SHE RODE A HARLEY
Copyright © 2019 Mary Jane Black
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2019
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-63152-620-6
ISBN: 978-1-63152-621-3 ebk
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019940987
For information, address:
She Writes Press
1569 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707
She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.
All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.
Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.
THE BEGINNING
1995–1999
I’m a believer.
THE MONKEES
HE THINKS HE’LL KEEP HER
My escape can’t happen until Tom finishes his breakfast. While I wait, I pack his lunch the way I have for twenty-three years. I carefully arrange the ham-and-cheese sandwich on the left and exactly twenty-five chips in a bag next to it with a two-inch square of cake in the bottom of the black plastic lunch box. Suddenly the phone rings. It breaks the silence like a shot.
I grab it and say “hello” in the most normal voice I can find. It’s the manager of the apartment complex where I have just rented an apartment—the security deposit paid with a secret bank account where, for five years, I hoarded twenties, tens, and fives.
A voice chirps in my year, “Good morning, Mrs. Richards, I just wanted to confirm that you and your daughter are moving in this afternoon.” The woman asks if I want to move into a ground-floor apartment or the third-floor one I looked at earlier.
I consider how I can answer this question without raising Tom’s suspicions. I shift my body slightly so I can see his face more clearly. He’s stopped shoveling eggs into his mouth. The yolks drip from his raised fork onto his plate.
“No, third floor is fine.” I finish the sentence in my head. It’s much harder for someone to get through the security door and up three flights of stairs without warning. She assures me she will be glad to have me join their little community of residents, then tells me how much I’ll enjoy Springfield, Missouri. I can’t tell her that I already live in a small town near the city, since I want her to see me as a stranger who doesn’t know anyone.
I lay the phone gently back on the hook. I return to the sink and start washing a cup, taking a long time.
“Who the hell was that?” He lays down his fork and brings his plate to the sink, standing inches from me. His dark eyes glare into mine. I stare at the patch of pink scalp beneath his thin brown hair.
“It was my principal. He wanted to make sure I was okay with his moving me to a classroom on the third floor next year.” For a moment, I feel triumphant in my ability to create a lie so quickly. Then I remember that any slip can be dangerous. I’m an acrobat on the high wire waiting to fall.
Tom studies me. I absorb myself in removing every speck of food on the plates.
He reaches out and jerks my right arm out of the soapy water. His fingers dig into my wrist. He stares at me and clears his throat with a loud rapid hacking. I wonder if he’s always done this, or if after the recent tense years, I’ve noticed it more. Now I flinch at the sound.
I blank out any emotion on my face. Water drips slowly onto the floor. We stand in silence, and the clock behind us ticks away the seconds. Finally, he drops my arm with a flourish. It bangs painfully against the edge of the counter. He steps away from me to avoid getting water on his starched blue shirt.
“Wipe the water off the floor.” He walks away.
I stand frozen as I listen to the garage door roll up with a groan. Then I hear his car start and the sound of the motor growing fainter as he pulls out of the driveway. I look out the window over the sink and watch the birds fly and dip over the newly green grass in our back yard. In my head I count off the minutes until it’s safe to move.
When enough time has passed, I yell down the stairs to Stephanie to start bringing her stuff up to her car. I help her load her car, shoving boxes and clothes on hangers in every inch of space in the small car. I marvel at how many clothes and shoes a sixteen-year-old girl owns.
I open the driver’s door. She hugs me. Her eyes are big with fear but also a little excitement at the idea of joining me in running away. I know it has been hard for her keeping this secret from her father and even her brother. He has never shown any anger toward them. His rage and jealousy are saved for me.
I’ll call Steven as soon as I stand safely in our new home. I know how angry my son will be that I have left his father. The last time I tried to leave, I told him in advance. It cost me bruised ribs and a twisted arm.
Now Stephanie climbs into the car and screeches out of the driveway, clothes fluttering in the wind. Thumping music trails behind her as she pulls onto the road and heads to her high school. After we unload the truck, she’ll come to our new apartment this afternoon.
Soon my mom and my cousin Bryce swing the top-heavy U-Haul I’ve secretly rented into the driveway and back it up to the front door. I’ve stacked the dishes and other things I’ll need from the kitchen on the counter.
We develop a rhythm of packing. Wrap in newspaper, place in box. Wrap and place. Wrap and place. Go outside and stack the boxes in the truck. Moving quickly, we soon have everything packed. I’m careful not to take too much. I agonized over whether to take the coffee pot. I do.
I check the clock each time I go in the house to watch the time. Every minute that passes increases the chances of Tom’s return home.
“What furniture’s going?” Bryce asks.
I list off the furniture we’re loading—exactly half of the furniture in the house, but not the bed we shared.
With strength we didn’t know we possessed, we load the truck with furniture and boxes in two hours. An added incentive for our speed was finding his packed lunch box in the garage, signaling he is planning on coming home for lunch. He wants to surprise me.
The phone call this morning had not been forgotten. Since my ultimate betrayal of going to college and getting a teaching job six years ago, he’s been on watch for other abnormal behavior. I can’t think about this now. Time marches forward. My heart beats furiously against my ribs, and I steady myself, placing a hand against the wall until the dizziness passes.
As I finally stand by the loaded truck, Mom hesitates at the truck door as she starts to climb up into the passenger seat.
For fifteen years after my father’s suicide, we barely spoke and have only recently begun to feel like mother and child again. I realize in this moment of escape that she was forty-one like me when she left me and her life in our hometown.
Now she reaches out to hold me. I’m folded into the softness of her large, warm body. “Mary, you’re going to be behind us, right?” she asks, releasing me.
I nod, since I only have one more job to do. I walk back into the partially empty house and look around me at the rooms where I first came as an eighteen-year-old bride. I knew on that day that I didn’t feel the passionate love other brides felt, feeling I had traded that for safety from the battlefield of my parents’ marriage. Everything that reflected me h
as been stripped from the house.
I take a deep breath and remove a letter from its hiding place in the lining of my purse and put it in an envelope. “Tom,” I write on the front. Inside the letter in a few sentences I tell him that when he reads this I will be gone. That this is not my home now. I don’t ask for his forgiveness. None will be given.
I close and lock the front door for the last time, slipping my key under the doormat. I get in my car and sail out of the driveway. I push in the cassette tape, and Mary Chapin Carpenter sings: “He thinks he’ll keep her.” I fly out of the driveway into the unknown future.
I’M A BELIEVER
I return home from a long day of teaching to find my daughter gone. I push open the front door and yell for her to help me. Balancing a sack of groceries and a tote bag of student essays to grade, I yell, “Stephanie!”
First once. Silence. Then over and over. No response.
I lay the sack onto the kitchen table by the door and drop the essay bag on the floor. I look down the short hallway into my daughter’s room. Her unmade bed is a tangle of sheets and blankets. Piles of discarded clothes on the floor. But she’s not there.
Without moving, I can see she’s not anywhere in our tiny four-room apartment. I only hope my daughter’s absence is due to homework or softball practice. Last week I found her bed vacant in the morning and searched for her for two hours. She had sneaked out to a party while I was sleeping.
As I put up the groceries, I notice the blinking light on the answering machine and push it reluctantly. Tom’s voice fills the air. “I hope you haven’t forgotten we’re supposed to go to marriage counseling tonight. You missed the last one. You need to show up. If you don’t follow the court orders, the judge will hear about it.” Beep.
I hit the delete button. Then I press it four times, pushing harder each time. The mechanized voice tells me the message has been deleted.
Next message. “Hey, Mary. This is Vicky. Tod has a friend from his work in Texas in town for a quick business dinner. How about joining us? He’s single.” My finger lingers over the delete button this time. Then I push it.
I take a deep breath and tap in Tom’s number. He answers the phone after the first ring. “I’m surprised you took the time to call.”
I tell him I’m only calling to say I won’t be there tonight. He instantly responds, “You don’t seem to care about your son and God knows dragging Stephanie off to live in a small apartment shows you don’t give a crap about her either.”
I swallow my response. I merely repeat I won’t be at the counselor’s, but I will see him at our court-ordered mediation next week.
He clears his throat into the phone and whispers, “I’ll make you pay for this.”
I close my eyes and wait for the threat.
On the other end of the line, I hear his labored breathing. “You are dead to me. If I have my way, you’ll never see either one of our children again.”
I hang up the phone without a sound. Then picking it up again, I bang it down. I didn’t want him to know he’s gotten to me again.
I dial Vicky’s number and start to say I won’t be at Chili’s at seven to meet some strange Texan. A desperate need to do something reckless for the first time in my life rises in me. A need to do something to prove I’m moving on with my life. I hear my voice say, “I’ll see you at seven.” I instantly regret my decision.
I track down Stephanie at a friend’s house and tell her I won’t be home for a couple hours, not telling her I’m meeting a man for dinner.
Briefly contemplating changing my clothes from the sensible pants and shirt I wore to school, I look down at my comfortable loafers. I consider a dress and heels. Maybe even makeup. Teaching high school students grammar and literature all day requires stamina, not a sense of style and fashion. I stare at the clothes in my closet but soon slam the door shut. I used up my energy saying yes to a blind date. I decide Mr. Texas will just have to take me as I am.
I pull into the restaurant parking lot fifteen minutes late to find Vicky standing outside waiting. She sways a little on her stiletto heels as she walks toward me. Her long blond hair hangs perfectly curled across the shoulder of her pale pink designer suit. Unlike me, she is dressed for dinner with a man. She looks at me and frowns. “I thought you weren’t going to show up!”
“Hey, it’s a free meal. I don’t get many of those.”
I follow her to the back of the restaurant, and we stop at a booth. A tall man in starched jeans and a turquoise striped shirt stands. He looks at me with dark chocolate eyes. His chestnut hair dips perfectly across his forehead. An ample mustache covers his top lip under a battered nose.
He speaks in a slow drawl. “What took you so long?”
I step closer to him, taking a deep fluttering breath.
In the middle of the crowded restaurant, we stare at each other without speaking. He breaks the silence. “You must be Mary. I’m Dwayne.”
He takes my hand, and his broad rough fingers wrap around my hand. Looking into his craggy face, I smile. He grins back and winks. We stand holding hands for a long moment while diners talking and dishes clinking fade into the background. The smell of burgers frying fills the air. The ordinary sounds and smells of a Friday night restaurant fade in the astonishing moment of finding a stranger who’s so familiar.
The waitress breaks the connection. My shaking hand on the table pushes me across the hard, smooth seat of the booth. Avoiding Vicky’s questioning look across the table, I focus on slowing my breath.
Dwayne slides in by me. Without speaking, we lean into each other. Something I couldn’t have imagined doing a few hours ago.
Over dinner Dwayne and Tod talk about their project where Dwayne will be installing elephant crushes at the Cleveland Zoo. Tod laughs and announces that he can design a system for moving elephants, but only Dwayne can build the hydraulics to make it work.
I turn and face Dwayne. “What are elephant crushes?”
He tells me he’ll show me how they work, and he arranges salt and pepper shakers and silverware in the middle of the table. Showing how the elephant enters the cage with a push of a spoon between the shakers, he swirls the spoon, so I can see how the hydraulic lift raises the elephant for the vets. As he demonstrates the machine, a carved silver ring on his right hand shines. Without thinking, I rub it with my index finger and ask him about it.
“It’s my Harley ring. I’ve worn it since I was sixteen. That’s when I was working at my first Harley shop.”
I ask him why he’s wearing it upside down. He holds up his hand with his fingers pointing down. “You have to wear a Harley ring with the bar and shield upside down on your finger, so someone can see it the right way when you shake their hand or make a fist.”
“Do you own a Harley now?”
“No, my wife made me sell my scooter when my daughter, Jessica, was born.”
“Wife?”
“Wife and divorce number two. I like living alone now.”
He sips his drink of amber Scotch, no ice. “If I ever get the chance to get another Harley, I’ll take you for a ride. You’ll be hooked for life.” We smile at the promise.
I suddenly remember Vicky and Tod are at the table with us. When I turn away from Dwayne to talk to them, I notice they aren’t eating, watching the two of us. Breaking the silence, I ask Vicky about preparation for summer school, starting in a few weeks for us. As we chat about school and students, I am aware of Dwayne’s arm lying on the back of the seat, warm against my neck.
Midway through dinner Vicky and I excuse ourselves to go to the bathroom. As soon as we walk in the door, she grabs my elbow. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
I tell her I’ve never felt like this. “I can’t even explain it. I feel protected for the first time ever. Does that even make sense?” I stare at myself in the mirror and see a wide-eyed happy stranger staring back. “Home. I feel like I came home at last.”
As we walk back to our table, Vicky stops me an
d whispers in my ear. “Be careful, okay? You don’t really know this man. He’s funny and good looking, but you’re pretty vulnerable right now. Don’t give up your freedom too easily. You worked hard for it.”
I nod at her and feel a small flicker of doubt.
At the end of the meal, Vicky suggests we go to a local bar for drinks. We hear the beat of the music as we get out of the car. Over drinks, we listen to the band and try to talk over the noise in the bar. The band starts playing a Jim Reeves song.
Dwayne leans over the table, so I can hear him. “Will you dance with me? I want to teach you the Texas two-step.”
I haven’t danced since my high school prom, but I say yes. I put my hand in his and follow him. We push our way onto the crowded dance floor. He pulls me close to him and wraps his arm around my waist. He rests his hand on my hip. “Step back with your left foot. Step. Step. Slide.”
As I step my left foot back, his right leg moves between my knees. He leans his cheek against mine and sings into my ear, “Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone.” His breath gently stirs my hair, and his mustache bristles against my cheek. We sway our way around the dim dance floor. The pulsing music echoes in my ear. I press my cheek into the curve of his neck with his hand resting against my back.
Too soon we leave the bar. Tod reminds Dwayne he has to get up at four in the morning to drive to Cleveland. We pull into the Chili’s parking lot. Vicky has planned for them to drop me off there to pick up my car. They can then take Dwayne to his hotel. She wanted to spare me an uncomfortable conversation about who takes a strange man to a hotel. Finally, Tod stops the car by mine.
Dwayne looks at me in the dim light and grips my hand. “I guess we’ve got to say goodbye.”
Suddenly, I shove him with my shoulder toward the car door. I tell Vicky I will drive Dwayne to his hotel. She swivels around in the front seat to stare at me. She lays her hand on the back of her seat and starts to speak. I glide across the back seat before she can.
She Rode a Harley Page 1
