“No,” she answered. “I can handle it.”
“I’m sure. Still, I have a way with rusty nuts.” He cocked an eyebrow.
Maggie looked down at the tires and noticed that he was right. They were rusted on tight. And like an idiot, she’d elevated the car without loosening them first. Which meant that if she had to fight to loosen the nuts, the car might fall off the jack and injure her or damage the axle or wheel alignment. This, she thought, is what happens when you change a tire only once every fifteen years.
“Damn.”
“I’ll ask again. Need some help?” The man swung his leg over the fuel tank and stood facing the woman, as he took in the situation with an amused expression.
Maggie’s brow creased in frustration. “I suppose you think I’m some sort of damsel in distress that you can save?”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am, I never make assumptions about a woman holding a tire iron. Just trying to be neighbourly. If you wish, I’ll keep going. And come next spring, maybe I’ll drive back here and gather your bones. Is that okay with you?”
Maggie reasoned out his offer and decided to take a chance. “All right, I suppose it would be okay if you helped.”
“Please, your degree of gratitude is overwhelming. I’m blushing.” The man got off his motorcycle and removed his leather jacket, revealing a white T-shirt.
Against her will, Maggie found herself smiling. “Sorry, just a little tired and not feeling very social. My name is Maggie Second.” She held out her hand.
The man removed the glove from his right hand and shook hers with a firm, though gentle grasp. His hand lingered, Maggie thought, a little too long.
“John. John Richardson. Well, I guess we should lower your car and take care of your rusted nuts.”
Maggie laughed. “Well, when you say it like that.”
“I’m sure mine are just as rusty. On my bike, I mean. May I?” He took the tire iron from Maggie and kneeled down to begin the task of lowering the car.
Maggie’s eyes wandered over to the man’s motorcycle. Though she knew little of such machines, she could see it was a superb work of engineering. Almost as beautiful as he was. Then, realizing she’d thought that, Maggie blushed ever so slightly.
“I don’t know about that. Your motorcycle looks in awfully good condition. It’s… beautiful. I’ve never seen one like it.” Maggie felt drawn to the magnificent motorbike, and moved closer to inspect it.
“It’s a 1953 Indian Chief motorcycle,” John began. “Gorgeous, isn’t it? It has an eighty-cubic-inch motor, which in today’s metric is 1300cc. Its top cruising speed is over a hundred and forty clicks an hour, and it could cruise all day without a problem. The engine is a forty-two-degree flathead/side-valve unit and no other machine sounds like it. They don’t make them anymore, and fewer than eight hundred were ever made. I know it’s kind of old, but not everything new and original is better than what came before it. I’ll match this baby against a contemporary Triumph or Harley any day of the week. I gather it… meets with your approval?”
Maggie stroked the leather seat first, then the handlebars. “Where did you get it?”
“You’d never believe me.” Then, through gritted teeth, he said, “Man, these nuts are really on.” The first nut gave way just then with a tortured squeal. “That’s a good beginning,” John said as he tackled the second nut. From across the motorcycle, Maggie could see his muscles straining under his shirt. Almost instantly, the second nut came free as did the third and fourth.
Maggie turned to admire the motorcycle again, and was still running her eyes over its lines when she heard John say, “I could use some help over here.” She started and looked over to see him pointing to the spare tire.
“Sorry.”
By the time she rolled the tire over to him, John had the flat off. He lifted the new tire up and into place, tightened the nuts and lowered the car again. John stood up, and they both stared at the half-deflated tire.
“When’s the last time you had this thing checked?”
Maggie looked at him. “You’re supposed to have spare tires checked?”
“In theory.”
“God damn it!” Frustrated, Maggie kicked the tire, her fists clenched. “I don’t need this. I really don’t. I’m getting such a headache. You probably think I’m some ditzy broad who doesn’t know a thing about car maintenance.”
“Actually, I would say most men wouldn’t know to have their spare tire’s pressure checked either. I think forgetfulness is not gender-specific, like many acts.”
“Like stupidity.”
“That too. All right, you’ve got one blown-out tire, and one almost flat. What are our options?” He looked at her, waiting for an answer.
Maggie thought for a moment. “It’s not completely flat. I could drive it into town, to the garage. What do you think?”
John kneeled down to take a closer look at the tire. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t advise it. This could go anytime too. That would really fuck up wheel alignment, and your day. Know anybody in the village who might be able to help?”
Maggie nodded. “My brother Tim. He’s got a garage in his backyard full of tires and parts. He likes to fiddle with cars. He might have a good spare tire. Or at the very least, he’d take me to get a new one.”
“Looks like we have a plan. Tim’s it is. I’ll take you, but you’ll have to sit on the gas tank. Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall off. You guide, I’ll drive.” He hopped onto the Indian Chief, and was about to put his helmet on when he noticed Maggie still standing there. “What’s wrong?”
Maggie didn’t know how to put it into words. It was the idea of riding through downtown Otter Lake, straddling this hard-to-ignore motorcycle, this equally hard-to-ignore gentleman’s arms wrapped around her. A chief on a Chief. There was bound to be talk.
And there was something else.
“Who are you?” asked Maggie.
“Me? I’m a friend of your mother’s.”
“I gathered that, but from where? No offence, but you don’t look like her usual bunch of friends.”
John smiled. “Let’s just say I know a side of your mother that you probably don’t. She was a wonderful woman with many incredible traits, and I came to say goodbye to her. That’s about it.”
“I saw you at the funeral, standing by the road. Why didn’t you come to the service, or to the reception?”
He leaned back on his motorcycle, took a deep breath and met Maggie’s eyes. “A long time ago, your mother was forced to make a decision. She did, and I harbour no grudge against her, but I don’t go where I’m not wanted.”
“What do you mean, a long time ago? You’re younger than me. This doesn’t make sense.”
The man’s smile came flooding back. “Yeah, I know. Isn’t it great? Who needs sense! Hop on. Let’s get this puppy rolling.” With that, his boot kick-started the Indian Chief and it roared to life. Reaching back, he handed Maggie the spare helmet. He shrugged on his leather jacket again before putting on his helmet. To entice her, he roared his precious machine down the highway a dozen feet or more, then pivoted on his foot a hundred and eighty degrees, wheels squealing in protest, and pulled up to Maggie, where he waited expectantly.
“If your bike isn’t built for two people, why do you have an extra helmet?”
“You’re not the first damsel in distress I’ve had to save. Let’s just say I like to be prepared.”
With the helmet in her hand, the proverbial ball was now in her court. Maggie jammed the helmet on, sat herself on the gas tank and felt one of John’s arms quickly encircle her. She liked the feeling of leather and muscle against her back much more than she would have expected. But it also felt a bit naughty. He was, after all, at least ten years younger than she was. Still, it felt good. Her earlier fatigue had mysteriously disappeared.
With a powerful lurch, the machine shot forward down the highway, toward Otter Lake.
People still talk about the day the strange man on the str
ange bike came riding through the village, with the widowed chief snuggled a little too comfortably into the driver’s lap. The patrons at Betty’s Takeout almost dropped their fries when the huge red-and-white machine raced past. The employees at the daycare centre almost forgot about the kids playing on the swings. Delia and Charlene, who traded off receptionist duties at the Band Office, almost dropped their coffee and cigarettes. When John and Maggie passed the Otter Lake Debating Society they waved at the assembled panel, who, unsure what else to do, waved back and were momentarily distracted from today’s topic.
Of course, the community’s reactions paled in comparison to Virgil’s when he saw them approaching. Walking casually along the road, a block or so away from the school, serious things were weighing on his mind. It was lunchtime and he was debating whether he should return to school after eating. He had an English class that after noon and his teacher had been giving him grief for not turning in an assignment. But he had promised his mom he would try harder… Maggie, bracing herself on the Chief, was looking the other way, toward the school. Virgil recognized her by the pants she had worn at breakfast, and her favourite black vest with red embroidery. John waved to him, and playfully pointed at the figure nestled much too closely against him. Before Virgil could yell anything, they were gone, heading down Gate Road.
What the hell was his mother doing riding around with that guy? Virgil was standing there, still trying to figure out at exactly what point his reality had shifted, when Dakota pulled up on her bicycle.
“Holy! Virgil, was that…?”
“I… I think so,” he replied.
They both watched the dust slowly settle on Gate Road.
“Cool,” she said. “Think she can get me a ride with him on his bike?”
For reasons not obvious to Dakota, Virgil wasn’t listening.
“Wow, your mother is so cool. Mine just watches North of Sixty reruns. Come on, let’s get to class—we have to dissect a frog, I think.”
Unwilling or unable to argue, his mind so filled with that unexpected image of his mother on the motorcycle, he numbly followed his cousin back into the school.
What a day it had been for John. Luckily the flattire incident had worked out as he had planned, though it took a while. He had trailed Maggie into town and out again before the tire finally blew. If he ever found himself in such a situation again, he’d make sure to cut deeper into the rubber. At least now he had been able to establish himself as a rescuer, and that was always the first step. He remembered how she’d leaned against him as they drove into town. All in all, things had worked out pretty well. And in the bargain, during a subsequent conversation, he had learned a little more about what made Otter Lake tick.
Now he was standing on a little service road deep in the wooded land recently purchased by the Otter Lake First Nations. Maggie had told him of the divisions and controversy over the purchase. Yet, the land looked the same as any other chunk of land left over from the ice age. John shivered at his memory of the ice age. It was a harsh time, and though he sometimes missed the occasional mastodon steak, he much preferred swimming in temperate waters.
In the woods here were poplar, cedar, pine, the odd maple and oak, and lots of scrub. And as he stood there, he could feel eyes on him. Something out there was watching him, closely. He hadn’t spent most of his existence, except for the last few years, living by his wits without getting to know when he was being observed.
John turned around slowly, his eyes trying to pierce the foliage. Then he glanced up, and saw a sizable raccoon perched on a large oak tree branch, looking down at him.
John narrowed his eyes and ground his teeth. He hated raccoons, and they hated him. It was a feud whose beginning had been lost in time and memory. But the hate remained and burned brightly. To his right, he saw another of the creatures, and behind it, four more. He definitely had the size advantage, but they had the numbers. Theirs had long been a stalemate, but that didn’t mean the idea of a final settling of scores wasn’t on their minds. This time, the ceasefire held, and they stared at each other, lost in their own cruel thoughts.
Then, one by one, the raccoons turned and disappeared into the greenery, leaving the man alone, his fists clenched.
“I hate fucking raccoons.”
Somewhere deep in the forest, the raccoons were thinking the same about him.
NINE
That night, for the first time in a week, Maggie had the opportunity to fix Virgil a decent meal. With all the trouble over her flat tire, she had decided the rest of the day was a loss as far as work went, so she headed home to see what she could rustle up for dinner. Sitting on the table in front of her and her son were some Shake’n Bake chicken, corn niblets, mashed potatoes and a salad. For the first time in a long time, Maggie felt happy. She was actually humming to herself.
Virgil, however, was silent. He ate his food haltingly, barely glancing up from his plate.
“So, what did you do today?” she asked, salting her corn. He responded with a Virgil shrug. “That much, huh?” Again he only shrugged. “Want some more potatoes?” He nodded this time and she dished him out a heaping spoonful.
Though he loved Maggie’s mashed potatoes, which were becoming a rare treat, today he could barely taste them. His mind was elsewhere.
“Hey, know what happened to me today?” she asked.
For the first time that meal, Virgil’s head came up and he looked at his mother. “What?” he asked cautiously.
“I got a ride on a motorcycle! Remember that guy that was at Grandma’s house? Well, I got a flat tire out on the back roads, and bang, there he was, out of nowhere. He gave me a lift to Tim’s place. He’s seems like a really nice guy. Says he knew Grandma some time ago.”
A flat tire, she said. That explained some things. “His motorcycle, huh?” Virgil said slowly. “Did you have fun?”
“It was scary at first. I can’t remember the last time I was on one of those things. But I just held onto his arms and let him do the driving. Anyway, got the tire fixed almost immediately, thanks to Tim. I was kind of lucky, I suppose. I could still be standing at the side of the roadway back at Hockey Heights.”
Virgil could hear the excitement in her voice.
“Can you pass the bread, please?”
Virgil handed her the platter.
“Who is he?” he asked.
“His name is John Richardson. That’s about all I know about him, other than that he rides a vintage 1953 Indian Chief motorcycle. When he dropped me off at Tim’s, he said he’d see me around, so I guess he’s here for a while. Hmm, wonder where he’s staying.”
Virgil’s mind was racing. Richardson? The stranger had told him his name was John Tanner. There was something about the guy… something not quite right. Again the image of this man kissing his grandmother so passionately filled his mind, and for a brief moment, he contemplated telling his mother. But somehow, the words just wouldn’t form in his mouth, and the moment passed.
“How’d he know Grandma?”
“I asked him that but he didn’t really say. Just that they met a long time ago. He was kind of evasive, mysterious about it. Maybe he’ll tell us more tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I invited him over for dinner.”
Dinner, here, in this house? Virgil wasn’t sure that was a good idea. Why had his mother gone and done that?
“You know, to thank him for helping me. If it weren’t for him, I could still be up there by the arena, instead of having dinner with you. There might even be ice cream in the freezer.” She smiled a happy smile.
Virgil didn’t share that smile, though Maggie didn’t seem to notice. “There are lots of cars that come through that way. Somebody would have stopped for you eventually,” he said.
“Not at that time of the day” was Maggie’s response as she dug into her chicken.
Virgil couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a nonrelative come over for dinner—especially a guy with two
different last names. Make that a good-looking White guy with two different last names. And a motorcycle.
Virgil ate faster.
It was late into the night and the whole community of Otter Lake was asleep. Except for a certain motorcyclist who was busy fiddling with the uncooperative back door of the church at the centre of the village. He’d been there for about ten minutes, cursing under his breath, trying to pick the lock. He was a man of many talents and this was one of the more recent skills he’d picked up on his travels. Finally, with a slight flick of his wrist and the correct pressure on the lock tumblers, he succeeded. The door swung open, and John entered.
Standing amid the pews, he was surprised by how bright it was inside. Shining in through the big windows was four-fifths of a full moon hanging above the southern horizon, and more light filtered in from a street light on the far side of the road. Making himself comfortable, John sat on a bench three from the front. Above the altar was a large, elaborately carved crucifixion scene, complete with the agonized figure of Christ, nailed for eternity. The statue must have been as big as he was.
“Hello.”
John’s voice echoed through the empty building. It was like he was in a cave, or in an empty universe. Why he had broken into this church he couldn’t really say, other than that he had a need to see this man whom everybody flocked to. The one hanging so high up above everybody else. So there John sat, alone with his thoughts in the semi-darkness, struggling to understand this man’s appeal.
In the moonlit air, he could see dust motes floating all around him, like so many dreams. In the wood of the pews and the altar, he could feel the hundreds or thousands of unanswered prayers that stuck to the varnish like dead flies on a windshield. In the bricks of this building he felt great fear, and ironically great love. It didn’t make sense to him. But then, this Jesus guy never had made sense. He wished he could meet the man, and see if he was as great as everybody said. But unfortunately, Jesus didn’t come around much anymore.
John stared at the elaborate figure on the cross, taking everything in. He counted Jesus’ ribs, examined the pained expression on his face, the nails in his hands and feet, the cut in his side, the crown of thorns, all carefully reproduced on this wooden icon. He remembered reading somewhere that there is no record that this Jesus guy ever laughed or even smiled. Jesus sounded boring, in fact, aside from the fact he could do some clever magic tricks. John himself could do a couple of amazing things too, but nobody had ever raised a steeple to him. What did this Jesus have to offer? Everlasting life? John had been around quite a long time himself and he knew the novelty wore off. And most people led dull lives anyway, so what was the draw? There was that place called Heaven, but it seemed too hard to get into. Too many rules to follow to get them to open the door. Jesus looked to be in so much pain, so sad, so pathetic, so alone. John had been through some tough times of his own, having survived big battles, silly accidents and just bizarre things that had left him pretty screwed up, but he would never have let anybody make a carving of him looking so wounded. So vulnerable. He had way too much pride for that. The more the stranger gazed at the figure on the cross, the less he understood what power Jesus had had over Lillian, and so many others. For several hours John sat there, trying to make sense of all that surrounded him in the church. The dust motes swirled and the moon migrated across the sky, and still John was no closer to understanding. The nails in the man’s feet and hands looked particularly nasty. That especially annoyed him.
Motorcycles & Sweetgrass Page 8