The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(26)

My father’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. “Bikes, huh?”

I raised my eyebrows in case my father hadn’t caught my subtlety. He looked up at the clock on the wall, picked up his bowl, and put it in the sink. “Your mother’s in the shower,” he said. “Tell her I had to leave early.” And before I could question him further about the bike problem, he was out the door.

Several minutes later, my mother entered the kitchen with a towel turban on her head. “Where’s your father?”

“He said to tell you he left early.”

She looked up at the clock. “He did, did he?”

At eleven thirty, my mother’s designated time to walk to Ernie’s, I wheeled my bike from the garage. I contemplated letting it roll into the street to get run over by a car but didn’t want to risk my mother thinking it irresponsible and have her change her mind about my going to Ernie’s. The bike was so small I could stand over it. When I sat on the seat, my knees bent so severely it was difficult to pedal. Resigned to my humiliation, I hoped my mom at least knew how to take off the training wheels.

She came out the front door in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, sunglasses embedded in her hair.

“I wonder why your father didn’t take the Falcon?” she said.

In my misery, I hadn’t noticed. Though it was Saturday, the Falcon remained parked in the driveway, an empty space in the garage reserved for our Plymouth station wagon.

“Mom, do you think you could take off the training wheels?”

At that moment I heard a familiar honk and turned to see the station wagon driving up the tree-lined street and turning into our driveway. My dad jumped out wearing his white pharmacy smock. My mother looked at him like he’d gone mad. “What are you doing home? Who’s watching the store?”

“I had to run a quick errand this morning.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have done it for you.”

My father was lowering the tailgate. “This errand was for Samuel,” he said, and he slid out the most glorious, fire-engine-red Schwinn bicycle I had ever seen. He pushed it toward me, lowered the kickstand, and stepped back.

I circled the bike, unsure it was really mine. It had mudguards over both wheels, reflectors on the spokes, and, best of all, no training wheels.

“Look at the license plate,” my father said. I walked to the back. Hanging below the seat was my name engraved in red on a tiny white plate. SAM. “And look at this. It has a light on the handlebars that turns on automatically when you pedal. Well, do you like it?”

I nodded, speechless. Then I ran to where my father stood and buried my head in his stomach. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Don’t forget to thank your mom, too,” he said.

I hugged her. “Thanks, Mom.”

“It can be an early birthday present,” she said.

“One more thing Santa won’t have to put together,” my father said.

I didn’t care. I didn’t care if I ever got another birthday present for the rest of my life.

“Can you ride it?” my dad asked.

I climbed on board, kicked up the stand, and rode in a circle around our driveway. The lack of training wheels was no impediment.

“Seat too high?”

“It’s fine,” I said.

“Try the brakes,” he instructed. I did, and the bike dutifully stopped. “Not too jerky?”

“No,” I said. “What’s this?” I pushed a lever, causing a bell to ring. “Cool.”

“Well, you better get back to work,” my mother said. “So we can afford that new bike.”

My father kissed her goodbye and rubbed my hair. “Have fun at Ernie’s,” he said. “I want to hear all about your big day when I get home.”

My mother walked and jogged beside me as I rode the bike on the sidewalk. She didn’t want me to ride it in the street. The only tricky part of our journey was crossing the El Camino Real, which divided west Burlingame from east Burlingame. The El Camino was a four-lane roller coaster of bumps and dips caused by the roots of eucalyptus trees that lined each side of the street. I had never crossed the El Camino on bike or on foot. There had never been a reason. We waited at the corner until the traffic light changed, then crossed. Nothing to it.

Several turns and a few blocks later, I saw Ernie riding his bike up and down a short driveway and making U-turns in a cul-de-sac. When he saw me coming, he dropped the bike in the street and ran to greet me. His mother chased after him. “Ernie, how many times have I told you not to leave your bike in the street?”

“Cool bike,” Ernie said, reaching us. I swelled with pride.

My mom stayed for a few minutes talking to Mrs. Cantwell, but when Mrs. Cantwell asked if she’d like to have lunch, I looked at her with alarm. This was my day with Ernie. I didn’t want my mom there.

“I have a few errands to run,” she said. “Why don’t you just call when it’s time for Sam to come home?”

Ernie’s mom made us boiled hot dogs, potato chips, and grape juice, which we ate at a picnic table in his backyard. At one point Ernie made me laugh so hard the juice shot out my nose, staining my shirt, but I didn’t care. After lunch, he wanted to play baseball. I’d played a few times with my dad, but I wasn’t very good at catching or throwing.