He made sure to have a few dollars left over, waiting on the counter when his uncle returned—and sometimes he managed to have a bit more, which he saved for himself.
When he’d saved enough, he visited the pawnshop at the edge of town. He had stood outside this shop at least two dozen times, gazing through the window at the bike, imagining himself riding it, all the places he would go.
Now he went inside, laid his money on the glass-top display case, and said, “I’ll take the bike in the window.”
The proprietor picked up the bills, counted them out, and said, “You’re short ten dollars.”
“That’s all I’ve got.”
The man said nothing.
Desmond reached for the bills. “Take it or leave it. I’m going to the hardware store next to make them an offer.”
The man let out a ragged smoker’s cough. “If you were a grown man, I’d tell you to piss off. But I like you, kid. Take it. Damn thing’s been in the window a year now anyway.”
It was Desmond’s first taste of freedom, the first thing he had ever saved up for and bought on his own. He treasured it more than any gift he’d ever been given.
He also hid it from his uncle. That lasted six months. It was the best period of his entire childhood.
With the bike’s added range, he was able to visit the next town over, Noble, which had shops along the main street, a post office, a small cinema, and a library. Inside the library, he wandered the stacks, searching for the books Charlotte had read to him. He just wanted to see the covers again to remind him of those weeks they’d spent together.
A woman with gray hair was taking books from a cart and placing them back on the shelves. “Can I help you find something?”
Desmond shook his head.
“You can check out anything you like,” she said. She studied him for a long second. “It’s free. You bring them back whenever you’re done.”
It wouldn’t do him any good; he still couldn’t read.
“Is there a… time when someone reads?”
The woman hesitated. “Uh, yes, there is.”
“When?”
“There’s… several times. When would be convenient?”
He told her, and she said that would be fine. Her name was Agnes. Desmond liked her voice. It was soothing and neutral, like other people in Oklahoma. It didn’t carry the meanness his uncle’s did.
As he was leaving, Desmond realized he hadn’t asked about the book. It could be one he hated or one about people falling in love for all he knew.
Trying not to sound rude, he asked Agnes what book would be read.
“There’s several to choose from,” she said. “What sort of books do you like?”
“Adventure books,” he answered without hesitation. “Where the hero gets away.”
“Then you won’t be disappointed.”
And he wasn’t. The next day, he returned to find Agnes knitting behind the counter. She set down her work and held up a book.
“Are you ready?”
He nodded. As he had suspected, he was the only one at the storytelling session. That was fine by him.
He lost himself as the words she spoke became pictures in his mind, then characters that were as real as anyone he had ever met. The stories felt like another life he had only forgotten—a life much better than the one he was living.
Story time was his escape. The weeks when his uncle was home were a prison sentence.
Summer ended, and a letter arrived from the county school district, assigning him to an elementary school where he’d start kindergarten in the fall.
Orville tossed it in the fire with disgust.
“Kindergarten.” He said the word as if it tasted like sour milk. “You don’t need to get any softer than you already are.”
That was fine by Desmond. He far preferred the library.
After Thanksgiving, Agnes began teaching him to read. He picked it up quickly. She used a good strategy: she read the first part of the book, enough to get him enthralled, then helped him read the rest. It was like learning to ride the bike: hard at first, but a breeze once you got the hang of it.
By Easter, he was reading to her.
And she was changing, little by little. She fell asleep during the stories. With growing frequency, she reached into her purse, took out a pill, and swallowed it.
One day that summer, he arrived to find the library closed. It stayed closed every day for a week. Desmond walked into the post office next door and asked the man behind the counter if he’d seen Agnes.
“She’s at Norman.”
“Who’s Norman?”
The postman looked at Desmond like he was an idiot. “The hospital. Norman Municipal. Well, regional now, as if it matters.”
“What’s she doing there?”
“She’s there with the cancer, why else?”
Desmond stood there, his world collapsing.
“Is she coming back?”
He could tell by the look on the man’s face that she wasn’t.
“How do I get there?”
“You better speak to your parents about that.”
“What roads do I take?”
“Norman’s ten miles away, young man. Your parents can take you. Now get on, I’ve got work to do.”
At the gas station on the edge of town, Desmond bought a map. The hospital was marked with a large H.
The next morning, he plotted his course and packed food in a bag. Desmond never knew exactly what day Orville would be back from the rigs, but he usually arrived home by early afternoon, so Desmond waited until four p.m. before setting out, just to be sure he wasn’t coming. He couldn’t imagine what the man would do if he caught him riding home on a bike he had bought with Orville’s money.
He figured the trip would take less than an hour, but he was wrong—it took him nearly three. The sun was setting when he reached the Norman city limits. The parking lot lights glowed in the clear night as he rode up, dropped his bike by the front door, and staggered in.
The woman at the reception desk gave Desmond Agnes’s room number. For the first time in his life, he rode an elevator. On the fourth floor, he walked slowly toward Agnes’s room, afraid of what he’d see.