In Louisiana a thunderstorm slams us on the interstate. Waves of water wash over us from the eighteen wheelers. Needles of rain fly over the windshield, stinging my face. I wipe the water from my clear riding glasses with one left finger while clutching the throttle with my right hand. With every blast of wind and water, the motorcycle shakes beneath me.
Through the dim light we see an exit sign. The neon-yellow Motel 8 sign appears like a mirage in the murky air. We peel off our soaked clothes in the room. He drapes them over the air conditioner to dry. We crawl naked into the bed. Shivering with cold, we hug each other tightly. I throw my leg over Dwayne’s legs. I pull him toward me. We wrap ourselves in the sheets and blankets. Our mouths join in a kiss. We fall into a deep sleep.
We wake at dawn and load the motorcycles. Dwayne dries off the damp leather on the seats. I pull out the choke on both of them and push the starter button. The throaty sound of the engines warming in the morning air throbs in our ears. We check oil levels and clean mud off the windshields.
The front desk clerk steps outside to watch us. He joins Dwayne in a morning cigarette. He tells us it is his dream to ride a Harley across the country. He watches me load my tour pack and pull on gloves and a helmet. “That’s a damn big Harley for a woman.”
I turn to face both of them. “I just ride it. I don’t carry it.”
Dwayne throws away his cigarette with a snap and laughs out loud. “My wife is my road dog riding buddy!” The clerk waves an envious goodbye to us, and we swing out of the driveway.
We call Stephanie from Charleston to tell her we’ll be at her apartment in two days. She can’t wait to show us DC. That night we sit with a map on the table between us in a diner. We plan our path to her address over coffee and eggs. Dwayne tells me he has followed me across nine states, so he will just let me take the lead. He adds that if I disappear from sight, he won’t be able to find his way home.
Trees and pastures become apartment complexes and freeways as we roll northward into Virginia. We flow into the river of DC traffic when we reach the beltway. Dwayne rides closer to my right side as cars tightly pack around us. I cover the clutch level lightly with my left hand in order to be ready to shift down suddenly. Dwayne seamlessly trails me around each corner. I merge onto the highway after we cross the Potomac. The river glows golden in the setting sun.
We turn right onto Stephanie’s street and see her red brick apartment building. She stands on the curb and waves wildly at us. She points to the parking lot behind the building. We cut the engines off and back into the parking space side by side.
Before we can get off, she hugs me and then Dwayne tightly. “I can’t believe you made it!” She adds that she could hear our loud motors before she saw us.
Dwayne reminds her that we promised we’d visit, and we never break a promise to our daughters. Lifting our tired bodies from the seats, we both stretch our arms and legs. She helps us carry our two small duffel bags up to her apartment. We talk and tell travel stories late into the night. I look at the two of them in the circle of light at the kitchen table. Stephanie takes our hands across the table, and we sit linked like that.
She proudly shows us her new city over the next five days. We spend hours in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. Dwayne pulls us over to examine a Huey helicopter. “That’s what I flew on in Vietnam,” he tells us.
We sit on a wooden bench against the wall. Stephanie and I sit on each side of him. We listen to his story of hovering over lush green jungles lit by the yellow-and-red flames from gunfire and bombs exploding. It is the first time he has spoken of his war experiences with us. He avoids looking at us. He stares at the helicopter towering over us, and his chest rises and falls as he draws deep breaths.
His strong rounded hands with his sunburned fingers clutch his knees; the words spill out of him. “I was a sniper,” he confesses. “A boy from Texas knows how to shoot. The army used that. I’ve spent years trying to forget that moment when my finger pulled a trigger and someone died.”
We let silence fill us as he remembers, and we console him, listening in silence.
“I’m going to build a helicopter,” he says. He wants to fly it himself. He wants to just enjoy the machine and the sensation of floating over the ground, to wipe out the bad memories.
Stephanie and I promise him, “We’ll fly with you when you get it built.”
The next day we put the Harleys on a truck to be shipped home, since it would take too long to ride home. School starts for me in a few days. We watch the truck take the exit ramp to the highway. I tell him, “We’re going to take a summer ride ocean to ocean until we’re in our nineties.”
Dwayne says, “Hell yeah, we are.”
We catch an early flight the next morning. We return to our work lives, with me getting ready for a new school year as an assistant principal and him back at the parts counter at Modesto Harley. Now, sitting at my desk, staring out the window at the dusty, flat Central California fields, I feel again asphalt beneath my wheels. The scents of salty oceans and mountains with their smells of sand and pine fill my nose, not the odor of cow manure at the dairy farms surrounding me here. For me, the moment we return from our motorcycle trip, I’m looking forward to the next one.
GROUNDED
I return home at midnight from a football game at my high school and find Dwayne awake and waiting for me. I ease myself down on the edge of the bed. I close my eyes in exhaustion. My day began at six in the morning.
Dwayne punches the button on the remote, and the TV screen goes black. “Are you going with me tomorrow to Pismo?”
I swing myself into bed. “Yes, of course I am.”
“On the Harley?”
“It’s supposed to rain. I’ll take your truck.”
The conversation ends with my announcement. We know I haven’t ridden for three months after the start of the school year. I got a new job as a principal at a large high school the spring after our DC trip. I leave the house early and often don’t come home until late at night. I am too tired for our usual Sunday ride on our only day together.
I rest my hand on his in the middle of the bed. “I know my taking the high school principal’s job has been tough, but I’ll work on being home more.” I have made the promise before. I never keep it.
Dwayne doesn’t answer. He rolls over and turns his back to me. I lie in the dark and listen to him pretend to be asleep. We have never had an argument, but this wall of silence seems worse.
The next morning, I drive Dwayne’s truck on his employee motorcycle run to Pismo Beach. I follow the path of the long line of Harleys streaming down the highway in front of me, riding side by side. I watch Dwayne on his in the middle of the pack. His left hand hangs over his knee. He hunches over the gas tank in his usual crouched position. He always returns to flat track racer position on a motorcycle. I can see the large red number one on the back of his black leather jacket, the logo of Mitchell’s Modesto Harley, where he works. He doesn’t look back to see if I’m still behind them. I look at Dwayne’s friend Steve riding slightly ahead of him on his left, my usual spot on motorcycle runs.
I lift my shoulders and roll them in an effort to ease the ache. I lean back in the seat and try to relax. I peer out at the dark clouds rolling across the gray sky. I see no sign of the promised rain. Patches of sun appear now and then. Ahead of me the motorcycles curve around the mountain road. I hear their rumbling motors though the thick glass of the windshield. It feels strange to hear a Harley motor from a distance instead of beneath me.
We drop over the hill into Pismo. The Pacific on my right gleams silver in the dim sun. The motorcycle riders and I drive through the line of palm trees into downtown. I park the truck on the curb near the motel where the rally will be held. I get out and slam the door behind me. I lean against the tailgate and watch each rider shut off his or her motor, then roll backward to park. With practiced skill, everyone lines up and gets off their Harley.
I spot Dwayne in the midd
le of one of the rows of motorcycles. I walk toward him and watch him laugh and talk with Steve and some of his other friends. I slip my arm around his waist and smile at everyone.
Everyone tells me hello and how sorry they are that I didn’t join them. I say, “It felt strange to be watching you ride instead of riding with you.”
Without speaking, Dwayne moves away from me. I follow him into the tent where the drinks and food are kept. He pulls up the lid of a cooler and hands me a beer. Its icy metal tingles in my hand. We push our way through the crowd and find a couple of lawn chairs. We sit down and watch the crowd for the rest of the afternoon. He doesn’t talk to me much. His stories and jokes are shared with the parade of friends who join us now and then.
Early the next morning we wake to rain slapping against our room’s window. I press against Dwayne in the morning chill. He turns and wraps his arms around me. I tuck my head under his chin. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” He strokes my hair and pushes a strand behind my ear. “I miss you.”
“I haven’t gone anywhere.” My tears drip onto his T-shirt.
“Maybe not physically. I don’t know where your heart is.”
We embrace each other as the storm moves out into the ocean. The wind moans against the walls. I don’t want to get out of the bed. Finally, we have to leave it and the room to go home.
We walk into the parking lot to find branches of trees scattered on the pavement. I pull my leather coat tighter against the damp fog. I wore my boots and jacket even though I wasn’t riding. Now they keep me warm and dry in the mist.
Dwayne and I stand in the cold and look at his wet motorcycle. We look up at the sky and see more black clouds on the horizon.
“Let’s put the Harley in the truck so you don’t have to ride in the rain.” I stick my cold hand in his jacket pocket.
He cups a cigarette in his hand as he lights it. “I need somewhere with a ramp so I can load it.” He smokes silently and then flicks away the cigarette. He goes into the motel office.
When he returns, he tells me the owner told him about a nearby warehouse with a loading ramp. I follow his sputtering motorcycle in the ricocheting rain down the wet streets. I watch him ride up the sidewalk around the building until he reaches the loading dock.
I swing the truck around and put it in reverse. Dwayne guides me into position. I stop with a bump against the concrete. I jump out of the truck. He jerks down the tailgate. Together we guide the massive Harley onto the bed of the truck. Its tires sink under the weight. Dwayne ties it into place with the bungee cords he always carries.
He looks at me. I hand him the truck keys. “You drive.”
We sit across the seat in the warm truck.
“I guess it was a good idea to bring the truck.” I look at him in the dim light.
He doesn’t answer but inserts the key, and the truck starts. We chatter about our jobs and our daughters. Stephanie has settled into DC and now has a large circle of friends. Jessica will graduate from college in the spring. Our talk skates over the thin ice of our tension.
The next Sunday I walk into the garage instead of collapsing on the sofa in front of the TV. Dwayne is changing the oil in my car. I sink down onto the chair in the corner. I haven’t joined him in the garage since our move for my new job. Our Harleys sit side by side in the center of the concrete floor. My Street Glide’s cobalt paint gleams in the fluorescent lights. I haven’t ridden it enough to get it dirty.
Dwayne rolls out from under the car and sees me. He stands up. He wipes his hand on a towel. “You are wearing your jeans and boots. Are you riding?”
“How about a ride to the Starbucks? We always used to do that on Sundays.”
He stands up and grabs my helmet off the garage wall, handing it to me. I pull my jacket out of my saddlebag and roll the Street Glide out of the garage. I sit on it and feel the vibration under me. Dwayne rolls up beside me. We smile at each other.
I flex my hand and accelerate. I lift my feet and swerve out of the driveway. In a few minutes, I fall back into the rhythms of riding and shifting. I hear his motor echo mine as we speed down the street. We sit at a table under an oak tree with our coffee. We ride home slowly. I close my eyes and feel the wind brushing my face.
The next Sunday we get up early for a ride to the beach. We sit on the patio and watch the sun rise over the flat fields behind our house. My phone rings on the table between us, and we stare at it.
I answer it. Dwayne slides back his chair, and I hear the snick of the sliding door closing behind him.
I find him slumped on the couch with the television tuned to a car show. “I have to go to my high school. The security alarm has gone off, and the police thinks there’s been a burglary. I’ll be back as soon as I can. We can still go for a short ride then.”
He stands up and zips up his leather jacket. “I’m going to Steve’s house, and we’re going to work on his scooter. We’ll probably ride somewhere and get a beer.” We stare at each other for a minute. Then he leaves.
I listen to the sound of his motorcycle fading away down the road.
We stop planning Sunday rides because we know I will never be able to go. I lie awake at night and listen to the rise and fall of Dwayne’s breathing. Since our move to California, I have been the one with the steady job, the one whose salary paid our bills. Dwayne’s work at Harley shops made our Harley lifestyle possible. In the dark night, I know an impossible choice waits for me.
FAULT LINES
“Do you want me to just pack my shit and move back to Texas?” Dwayne leans over his knees and clenches and unclenches his fists.
We are sitting on a low rock wall at Pismo Beach. The rough surface digs into my thighs through the thick denim of my jeans. My toes curl into the sand. I peer into his face and squint my eyes in the bright sun. He stares back at me. His stony face betrays no emotion.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I lay my hand on his knee. Behind us, motorcycles roar as his coworkers arrive and leave the motel parking lot. He has chosen the annual Harley employees rally to confront me. It has been a long twelve months since last year’s rally, when I drove his truck there.
He reminds me of how distant I’ve become in the last two years since I became a principal, the two years since our DC motorcycle trip. He doesn’t look at me but stares at the waves pounding the beach as he describes how long it has been since we rode together on a long trip or made love or even laughed.
He seizes my hand between both of his hands. “You can just say you don’t want to be married anymore, and I’ll leave. I’ve been through two divorces. I can’t stand for what we have to end like that. I’m too old for the screaming and fighting.” He adds that I can just tell him I don’t love him anymore, and he’ll leave.
I slither down onto the sand and lean back against the rough wall. I stare at the ocean pounding the edge of the sand. A long moment of silence stretches tautly between us.
I reach up and take his hand and pull him down by me. Dwayne shifts closer to me. “Do you still love me?” I ask.
“I am always gonna love you. I don’t know if that’s true about you anymore.” We sit in the shadows with the laughter and the motors roaring behind us.
I shake my head to stop him as he starts to talk again. I take a deep breath. I lean forward until our faces are inches apart. “I will always love you. That will never change.”
I struggle to explain the twelve-hour work days as a high school principal. I describe how learning to be tough and unemotional at work has leaked into my life with him. “Excuses. All I have are excuses. Please don’t leave me. I can’t live without you.” I finally choke out an apology for breaking my promise to put him first.
We lean against each other there in the sand. I beg him, “Please let me be your Mary again.”
“You’ll always be my Mary. My baby.” He smooths away my tears. I swing my legs over his. We wrap our arms around each other and sit there without speaking
. I lay my head against his chest, listening to his strong heartbeat pulsing against my ear. He rests his chin on the top of my head. He sings I’m a Believer and whispers, “I can’t leave you.”
Finally, we walk back into the crowd of loud and happy bikers. I lock my phone into my saddlebag. It stays there all weekend.
On Monday afternoon I face an assistant superintendent across my desk. She slaps her day planner down on my desk. She frowns. “We have to talk about what you can do to make the superintendent happy next year about your work here. You have to spend more time at weekend meetings and at the country club with the other principals. If you don’t, you won’t be back.”
She runs her hand through her short dark hair and slips off her suit jacket. She perches on the edge of the chair in front of my desk.
I hold up one hand to interrupt the conversation. I tell her I will be leaving anyway at the end of the year. It won’t matter if the superintendent likes me.
She shakes her head. “I know you and the new superintendent haven’t gotten along, but if you work at it, we can fix it. Work some extra hours. Play golf with us.”
Outside my window students yell and walk quickly to their next class. The bell rings. A tinny voice pours out of the speakers with the day’s announcements. I tell her, “I am going to resign.”
We argue for a few minutes. Finally, she tells me she’ll give me a reference, but everyone will believe I was fired if I leave. I tell her I honestly don’t care.
She bangs the door shut when she leaves. I punch in numbers on my cell phone. The ringing vibrates against my ear. “Hey, baby.” I hear Dwayne’s voice.
“I’m officially unemployed at the end of the school year. Let’s go to Vegas this weekend to celebrate.”
His laugh fills me. “Are we riding or driving?”
She Rode a Harley Page 13