“I believe you’re right about that, Dewey,” Junior said at last. “Yep. I got to agree with you. I sure can’t play polo without no bike, now can I? I reckon I’ll just have to borrow me one.” He surveyed the knot of squirming boys, each one carefully looking anywhere except in Junior Mullins’s face.
When he couldn’t stand the suspense anymore, Davy spoke up. “You could go home and get yours,” he said.
Even Charlie Bestor laughed at that. Everybody knew that Junior Mullins wouldn’t risk scratching up his brand-new bike in a rough-and-tumble game like polo, where crashing your bike into the other players’ mounts was inevitable. All the other boys had beat-up second-hand bikes, or scrounged homemade ones. His was store-bought, too good for the likes of them. Junior grinned at Davy. “No. I think I’ll just borrow one,” he said. He eyed the polished blue bike at Davy’s side. “Yours is new, isn’t it? You make it yourself?”
Davy nodded, proud of himself, despite the threat of Junior Mullins, looming within punching distance and sneering at him like he was a night crawler in a fishing bucket. Junior made a great show of examining Davy’s bike, inspecting the garden-hose tires, the flawless paint job, the Coca-Cola cap brakes. Maybe he’ll see how much pride I took in it, and he’ll leave it be, Davy thought, hoping that respect would win him what mercy could not.
“Nice job,” drawled Junior, fingering the railroad-spike pedals. He glanced back to make sure that Charlie Bestor was watching. “For a homemade bike, that is. It looks sturdy enough. I guess I’ll try it out for you so we can see what kind of job you did.”
Davy gripped the handlebars tighter. “You’re too big for it, Junior,” he said. “You’d break it”
Junior’s face turned a deeper shade of red. He was a stocky boy, verging on fat, and he didn’t like comments about his size, however innocuously intended. He jerked the bike out of Davy’s hands. “We’ll just have to risk it, won’t we. I’ve got a polo match to play.” He snatched up a croquet mallet, hoisted his bulk onto the smaller boy’s bicycle, and teetered off into the center of the pasture. “Let’s get this show on the road!” he yelled to the other boys.
One by one they wheeled their bikes onto the playing field. Some of them gave Davy a look of apology or commiseration as they went past, but Davy didn’t care what the other boys thought of Junior or how sorry they were that he had been singled out as victim. He wanted his bike, and nobody was going to help him get it back. If he tried to fight Junior on his own, he would end up with a bloody nose and a torn shirt, and Junior would destroy the bike.
He stood on the sidelines with clenched fists, watching as the teams pedaled up and down the pasture, swatting the softball back and forth. Above the thwack of the wooden mallets hitting the ball, and the shouts of the players, Davy thought he could hear the creaking of his overloaded bike. Junior Mullins was playing with a vengeance, going out of his way to collide with the other boys, whether they were close to the ball or not. He seemed to have no interest in scoring goals or in affecting the outcome of the game. For Junior the polo match was an excuse to hit something. Davy winced at every crash, thinking of the dents Junior was putting in the bike, and the scratches scoring the new paint job. A few yards away Charlie Bestor leaned his motorcycle against a tree and watched the game with the wry amusement of a superior being, sometimes shouting encouragement to Junior, and egging him on to more reckless playing.
After nearly an hour Junior tired of the game. He threw Davy’s bike down in the weeds at the far end of the pasture, and loped back to Charlie Bestor’s motorcycle. “Let’s get out of here!” he said. “It’s no fun playing with this bunch of babies.”
As Junior climbed into the saddle behind the grinning Charlie Bestor, he called out to Davy, “Nice bike! Maybe I’ll try it again sometime.”
It was more than a threat. It was a promise.
Davy waited until the motorcycle roared out of sight, over the railroad track, and around the first curve, and then he hurried across the field to inspect the damage to his bike. The other boys hung back. One by one they drifted away from the pasture, and Davy was alone.
He reached into the briar-laced grass and pulled on the handlebars to his bike. After a few tugs, he was able to jerk it free. He set it down in the dirt, and ran his fingers along the shredded length of garden hose that had been the front tire. The frame was scratched and dented, and the handlebars were twisted out of alignment where the collisions and Junior’s weight had combined to over-stress the metal. Long gashes scarred the bike’s paintwork, and the battered brakes needed much more than a bottle cap to repair them. Davy wheeled his wrecked creation home, across the empty pasture, half carrying it across the rocky creek, picking his way along the rougher parts of the path. Davy’s face was pinched, and his jaw was set tighter than a bulldog’s, but his eyes had a faraway look as if he was somewhere other than the road to Foggy Mountain. He never once cried.
No one saw Davy from that Saturday until the next. Nobody stopped by to see how he was doing, because they knew how he was doing, and there wasn’t anything anybody could say. Best to let him be for a while. He’d come back when he was over it, and things would go on as before.
Davy stayed in the smokehouse in the backyard, working as long as it was light. He scrounged, and tinkered, and sanded, and hammered, and painted, and tinkered some more, until the bike looked almost the way it had before. It would never be as good, of course. He couldn’t get the handlebars completely straight, and the deeper scars showed through the new paint job, but the bike was fixed. It had brakes again. He could ride it.
When Mama asked him what happened to his bike, Davy told her that he’d tried to take it down too steep a hill, and that he’d wrecked on a hidden tree root. She had looked at him for a long minute, as if she was fixing to say more, but finally she shrugged and went back into the house. There wasn’t any point in telling his folks about Junior Mullins, whose dad was a boss down at the railroad shop. No point at all.
He practiced riding the bike on Friday night, up and down the road in front of the house until the fireflies lit up the yard and Mama called him in. He found that he could maneuver pretty well. With a few minor adjustments the bike would be ready to go.
On Saturday morning he set off early, before Dad could catch him with a list of chores or Mama could set him to work weeding the corn. His sneakers were still damp from dew when he heard shouting from up the dirt road past the quarry. He found the gang at the usual congregating place, Wells’s pasture. This time, though, no game was in progress. Five boys had pulled their bikes into a circle, and now they were arguing about what to do on a long Saturday morning. Davy looked at them: Johnny Suttle, Dewey Givens, Jack Howell, Bob Miller, and Junior Mullins. Davy walked his bike across the expanse of field, and slid silently into place between Johnny and Bob.
“Polo is a sissy game!” Junior was saying.
This declaration was followed by a doubtful silence. The younger boys looked at one another. Finally Bob Miller said, “How ’bout we jump potholes in the quarry?”
“How ’bout we jump potholes in the quarry?” said Junior, changing his voice to a mocking whine.
More silence.
“Anybody want to play pony express?” said Junior. “Or are you boys too yellow?”
Johnny Suttle whistled. “Chase a freight train on our bikes? My mama would skin me alive if she found out I was doing that.”