fail. The Parkinson's is progressing faster than the doctors predicted. Six months ago he could hold a coffee cup without spilling. Now he can barely get it to his mouth.

"How are you feeling?" I ask.

"Fine."

"Dad."

"I'm managing, Frannie. Some days are better than others. Today's not a good day but it's not the worst either."

I recognize the deflection. He doesn't want to talk about his declining health, doesn't want to admit that he's scared or struggling or facing mortality in real time.

So I let it go for now and make a mental note to check his pill organizer later when he's not watching.

"Bring him by for dinner tonight. I'll make something."

"Dad, you don't have to cook."

"I can still cook, Francis. My hands shake, they don't stop working entirely."

There's enough pride in his voice that I know arguing will only make it worse.

"Okay. What time?"

"Six. Tell him to bring beer if he drinks. I'm out."

I leave Dad on the porch and walk back to Knox's house.

He's in the garage working on his bike even though it doesn't need work. I recognize the pattern from yesterday, from years ago, from every time he needs to think and doesn't want to sit still.

"My dad wants to have dinner," I say.

Knox looks up from the engine. "When?"

"Tonight. Six."

"Okay."

"He said to bring beer."

"That I can do."

Knox sets down the wrench and stands, wiping his hands on a rag. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt with grease stains, hair falling in his eyes.

He looks tired in a way that goes beyond lack of sleep.