The road out of Fresno was quiet on the morning the brothers rode out. It was not the morning of the 140 Harleys, with its thunder and its orderly procession and its whole trailer park at the windows. It was an ordinary morning, with ordinary light, and a handful of brothers, and no one watching except the people who loved them, which was enough, and which was, in its own way, more than enough. Reaper's Panhead was parked in the diner lot, and Tank's bike beside it, and Preacher's truck, and Wrench's bike, and Big Joe's bike, and they stood in a loose group, talking, not about anything important, just about the road, and the weather, and where they would stop for coffee, the way people talk before a journey that is not a farewell, but a going-away-for-a-while.
Leo and Diane stood in the diner lot to wave them off, and Marty stood in the diner door, wiping his hands on his apron, and the neighbours who happened to be there stood too, because that is what neighbours do, when people they know are leaving, even for a little while. Leo held his mother's hand, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to, and Diane held his hand back, and they watched as Reaper put on his sunglasses, and swung his leg over the Panhead, and started the engine, not with a roar, but with a low, familiar rumble, the same rumble Leo had first heard vibrating through the soles of his shoes, back in July, when he had been hungry and afraid and had found nothing in the dirt. The rumble was the same, but everything else was different, and Leo, hearing it now, did not feel afraid. He felt, instead, a kind of fondness for the sound, the way you feel fondness for a song you have heard many times, and that has come to mean something good.
Before they left, each brother said goodbye in his own way, and Leo, watching, learned that goodbyes, like people, come in different shapes. Tank crouched down, which was a long way for Tank to crouch, and he said, "You keep wiping those tables, Leo, and you keep that rag clean," and Leo promised he would, and Tank ruffled his hair, once, gently, as if Leo's hair were something breakable, which it was not, but Tank treated it that way anyway, because that was Tank. Preacher took Leo's hand in both of his, and he said, very quietly, "You are a good boy, Leo. Remember that, when things get loud," and Leo nodded, because he would remember, and because Preacher's quiet voice made quiet things feel important. Wrench said, "That bicycle of yours — oil the chain every two weeks, and bring it to me if it squeaks," and Leo laughed, because he already knew, and because Wrench saying it again meant Wrench cared. Big Joe said, "Eat your potatoes, kid," and then he laughed at himself, because he knew Leo ate his potatoes, and everyone laughed, and the laughing made the leaving easier, which was Big Joe's gift, though he would never have called it that. Reaper said nothing at first, and then he said, "I'll be back Tuesday, Leo. Groceries. Same as always," and Leo said, "I know," and Reaper nodded, and that was their goodbye, which was not really a goodbye at all, but a promise of a Tuesday, which was better, because Tuesdays come around again, and again, and again.
The brothers rode out slowly, in a line, not fast, not showing off, just riding, the way men ride when they are going somewhere and are in no hurry to get there, because the road itself is part of the going. Tank waved as he passed, a big, slow wave, and Preacher nodded, and Wrench lifted a hand, and Big Joe grinned, and Reaper, at the front, looked back once, over his shoulder, and raised two fingers from the handlebar, a small salute, and Leo raised his hand back, high, and Diane raised hers, and Marty raised his from the door, and the bikes went on down the road, past the trailer park turn, past the place where the road bends, and then they were gone around the bend, and the sound of them faded, not all at once, but gradually, the way sounds fade when they are going away and not coming back for a while.
The road was quiet after them. It was not the quiet of July, when quiet had meant desperation, and hunger, and a boy alone in a parking lot searching the dirt for coins. It was a peaceful quiet, the quiet of a morning after people you love have left and will come back, the quiet of a diner lot in sunlight, with a mother and a son standing in it, holding hands, and a diner owner in his doorway, and the ordinary sounds of the day coming back, one by one: a car passing, a bird, the diner's screen door sighing, Marty's voice from inside, calling that the coffee was fresh. Leo stood there for a moment, listening to the quiet, and he felt that it was good, and that it was safe, and that it was theirs.
Leo and Diane stood in the lot a little longer, after the sound had faded, and Marty came out of the doorway and stood with them, and the three of them looked down the road together, at the bend where the bikes had disappeared, and Marty said, "They'll be back Tuesday, Leo. Same as always," and Leo said, "I know, Marty," and Diane put her hand on Leo's shoulder, and the morning settled into something calm and certain. A neighbour, passing with groceries, stopped to ask how Diane was, and Diane said she was well, and working, and the neighbour said that was good to hear, and meant it, and walked on, and Leo thought about how, in July, neighbours had looked away, or had not known what to say, and how now they stopped, and asked, and listened, and how that change, like all the other changes, had come slowly, and had stayed, because slow changes, Leo was learning, were the ones that lasted.