But he said —
Never mind, Dena said. You want to ride this one?
It’s a girl’s bike. I ought to learn on a boy’s bike.
You want to or not? She got off and held the handlebar out to him and he looked at her and took hold of the rubber grip and stepped over the low crossbar. When he tried pushing the bike forward the pedal came around and hit him in the back of the leg.
How do you? he said.
Get this one pedal to come up. Now step down on it.
The bike went forward and wavered and stopped.
Do it again.
He went ahead a little farther.
Get your other foot up at the same time on the other pedal.
He went forward once more and wobbled and put both feet down.
You have to keep pedaling. You don’t stop.
He pedaled down the block on the sidewalk and the two girls trotted beside until he veered off into a bush and tipped over. He got up and pulled the bike upright. How do you stop it?
Dena put her foot up. Like that, she said.
Don’t you have hand brakes?
No. Just the pedals.
He started again and rode down the driveway into the street and rode along pedaling steadily as they ran beside him. The bike stammered and wobbled and he almost hit them once. They screamed in delight, their faces pink as flowers, and he pedaled away. Dena called: Try and stop, try and stop. He stood up on the pedals and braked suddenly, then put his feet down to catch himself. They ran up beside him.
It’s easy, Dena said. Isn’t it?
I know.
He rode up and back in the street and turned and rode toward them and lifted one hand from the handlebar to wave and put his hand back quickly and rode past and came back once more, but he was too fast this time and drove the bike into the two sisters in the middle of the street and hit the older girl hard and they crashed over, sprawling out in the pavement, the bike over them. He had torn the skin from his elbow and knee and the girl was hurt in the hip and chest. She was crying a little, holding her hip. He felt sick to his stomach. Blood trickled down his arm and the knee of his pants was ripped. He got up feeling sick and lifted the bike off her, then took her hand and helped her to her feet. I’m sorry, he said. Are you all right? I’m sorry.
She looked at him and crossed her arms over her chest where she felt bruised. Why didn’t you put the brakes on? Didn’t you remember that?
No.
You can’t forget that.
I better go home, he said. He was inspecting his elbow. I need to wash this off.
Mama will fix it for you. Come in the house.
You’re dripping on your shoes, Emma said.
He looked down. I know, he said. There were bloody spots on the toes and laces.
Let Mama fix it for you, Dena said.
They walked the bicycle out of the street onto the grass and let it flop down. Before they got up to the house Mary Wells came out and stood in the front door. She had seen them from the window coming toward the house and for some reason her eyes were red. She took them into the house.
Inside, he cupped his hand under his elbow so he wouldn’t drip on the carpet and she led him back to the bathroom. The two girls followed and watched while he held his arm over the sink and their mother rinsed his arm, the blood thinning and dripping into the basin while she washed tenderly, touching the cut place with the tips of her fingers, brushing the grit away. When his elbow was clear, the blood seeped out like little red berries. She told him to hold a washcloth to it, then had him put his foot up on the toilet seat and she lifted his pants and his knee was bleeding too. The blood had run into his sock. She cleaned off his knee with another washcloth. The two girls peered over her shoulder, their faces serious and absorbed, wondering. And while their mother was tending him, her eyes suddenly filled with tears and the tears ran down her cheeks onto her chin. DJ and the two girls looked at her in astonishment, and they felt a kind of fear at seeing a grown-up cry.