by Gail Sattler
Her voice quivered as she spoke, and she couldn’t stop it. “Need some help getting it in shape to go?”
He bent down, picked up a wrench and handed it to her. “Here you go.”
They worked in silence for a few minutes, but it didn’t take long before Georgette couldn’t stand it anymore. “I didn’t know you had a motorcycle. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “There isn’t much to tell. I own a motorcycle. So what?”
“I haven’t seen it or even known about it in all the time I’ve known you.”
“It’s a noisy thing to start up early in the morning, so I can’t take her to work. Like I said, I had a few things to fix up before I put her on the road again. I belong to a Christian motorcycle group, and it’s our annual camping trip soon, so I need to get her in good shape.”
“Camping trip?”
“Yeah. Usually we head up into the mountains, but this year so many people are going, we rented a couple of acres on a ranch. We head up Saturday, have a big barbecue together for supper, and camp out Saturday night. Sunday we have a worship time and short service, then have a big picnic to finish up the leftovers before everyone goes home.”
“You like doing that?”
Bob nodded. “Yeah. We go in groups of twenty or thirty bikes, and we all meet there. There’s nothing like being in the middle of a bike caravan. This year I think they’re expecting five hundred people.”
“Where do they put everyone? Where do you sleep?”
“I told you, George. It’s camping. Everyone brings a tent and a sleeping bag and one change of clothes. There’s not a lot of room to carry stuff on a motorcycle.”
“A tent? You mean you sleep—” George gulped “—on the ground?”
“Yup. That’s what camping means. Sleeping on the ground in the great outdoors. Haven’t you ever gone camping before?”
She shuddered just thinking about lying on the ground with the bugs and whatever else was down there. “No.”
He sighed. “I forgot. You’ve probably traveled around to all the great cities of the world, where you only stay in the best hotels. You’ve probably never not had running water.”
Georgette pressed one hand over her heart. “No running water? Where do you…uh…”
Bob sighed again. “The people who do the organizing rent chemical toilets that don’t need flushing.”
“Ew.”
“It’s not as bad as you think. It’s actually a nice break to get away from a busy life. We sing songs by the light of the moon, under the starry sky. You can’t see the scope of the heavens or the number of stars under the city lights. I think you’d really be amazed. If you came, I bet you’d enjoy yourself.”
“But I don’t have a motorcycle. I’ve never even been on one before.”
“Lots of couples come, and not everyone has their own bike. A motorcycle seats two.”
“But you and I… We’re not…you know.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a Christian campout, George. Not every couple that comes is married. It’s well-chaperoned, and at night, it’s divided into three sections. One for families and married couples, one for the single men, and one for the single women. And let me tell you, the single men far outnumber the single women. You’ve still got lots of time to decide. It’s not this coming weekend, it’s next weekend.”
“That’s only ten days away.”
“Like I said. Lots of time.”
“What about the shop?”
“I do this once a year, and Bart runs things by himself for a day.”
George stared at Bob. She wanted to think he’d invited her because he cared for her in a special way, but Bob’s deliberate reference to the abundant supply of single men contradicted that. Still, it was something she’d never done. “Let me think about it.”
“Sure. We’re done. Are you ready to go?”
She studied the bike. Suddenly, instead of looking like fun, it felt intimidating, now that she was so close to it. “I don’t know.”
“We can make your first ride a short one. How about if we just go to the grocery store, and come back with something to cook for supper.”
She looked down at the saddlebags attached over the rear tire. They were as small as Bob said, but they would certainly hold enough for one meal.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
He handed her a helmet, then helped her fasten the chin strap so it was positioned securely. Satisfied, he closed the garage door and locked it, put on his own helmet, then slid onto the motorcycle. “Come on, George. Hop on.” He patted the seat behind him.
Suddenly her doubts pressed in on her like a wall.
The motorcycle didn’t have a seatbelt. The only way to stay on and not fall off was to hold something, and that something would be Bob.
But now that she had the helmet on, it was too late to change her mind.
“Don’t be nervous. I’m a safe driver, and I’ll take the corners carefully. All you have to do is hold on tight, and lean with me. I haven’t dumped it in five years.”
“Dumped it?”
“That’s when something happens and you lose your balance and the bike lands on its side. With a bike this size and weight, it takes two men to get it upright again. That only has to happen once, and it’s a lesson learned for life. It’s really embarrassing.” He patted the seat again. “Up you go.”
Inhaling deeply, Georgette walked stiffly to the motorcycle and slid on behind Bob.
The seat was surprisingly soft. For a short trip, it would be fine, but she couldn’t imagine sitting on it for hours and still being able to walk with any sort of dignity afterward.
Beneath her, the motorcycle roared to life.
She stiffened from head to toe.
Bob twisted around to look at her. “This is it. Hang on.”
When he turned so he was once again facing forward, she gently rested her hands on the sides of his waist.
He twisted slightly, flipped the visor up once more, and looked into her eyes. “Not like that. You’ll never be comfortable enough to enjoy the ride if you’re not holding on properly. Like this.”
Before she could think of what he was doing, his hands pulled hers forward and pressed her palms onto his stomach. The unexpected movement sent her front into Bob’s back, her head landing between his shoulder blades.
He patted her hands, then let go. “Just remember to lean with me.”
Without waiting for her response, he took off.
Georgette squeezed her eyes shut and hung on for dear life. She pressed herself into Bob’s back, and didn’t move. When they came to the first corner, it took every piece of strength within her to lean into the curve with him, feeling the pavement approach the tender flesh of her leg.
Bob slowed as they approached a red light, and she could feel his body shift as he extended one leg to support the bike while they waited for it to turn green.
Georgette opened one eye. Nothing seemed abnormal as they sat in the traffic. She opened the other just as Bob revved the motor, which she took as the cue that they would be moving in another second or two.
From behind him, she watched as the world went by in a glorious rush.
She didn’t feel entirely safe being so open to the elements, but she was starting to feel more comfortable.
Not moving her hands from the security of Bob’s stomach, she straightened her back so she could see better. Riding on the back of the motorcycle was fun. Kind of like the scariest ride at the fair.
Too soon, Bob turned into the supermarket parking lot.
She slid off the bike first, then Bob followed. He engaged the kickstand, pulled off his helmet, and smiled down at her. “Did you enjoy the ride?”
She pulled off her own helmet. “Yes! I can hardly wait for the ride home.”
“First, we have to buy something to make for supper.”
“What do I do with this?” She held out the helmet.
“I’m afraid we have to carry them.
I don’t have a lock to keep them on the bike and if we don’t take them inside, someone will steal them. Sad but true.”
She followed Bob inside and through the store, selecting some vegetables and a package of chicken fillets. The ride home was much more enjoyable than the ride to the store, and when they pulled onto the pad beside the garage, Georgette was sorry it was over so soon. The only reason she didn’t ask Bob to keep going was that she was so hungry.
“What are we making today?”
“A stir-fry. Only because I’m really hungry, I’ll cut up the chicken, and leave you to cut up the vegetables, so we can get it done faster.”
She remembered the disgusting process of cutting the beef. She didn’t imagine cutting raw chicken was any different. “You won’t get any argument from me on that one.”
When they were done, she followed Bob to the stove. “First you put a little oil into the pan, let it heat up a bit, and before you add the chicken you test the heat. Mama showed me how to do this. Splash a few drops of water in the pan. If the water rolls in a little ball for a second before it evaporates, the oil is ready.”
With Bob standing and watching, she did exactly as he said, and strangely, the drops of water did stay in a little ball rather than a puddle when he splashed some in. Bob tossed in the chicken, stirring and showed her what to look for to tell when it was time to add the vegetables.
Leaving Georgette in charge of the stir-fry, Bob began rummaging through her fridge.
“Don’t you have any soy sauce?”
“No. We haven’t ordered Chinese food because I didn’t have enough money.”
Bob stood. “Soy sauce doesn’t only come in those little packets, you can buy it in a bottle. I have some at home. I’ll be right back. Just remember to stir this in a couple of minutes, so it doesn’t burn.”
“Will do.”
Instead of staying by the stove, she walked over to the window to watch Bob as he dug his keys out of his pocket and went into his house. She pictured him walking to his kitchen, since she now knew the layout. The phone rang, causing Georgette to flinch and breaking her reverie. So she returned to the stove and stirred the cooking chicken, as instructed.
She waited for a minute, then gave it another stir. A watched pot might never boil, but a watched stir-fry was making her restless.
Georgette walked to the television and flipped it on to listen to the news. Then it was time for another stir, so she walked back to the stove, tended to their dinner, and went back to the television where the theme had changed from world news to local, and a reporter came on with a live broadcast of a boat accident under one of the city bridges that had tied up rush-hour traffic when the boat hit one of the bridge supports.
Just as a city engineer started describing the steps it would take to ascertain that no permanent damage was done, Georgette smelled smoke.
She ran back to the pan, which had started smoking. Time seemed—slow. Just as she reached for the spoon to stir everything again, the smoke alarm in the center of the room began to screech. Her hand continued its course and the exact second she touched the spoon, the contents of the pan burst into flame.
Time snapped back into focus. Georgette backed up, unable to believe what was happening. She ran to the cupboard, grabbed a glass, then ran to the sink to fill the glass with water. She had just filled the glass and aimed it at the flames, when the door burst open.
“What are you doing?!” Bob exclaimed as he ran for the stove. He grabbed the lid for the pot and threw it on top of the flames. It landed crooked, but he made a quick jab at it to push it so it fit squarely. He blew on his fingers, turned off the heat, then stuck his fingers in his mouth.
“How did this happen?” he yelled around his fingers. “I thought I told you to stay there and stir it every couple of minutes.” He pulled his fingers out of his mouth, looked at the reddened tips, then shook his hand in the air.
Georgette couldn’t answer, not that it would have made any difference. The screeching of the smoke alarm would have drowned out anything she said.
Bob reached forward and pushed the button to turn the fan above the stove on, then ran some water over his fingers in the sink. After a few seconds, he muttered something else under his breath, dragged a chair under the smoke alarm and took out the battery.
The only sound remaining was whirring of the fan above the stove.
It was still too silent.
Bob returned to the stove, and using a towel, he lifted the lid to confirm that the fire had been extinguished. “It’s out,” he grumbled.
Georgette felt her lower lip quivering, but she refused to cry. After everything that had happened, and after everything she’d done, she didn’t want to give in to the last sign of weakness and defeat.
“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled. Her eyes burned, but she blinked a few times to fight it back. If she said any more, she knew she would lose control, so she remained quiet.
Bob waved one hand in the direction of the stove. A black smear marred the stove hood, and a cloud of smoke hovered next to the ceiling over the space of the entire apartment. “How could you let this happen? I told you not to leave it.”
She stiffened and tried to be brave, but her voice came out in a squeak. “You didn’t exactly say that. You told me to stir it in a couple of minutes. When I heard the phone ring, I knew you’d be gone longer, so I actually stirred it a few more times.”
His arm dropped to his side. “And what were you doing with a glass of water? You of all people should know better. That was a grease fire. It was the oil that was flaming, not the meat. Water spreads a grease fire.”
“There isn’t a fire extinguisher here, so I didn’t know what else to do. It didn’t occur to me to smother it.”
The sound of canned laughter drifted from the corner of the apartment that was officially the living room.
Bob’s eyebrows knotted, and his eyes narrowed. “Were you watching television?”
“I got bored, and then I got distracted. I’m so sorry.” She bit into her lower lip, to keep it still.
Bob ran one hand down his face. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I should have come straight back. I also shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
Georgette stared at Bob, waiting, although she didn’t know exactly what it was she wanted. It felt like a moment from a TV commercial, where Bob would open his arms, welcoming her. Then, in slow motion, she would glide across the room into them and they would close around her. His kiss would make it all better, and end their first fight.
Bob sighed, disturbing her thoughts. “I guess we’d better clean up, and decide what else we can make for supper. I have a fan that I can put it in the door to see if we can get more air circulating to clear out the smoke.”
Without waiting for her to comment, which would have been pointless anyway, he turned and walked out, leaving her all alone.
The stove fan continued to whir, reminding her of how stupid she’d been.
She’d failed again.
Georgette looked at the charred meat inside the pot, and swept her hand over the top to check the temperature. It was still warm, so she set it aside to cool completely before she threw it out.
Her father had been right when he said she could never live on her own. She couldn’t even cook an edible meal by herself.
Rather than do nothing, she retrieved the pine cleaner and a sponge, two things she had come to know quite well, and began scrubbing the black spot, standing on a chair to reach. She didn’t even bother to turn around when clunking behind her signified Bob’s return.
The noise level increased significantly when the second fan started.
“If you’re interested, we can eat the leftover stew from yesterday,” she said as she wrung out the sponge. “I think there’s enough for both of us.”
“No, I think I’ll leave that for you for tomorrow night, because I’m not going to be here. I’m going out with Randy.” He paused for a few seconds. “You do know how to hea
t something up without a microwave, don’t you?”
She dipped the sponge in the water again, and resumed scrubbing. “I’ve never done it before, but I’m sure it’s not difficult.”
The pause before he spoke was almost tangible. “Tell you what. Tomorrow at lunch time, I’ll go out and make an extra house key for you, and you can use my microwave. It’s probably a good idea for you to have a key for my house, anyway.”
Georgette felt herself sinking to an aptitude level below that of the common earthworm.
She kept scrubbing, not trusting herself to speak.
“For today, I have a solution for supper.” Bob picked up the phone and dialed. “Hey, Tony. It’s me. Bob. Can you send over a house special pizza to my garage?” Bob paused. “Yes, I said the garage, very funny. Jason used to order pizza all the time. Thanks.”
Georgette felt herself sinking lower, if that was possible. Even Bob’s brother knew how hopeless she was.
Her father was right. She would never survive. Even her boss’s family knew it. Unless she could live on peanut butter sandwiches. Those she could make without setting anything on fire or doing anything else potentially fatal. Of course, she could always cut off her fingers in the process.
“George? I don’t think you’re going to get that any cleaner. Pretty soon you’re going to take the paint off.”
She froze, staring at the stove hood. Bob was right. No black remained. The surface was back to its original luster.
She turned around and smiled weakly. “This pine cleaner and I, we have a history together.”
Bob approached her, standing in front of her as she remained standing on the chair. It felt strange to look down at him. She’d never seen the top of his head before. His hair was dark, thick and slightly wavy. She wanted to run her fingers through it, to see if it was as coarse as it looked.
He tipped his head up and trapped her with his vivid olive-green eyes, eyes that were the only criteria for that dress she’d purchased, a dress she would keep for the rest of her life, simply because of those eyes.
“It’s okay, George. Everyone makes mistakes. You’re still learning. I just keep forgetting how little you’ve done before.”