Page 5 of The Souls We Claim

There are flowers someone ordered. Huge white displays that spell out “Wrinkle” and “Dad”.

Not sure how long I stand there looking at the coffin that holds Dad’s body, but it’s Catalina who breaks the spell I’m under.

“Te acompaño en tu sentimento,” she says quietly.

I look down at Niro’s old lady. Her eyes are damp with tears. “What does that mean?”

“Just that I share your grief and hurt.”

She lost her father last year and no one knows where he is buried. I kiss the top of her head, finding my strength by focusing on someone else’s pain. “It’s a rare agony, yeah?”

She nods. “It is. Give Lola to me. I’ll meet you all at the church.”

“Thank you for doing this, Cat. I know you’d rather be riding with us.”

She touches the outside of the hearse. “I’d rather be doing the most important thing. And driving a lost brother’s daughter to his funeral and keeping her safe feels like the most important thing today. There will be other times to ride with you.”

“You armed?” I ask.

She slides her leather crew cut to one side and shows all the weapons she usually carries attached to her body.

“All the safeties on?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t make me mad at you. Not today.”

I manage to smile and walk with her to Niro’s truck. I buckle Lola into her car seat carefully so as not to wake her. “You got the bag of her things?”

“Spark put it in the truck already. I’ve got her. You go get on your bike.”

“I’ll see you in church.”

When I turn back to the clubhouse, I see all the brothers have filed outside. King, our president, walks to me. “You ready?”

I nod. “Let’s get it done.” I’m road captain, so I organize these things. Rides, routes, plans. But I hear Clutch barking out the orders and checking the bikes before I can get to it.

No one is wearing a helmet. I’m not sure where the tradition started, but it’s the first show of respect to ride without them. Law enforcement officers everywhere know to turn the other way if they see a biker without a helmet following a funeral procession.

I climb on my bike and pull my hair back off my face with an elastic. It’s long and out of control, but my mind is on other things than getting a trim. The rumble of my bike beneath me grounds me back in the moment. The thunderous roar of ahundred bikes follows mine. We pull out in the Missing Man formation, one after the other, leaving a space for Dad.

Later, when Dad is buried and we’re about to leave the graveyard, I’ll lead the Last Rev. The road captain revs his engine five times, then everyone follows. The sound notifies God that a biker is on their way.

For now, I just focus on the back of the black hearse and the white flowers that say “Dad”.

And try to take in every last minute of this Monday morning my dad is still here with me.

2

ARIANNE

Ieye the clock on my kitchen wall.

The numbers are a little blurry around the edges, but I think it’s seven thirty. I’m going to have to leave soon if I’m going to keep up the facade that I am indeed going to my usual Wednesday-morning shift at the diner. The scent of bacon frying is turning my stomach. Not that this is anything new. It’s felt like this since a woman named Penny messaged me through social media yesterday, asking for my number if I was Mercy’s sister. When we finally connected, she told me my sister, Mercy, was dead.

I had no idea what had happened to her, and Penny was painfully light on details. When I asked about my sister’s life, she simply said she didn’t want to get involved, but that Mercy had mentioned me from time to time. She went off the rails when we were both young. Our father kicked her out when she was fifteen, and at thirteen, I had been too scared to leave with her. That had been a decade ago.

She never contacted me again. From what Penny told me, it had taken a few days of hunting down every person with my name, Arianne Osborne, to see if they had a sister called Mercy.

As a result, the funeral is today.