Before going to prison, my father was a mechanic. He was magic when it came to using his hands. His father taught him, and once I was able to sit long enough to listen, he taught me. I always thought that one day, he and I would work together. Own a family business doing what we both loved.
It’s because of my father that I became an asset to the club. Not only am I able to fix the bikes, but I’m able to fabricate and build the actual engines. Crate motors are always easier and faster, but having a custom chopper is like the precious unicorn. My engines can either run with a purr like a kitten or rage like a screaming bitch.
It’s because of my father that I’ve been able to create some of my passion. My father was just a few years older than I am now when he was sent away. Once Devin started paying me, I took the money I had earned and rode the bus up state to see him. I wanted him to see what I had created, what he taught me, but I was naive, and the guard and warden didn’t give a shit what some inmate’s kid did. My first visit was on my eighteenth birthday. I hadn’t been able to see him before then since the bitch refused to take me and they didn’t allow minors without adult supervision. The next time I went to visit my father, I took a picture. After that, I continued to bring photo albums, and our visits became like brainstorming sessions. My father was able to teach me again.
Like clockwork, I’m patted down and my pockets emptied. It’s been fifteen years of visitation and I know it’s procedure, but somehow it feels personal. Once I’m cleared, they escort me with a few other family members of other inmates to the outside area. Big trees shade the green grass area, and picnic benches decorate the area.
I hear the familiar clanking of the metal doors and see my father’s figure come out into the sun. He instantly brings his hand up over his eyes to block the brightness, scanning the area before his gaze lands on me. I usually see my father once a month. I was just here last weekend, so I’m sure he’s wondering what I’m doing back so soon.
He approaches me and grabs my shoulders, pulling me into a hug. We do the typical pat on the back before he pulls away and studies my face. The time behind bars has been hard on my father. He’s a good man. Decent and loving. He always had a good heart and the best intentions when it came to others.
“Son.” The concern is written all over his weathered face. “Tylan?”
“Let’s have a seat, Pop.”
Turning, I plant my ass down on my side of our usual table. He takes a seat and folds his hands in front of him. I clear my throat. Eight years ago, I had to make this same visit to tell him that his murder conviction was for nothing because that miserable piece of shit he called the love of his life took her own life at the tip of the cold needle. Alone, laying in her own shit and piss with two fucking used condoms wrapped around her arm as a tourniquet.
“What’s going on? You okay?”
I give him a slight nod, not really sure if I’m okay or not. “Betsy’s dead.” I say it straight, like ripping off a Band-Aid. There’s no reason to beat around the fucking bush.
“How do you know?”
“Cops came.”
“What happened?”
I can tell he’s in shock. He hasn’t seen my sister since the night of his arrest.
“Overdose.”
My father’s shoulders slump. He buries his face in the palms of his hands and cries. This is the first time I’ve seen my father cry. I feel fucking hopeless sitting here.
“She had children.” The words fall from my mouth.
He moves his hands away from his face. His eyes are rimmed red. “What?”
“The medical examiner who did the autopsy said there was scarring—evidence that she had been pregnant at some point. They were able to tell there were multiple births.”
“You need to find those kids, Tylan.”
“We don’t know if there are kids. The M.E. couldn’t tell me if there were any live births. Just that her body had evidence.”
“Find them.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. That is shit I don’t want to get involved in. “There’s no way I’m doing that.”
“Find. Them.”
“Pop, you don’t know what kind of condition they’ll be in even if I do find them. Betsy died of an overdose. Chances are those kids are already fucked up.”
“You can’t let the shit with your mother cloud your judgement on this, Tylan. Don’t let those kids suffer because of your beef you have with a woman whose been dead a long time.”
“All due respect, Pop, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Find the kids, Tylan.”
“I have no idea where to start.”
“Bullshit!” He slams his hand on the table. My eyes dart to the guards who seem to sense the tension building between us as they take a few steps in our direction.
“You find out, Tylan.” He jabs his finger into the wood of the table. “And don’t pull that shit that you don’t know where to start. Your club’s business is to find people. I suggest you call in a marker. You need to see if your sister’s kids are out there. They’re your family. My family. I’d like to know if I have grandchildren before my time’s up on this earth.”
“You’ve got plenty of time for that, Pop.”
He shakes his head. “You never know, son. Nothing is certain in life. I need to know, Tylan. Please.”
He’s never asked for anything from me. Each visit I ask if he’d like me to put money on his account, but he says no. He earns his own way. There is no way I can deny the one thing my father has ever asked of me.
Before we get into any more details about my sister or what’s going on with the club the buzzer blares overhead signaling visitation’s over for the day. “I’ll see what I can do.”