by Ann B. Ross
“Not until I have to,” I said, drawing back.
“Well, look,” he said, turning the thing upside down. “See this? It’s your microphone. You’ll be able to talk to me while we’re riding, and you can hear me through these speakers, here.”
I couldn’t imagine having anything to say while enduring the next few hours other than “Look out,” “Slow down,” and “Let me off this thing!”
I nodded as he continued to point out the features of his Road King, showing me the gas tank, gears, brakes, accelerator and clutch—some on the handlebars, of all places—the purposes of the various gauges, the storage compartment, the passenger seat where Little Lloyd would ride, and I don’t know what all. None of which was of lasting interest to me.
I kept glancing around, fearful of seeing somebody who knew me. All I wanted to do was hide my face and get the whole thing over with. As far as the eye could see on the back lot, there were clumps of leather and denim-clad people standing around or sitting on motorcycles. It was a hairy bunch, too; I’d never in my life seen so many beards, goatees, mustaches, stubbled chins, ponytails, and pigtails.
This was not the sort of social activity I was accustomed to attending, as anybody who knew me could tell you. I felt ill-at-ease and overdressed, as if I’d misread an invitation. But because the event had been so thoroughly played up in the newspaper and on the Asheville television station, everybody in six counties was going to know I’d put in an appearance. I expected there’d be onlookers along our route and at every stop. So, as much as I dreaded putting on that helmet and looking like a space alien, I was thankful that the black visor would hide my face.
I was even more thankful for the helmet when I saw a television news van pull into the parking lot. A lot of yelling, catcalls, and the like greeted the cameraman and news-caster as they alighted from the van. Some people act like idiots at the sight of a television camera, thinking that a passing shot of themselves on the six o’clock news will turn them into celebrities.
Just as Sam finished his spiel about the wonders, plus options, of his machine, I happened to catch sight of an alarming figure walking somewhat stiffly around the side of the restaurant, threading his way around and through clots of cigarette-smoking and beer-sipping riders and spectators.
“Lord, Sam,” I said, reaching for the helmet. “Put that thing on me, quick.”
“Well, sure, Julia,” he said, pleased that I was showing some interest. I grabbed the helmet and smashed it down on my head. “Careful, now. Here, let’s pull up the visor.”
“No,” I said, putting up my hand to keep it closed. “I don’t want anybody to see me.”
He looked at me quizzically, probably wondering how I thought a helmet would fool anybody. And I wondered, too, for the visor did no more to limit visibility than a pair of sunglasses. But I’d not recognized Sam in the same get-up when he first rode into my yard; so, the thing blocked the lookee from the looker. Still, I moved to the other side of Sam, just in case, hoping his bulk would keep me hidden.
Peeking over Sam’s shoulder as he continued his monologue on the virtues of open-road riding, I was dismayed to see the bandy-legged figure making a beeline for us. It seemed that Thurlow Jones had recovered from his crippling malady, but I preferred to keep my distance. For all I knew, it could strike again at any time.
“Sam,” I said, clutching his leather-clad arm. “I’ve heard enough. Let’s ride.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise. He’d thought he’d have to coax, beguile, and shoehorn me into the thing, and here I was, ready to jump in and hit the road. “It’s not time to go yet, Julia. We won’t be leaving until Pickens is ready, and that’ll be with the last wave.”
“I don’t care. I need some practice time.”
He grinned at my enthusiasm, delighted to show me the thrills of riding a Harley. He took my arm, pointed at a foot-rest, and said, “Put your right foot there, Julia, and swing on in. It’s just like mounting a horse, only in reverse.” Which didn’t clarify a thing.
“Hurry, Sam,” I said, holding on to his shoulder as I crawled gingerly onto the sidecar, then slid into the seat. It was lower to the ground than I’d expected. I scrunched down in it as far as I could, so that only the top of my bubble-encased head emerged from the top of the sidecar. I felt like Kilroy. “Let’s get out of here,” I said.
“Okay,” Sam said, still bemused at my sudden eagerness to experience the freedom of the road. “Buckle up, and fasten your helmet. Little Lloyd’ll find us when we get to the front.”
Sam pulled on his helmet, walked to the other side of the motorcycle, and swung his leg over the seat. As he prepared to ignite the thing, Thurlow Jones presented himself alongside the sidecar.
“I be dog,” he said, putting a hand on the sidecar by my shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d do it.”
I looked straight ahead, dismayed that he had so easily recognized me, but determined to ignore him. Which wasn’t hard to do because Sam hit the ignition and a mighty roar filled the air. Thurlow didn’t seem affected by the noise. He leaned down so that his face was right in front of my black visor.
“Knock, knock,” he said, grinning like the fool he was. “Anybody home? Just want to thank you for the plant garden and the note.”
I gripped the pocketbook in my lap and looked straight ahead.
“Hey, Sam,” Thurlow yelled, his voice piercing the noise of the motor. Sam turned, saw him for the first time, and glanced down at me. He did something to the controls and quieted the motor to a throbbing rumble.
I heard Sam say, “What do you want, Thurlow?” It was hardly courteous, but Sam seemed to have something against him. I pretended not to notice a thing.
Thurlow yelled out, “Just came down to check on my investment, but I can’t get her to talk to me. What’s wrong with her?”
Looking neither to the one nor the other, I managed to see that Sam was sizing up the situation. “Maybe she can’t hear you,” Sam called.
“Well, hell, man,” Thurlow yelled, bringing his face down to stare at me through the visor. “She can see, can’t she?”
“We have to get with our group, Thurlow,” Sam said, revving up the motor. “Glad to see you up and around again, but we have to go.”
Thurlow Jones cackled and patted the top of my helmet. I ground my teeth and kept my eyes to the front.
“You better take care of this woman, Murdoch,” the yellow-toothed wonder bellowed. “I got dibs on her.”
To my relief, he began to turn away, thought better of it, and came back to lean across the sidecar. “I ain’t sayin’ you got to worry about this,” he yelled at Sam. “But I seen Clarence Gibbs down the road a piece, hangin’ around with a coupla Harley Fat Boys. They’ll outrun this fancy thing any day of the week.
“An’ another thing,” he yelled, almost draping himself across the sidecar to make sure Sam heard him. As Sam revved the motor again to indicate his impatience, Thurlow jabbed his cocked thumb right in my helmeted face. “You tell her she’s not seein’ a penny more from me ’less she’s back here by five o’clock. I already talked to Pickens and he told me that’s the deadline, so all bets’re off a minute after five.” He stepped back, then thought of something else. “An’ another thing,” he bellowed, “she better make ever’ stop and go the whole entire way. It don’t count if she just goes a few miles an’ comes back in.” Then he leaned over, put his face right against my visor, and, grinning like an ape, yelled, “The whole way, woman! You hear me?”
Giving no sign that I had, I reached up, tapped Sam on the shoulder and pointed a stiff finger straight ahead. “Go,” I said, although he couldn’t hear me because my communications system wasn’t hooked up.
But he got the message, twisting the handlebar controls so that the motor roared and the whole machine rocked on its wheels.
Thurlow Jones stepped back and bowed low, although some discomfort seemed to accompany the effort. But he grinned manfully and swept his hand in a bro
ad gesture to wave us on. As Sam eased off the brakes, I felt a jerk in the mechanism, then it smoothed out and we were moving. I forgot about my pocketbook and clung to the sides of the sidecar with both hands, holding on for all I was worth.
Chapter 30
When I dared open my eyes, I could see that Sam was maneuvering slowly through the clumps of people and cycles, puttering around the building until we reached the far side at the front of the lot. He pulled up along the edge under a straggly tree that looked as if it had been stunted by years of engine exhaust.
Sam knocked on my helmet and motioned for me to elevate my visor. “If you’re going to hibernate in there, let me hook up your microphone.” He did, and the next thing I knew his voice seemed to come out of my own head. “We better go find Little Lloyd,” he said. “He won’t know where we are. And you need to play a hand, too, so you’ll have evidence to show Thurlow.”
I cocked my head close to the microphone and lifted my voice so he could hear me clearly. “I don’t think I can get out,” I said, and Sam almost levitated off his seat. I made an effort to modulate my delivery. “And you know I’m not a card-playing woman, Sam, so draw one for me.”
“Okay,” he said, looking as if he was having trouble keeping a straight face. Riding a motorcycle certainly put him in good humor. “You be all right by yourself for a minute?”
“Just don’t be too long. And keep Thurlow Jones away from me.”
“I’ll try,” he said grimly. “I don’t know why he keeps hanging around you. What was he going on about, anyway?”
“Oh, Sam, the man’s been sick, and he wasn’t all that responsible before being struck down. Don’t pay any attention to him.”
Sam raised his eyebrows, acting as if he wanted to delve further into how much I knew of Thurlow’s particular ailment, which I had no intention of discussing with him. It crossed my mind to tell him about the remarkable alteration of Lillian’s snowball bush, but I didn’t think I could bring myself to describe it.
But Sam let the matter drop, hung his helmet on the handlebars, and walked over to join the group around Mr. Pickens, who was now behind a table by the front door. I watched as riders lined up to register, receive maps, and draw cards from a deck on the table. Mr. Pickens and his helpers busied themselves sorting and writing down the results, then directing the various groups to their starting places. Then my attention was diverted from the mingling crowd by the unholy din of a half-a-dozen or more cycles revving up at the same time.
The racket increased to ear-shattering proportions as the first wave of riders roared out of the parking lot onto the highway. I gasped at the sight of LuAnne in her white outfit, clinging to a mountain of a man in a camouflage suit. His girth was such that she couldn’t reach all the way around him. Big Bill Beasley, without a doubt.
Before the roar of that wave diminished to any appreciable extent, the next wave blasted my ears. Putting my gloved hands over my helmet, which didn’t do a bit of good, I thought I recognized the Baptist preacher and his wife on their shiny purple machine, which Hazel Marie’d told me about.
Noticing a commotion at Mr. Pickens’s registration table, I strained to see what was going on. Lord, it was Emma Sue and Norma raising a ruckus, unhappy about something. I started to climb out to see if I could help get them started, but a glimpse of Thurlow Jones kept me in my seat.
Before long, though, Sam and Little Lloyd dodged between the waiting riders and approached our parking place.
“What’s going on, Sam?” I said, raising my visor.
Sam laughed. “Norma thinks her helmet’s too small. She’s worried about her hair.”
Little Lloyd chimed in. “And Mrs. Ledbetter wanted to change partners. Mr. Pickens put her with Deputy Jim Daly and she said he wasn’t old enough to be able to make wise decisions, and she wanted somebody with some experience to him. I think she hurt his feelings.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, chuckling at the thought. “And then half a dozen others volunteered, claiming all kinds of experience that I don’t think Emma Sue understood.”
“And then,” Little Lloyd said, “when she looked at the choices, she didn’t know what to do. But Deputy Daly told her that he might be young but he was a Christian, and Mrs. Ledbetter said that was a sign, so she’d ride with him.
“Oh, and Miss Julia,” he went on as Sam handed him his helmet. “Coleman’s here, too. Did you see him? He’s not riding, just helping out with traffic duty, ’cause he might have to cut it short if Binkie pages him.”
“Lord,” I said, picturing the monumental mound on that girl, “let us hope that nothing happens till we get back.”
That was an empty hope, for just then Coleman ran to his patrol car and took off out of the parking lot like he was going to a fire. As he passed us, headed back toward Abbotsville, he had both hands gripping the steering wheel and he was mortally flying.
“Uh-oh,” Little Lloyd said. “I bet Binkie’s in labor.”
That shook me more than Coleman’s abrupt departure. “What do you know about going into labor?”
The child’s eyes darted back and forth. “Well, not much. I just heard you and Mama talking about it, and I figured that’s what happens when a baby comes.”
Sam started laughing as I glared at him. “Well, you’re right, Little Lloyd,” I conceded. “But it’s not something you discuss in mixed company. Now, Sam,” I went on, “I am absolutely torn. I need to be with Binkie in her hour of need, yet the other ladies might quit if I leave. What am I going to do?”
“You’re going to stay right where you are,” he said, giving me no room for argument. “Everybody’s counting on you to go the distance. Besides, Binkie and Coleman will be all right by themselves.”
If I could’ve flounced while sitting down, I’d have done it. He didn’t have to remind me of what I’d gotten myself into. Now, I’d have Binkie, on top of everything else, to worry about every minute I was entrapped in the sidecar.
Another wave of riders took off, almost drowning out Little Lloyd, who yelled over the roar that he’d drawn the king of spades for me, but only the two of diamonds for himself.
“You can have my card if you want it,” I said during a brief lull between waves of riders.
“No, Miss Julia, that’s not the way you play. But guess what Mr. Sam drew—the queen of hearts, and he said if he was Mrs. Ledbetter, he’d take it as a sign.”
“Oh, Sam,” I said. But I had to smile at his foolishness in spite of myself.
Sam winked at me as he handed me a slip of cardboard with lines on it. “Hold on to this, Julia. Thurlow’s going to want to see it. Look, J. D.’s written in the king of spades on the first line, and initialed it. We’ll get that done at every stop.”
I put the card in my pocketbook, which rested on my lap.
Then Sam said, “Fasten your helmet and hop on, Little Lloyd. We’re about ready to go.”
Hoping that the motorcycle had enough power to pull the three of us, I took the time while they mounted to consider what Thurlow Jones had said about Clarence Gibbs and some fat boys lurking along the way. It was a worrisome matter, but I couldn’t bring myself to get too excercised about it. I had too many other things on my mind, one of which was what Binkie was going through right at that minute, and Thurlow’s threat that he wouldn’t pay up if I didn’t complete the course. That just made me so mad. There were a lot of things that could happen, acts of God and the like, that I had no control over. It was the intent of the heart that should count in such cases, but from what he’d said, Thurlow had no intent to give me any benefit of the doubt.
Another thing that burdened my mind at the moment was the sight of the same Burberry-coated man who kept turning up everywhere I looked. He’d just emerged from the restaurant, still in that nice raincoat, but in no way dressed to ride—not unless a suit and tie had become the order of the day. Just spectating, I guessed, but why anybody in his right mind would come out to watch a bunch of people he didn’t know ride o
ff on motorcycles was a mystery to me.
Just then a familiar car turned into the lot and pulled up just beyond us. I poked Sam and pointed at Pastor Ledbetter, who climbed out and jerked his coattail down before striding off toward the registration desk. He didn’t speak to a soul, just scanned the crowd and found Emma Sue just as she was about to mount up behind Deputy Daly.
The pastor marched over to her, took her arm, and walked her back to his car. She didn’t look too happy about the treatment, but she stood listening to him. I don’t think he gave one thought to who else might be listening, as we certainly were, since they were hardly a stone’s throw from us. But then, he could hardly recognize us, for one helmet-covered head looked pretty much like another.
“Emma Sue,” the pastor started out, “get in the car. This is no place for you, and I’m taking you home.”
When I heard that, I nearly came out of the sidecar. Sam put his hand on my shoulder to hold me down. “It’s her decision, Julia,” he said.
Well, I knew that, but we couldn’t afford to have Emma Sue back out just because her husband thought riding a motorcycle would ruin her testimony. In fact, her testimony was at an all-time high, for almost every elder and deacon in the church had paid up to sponsor her, but only on the condition that their names not be made public. They knew the pastor’s view on the subject and didn’t want to cross him.
So I couldn’t do anything but sit there and wait for Emma Sue to decide whether to obey her husband or make a decision on her own for a change. All I could think of was that if she got in that car, we’d be seeing all those sponsorship dollars—plus Thurlow’s ten thousand—flying out the window.
Emma Sue squinched up her mouth, then blew out her breath. I knew it was her moment of truth, for she’d never bucked his authority in all their years together. I clenched my hands, waiting to see what she’d do. I think I even prayed that she’d work up a little gumption.