John McManus - Fox Tooth Heart

In the Rodman Mountains a butte with steep zigzagging paths mesmerized Hunter into drifting onto the rumble strips. When Cody snapped alert, Hunter pointed to the blunt hillock. The sun was sinking behind low mountains, causing the shadow line to retreat up the butte.

“We can beat it,” he said, pulling off.

Without even closing the van doors they rode three minutes flat to the base of the rise. Hoisting their bikes over their shoulders, they scrambled up a scree field. The light was withdrawing. In a skidding rush they raced the sun until the gradient eased and they could mount their bikes again, slicing their way up to the summit in time for another sunset.

“Fucking A,” said Hunter on that high dais, wishing he could pause time.

“What a beautiful painting God has made for us today,” Cody said, mocking Hunter’s mother again.

“It is beautiful,” Hunter might have replied, but that wasn’t part of the deal of Cody’s friendship. Nor could he agree aloud that the sight hardly seemed real.

“Race you to the bottom,” he said instead.

“First let’s admire God’s handiwork for a few minutes.”

He laid his bike down. As soon as he turned to face the radiant show of orange light, Cody leapt on his own bike and went screaming down the butte’s north face.

Hunter gave chase. It felt incredible to charge downhill. He rode headlong onto a jutting boulder that launched him out over Cody, through the air. He landed diagonal to the grade, skidding hard right. From behind him he heard Cody cursing, but just for show. A good race was what Cody had wanted, and Hunter, who liked to please people, was giving it to him. He bunny-hopped gully after gully. Feeling serene, he kept a lead all the way back to the van, where his worry resumed over his father.

Hunter retained no memories of Arthur Flynn beyond his mother’s few stories, which all took place during his infancy. According to Emily, Arthur had suggested putting Hunter up for adoption because of the shape of his head. “I’ve got a conehead for a kid,” he’d told every nurse at the hospital, irked in a manner that seemed jokey until he phoned Catholic Charities and arranged for a Sister Bernice to come by. A far-fetched tale, but could Emily have cooked up such a particular account of drenching the nun with a pitcher of sweet tea? Or Arthur’s last words to her, “Keep your napkin in your lap,” or the strange gifts he’d sent from the Arizona address: lingerie two sizes too small, a family-sized box of Crystal Light?

Driving east, Hunter rehearsed not mentioning those things to his father. Unless Arthur Flynn looked thrilled to see him, Hunter would ignore his face, demeanor, everything except his signature on a form.

In Flagstaff, after checking into a Motel 6, the boys drove to 310 Beaver Street to find an empty house with an auction notice posted in front. Hardly had Hunter registered relief before Cody said, “This blows,” so loudly that a neighbor heard.

“If it’s Buck you want,” said that woman from her porch, “find him at Charlie’s Bar on the main drag.”

They thanked her, drove away. “Should we try it?” Cody asked.

“I doubt Buck’s Arthur,” Hunter said.

“Hunter, on that piece-of-shit bike of yours, you’re a badass, but off of it you’re a festering pussy.”

“Okay, Cody.”

“Did you hear about the girl in New Mexico?”

He shook his head. He knew Cody was about to describe yet another victim of Christian Science.

“Her parents let her bleed to death. State took them to trial, but the court ruled in favor of religious freedom.”

Over the past few months, since the pedal incident, Cody had been telling Hunter about similar kids in practically every state.

“That’s a tragedy,” Hunter said.

“Could happen to you.”

“I’m not a hemophiliac.”

“It’s a cult like the Branch Davidians.”

“You’re right,” he said, in order to stop talking about it. He had a disquieting thought. His bike, a Cannondale Killer V 900, was hardly a piece of shit. Still, it paled beside the Litespeed Cody had stolen after giving a fake ID to test-ride it. Although Cody’s anesthesiologist father could afford any bike Cody believed he deserved, Cody had told his parents off and they weren’t speaking anymore. Now he sought for Hunter to ditch his own mother, too, so that Hunter’s winnings could fund their racing life.

“This feels like something I should do myself,” he said to his friend. “Maybe you could go back and plan tomorrow’s ride?”

“It’s true a pussy wouldn’t plan as hard a ride as I will,” Cody said, and did a three-point turn back toward the motel.

Alone, Hunter crossed town to a strip mall laid out below the moonlit mountains he would explore tomorrow. Facing the pink neon of Charlie’s Bar he sat there arguing with himself. Head back now, he thought, and lie that Buck looked nothing like him, wasn’t even white. Emancipation had been Cody’s idea, not his. But to picture that Christian Science con man whispering away his mother’s pain sent Hunter trudging into the bar’s dim interior, the papers folded into his training journal.

He laid the book down on the bar. Above him hung the Arizona state flag and a rainbow flag, flanked by elk heads. Upbeat country was playing loud.

“Rum and Coke,” he told the bartender.

“How about just a Coke,” was the reply.

“I’m being emancipated from my family,” he said, taking a seat in a row of plaid-shirted men who were hunched over their drinks.

“Let’s see some ID.”

“It’s at home.”

“Maybe a Sprite.”

“Forget it,” said Hunter, as a ruggedly handsome fellow a few stools down seemed to take notice. He looked about fifty, with sandy hair and a sharp jaw like Hunter’s, and they both watched the bartender pour the Coke.

Hunter felt himself being observed. He took the drink and sipped, refusing to stare back. Eventually the man beside him left, and the sandy-haired guy scooted over onto that seat.

“Ain’t seen you here,” he said to Hunter.

“I don’t live here.”

“Name’s Buck.”

“Okay,” Hunter said, nervous.

“You like it?”

“The bar?”

“My name.”

“I guess so.”

“Most twinks do.”

“Most what do?”

“How about you?”

“How about me?”

“What’s your name?”

“Hunter,” he said.

“That’s cool. Hunter and Buck.”

“What did it mean, ‘Most twinks do’?”

“Sounds macho, and so does yours.”

So Buck was talking about their names. With a shrug Hunter feigned indifference. The truth was he despised his name. For a year now, he’d been a vegetarian. The kids in his class who hunted were the ones who said cycling was for fags. Hunters struck Hunter as cruel, callow people. When his parents had named him Hunter, they had misread him in a manner he could cite in the court petition.

“Let me guess why you’re in town. To hike the canyon.”

“I’m a mountain biker.”

“Ride the canyon.”

“Against the law.”

“Government’s shutting down.”

“Huh?” He wondered if Buck was a cop.

“Budget crisis. At midnight tonight every government employee’s being furloughed, thanks to Slick Willie.”

“Are you sure?” Hunter said, imagining himself and Cody becoming history’s first riders of the Grand Canyon.

“That includes park rangers.”

“But it’s still illegal.”

“I’ll take you.”

“We’ve got a car.”

“Who’s we?”

“Me and my friend.”

“So you’ve got a friend.”

“Are you surprised?”

“You two want company?”

“Not especially.”