His hands stop moving. He looks at me. “I called Art today.” He turns to face me. Art owns the Harley dealership he worked at in Modesto. “I’m taking the bike to him tomorrow. He’s putting it on the floor to sell.” I hear the dare in his voice.
“I’ll put mine on the trailer with yours tomorrow.” Finally, I walk away.
I eat dinner alone. He doesn’t come in the house until midnight. He sleeps on the couch. I lie in our bed alone. I listen for footsteps in the hall. They never come.
At sunrise I hear the garage door grind open. I throw on jeans and a T-shirt. I strap on my boots and hurry outside. I watch from the front porch as he backs the truck up to the motorcycle trailer, and I hurry to pull and clamp it on the trailer hitch. Dwayne backs the trailer up to the edge of the garage door. He drops down the ramp with a metallic clatter. I lean against a tree and watch. The bark bites into my shoulder as I press into it.
He stands by the large shining Harley. He reaches out with both hands and seizes the handlebars. He pushes with his right hip until the bike stands upright. He slings back the kickstand, and he stands stiffly for a moment. The weight of the motorcycle balances against him.
Our eyes lock across the space between us. He breaks eye contact first. He rolls the Harley toward the ramp. I move behind him and put both hands on the soft leather seat. I push firmly as it moves up the ramp. Dwayne stops it with a bump against the truck cab. He puts down the kickstand and grabs a bungee cord.
I move to my Harley. I take it off the kickstand and copy Dwayne’s movements with his. I grip the handlebars. Balance it against me. Push forward until the motion moves the motorcycle. Dwayne watches me silently. For the first time ever, he doesn’t join me in moving it. I get to the ramp. I know I can’t build the momentum to leverage the weight up into the truck. I watch Dwayne. He sits on the edge of the truck bed and looks at me defiantly. Minutes tick by.
Finally, he marches across the short space. He steps down onto the concrete floor with a thud. He covers my hands on the handlebars with his. Together we push mine to stand by his. We stretch and wrap the cords across them until they stand upright.
Dwayne bangs the tailgate shut. He swings open the truck door and slides onto the seat. I hear the motor start. I climb up beside him.
We don’t talk during the two-hour drive. We watch the dry golden hills of California through the windshield. At the Harley shop his friends unload the motorcycles. We lean against the truck door side by side and watch them disappear into the glare of the fluorescent lights in the back garage door.
We get back home as the sun sets behind the mountains with an orange glow. The chill of the house greets us when we come in the front door. I begin to pull food out of the refrigerator. We haven’t eaten all day.
Dwayne meets me in the middle of the kitchen floor. He grabs my hand. Silently we wrap our arms around each other. Dwayne rubs his unshaven cheek against mine—his unspoken sign of love for fourteen years. I kiss his ear back, as I always have.
We stand there, swaying slightly, as the darkness falls. I fix us sandwiches. We eat at the table outside. The shadows and the window light play across our faces as we talk about the move to Texas in a couple of weeks.
Later we slip into bed together. I lean back against him. We spoon in the middle of the bed. Naturally, he fits his body against mine, the warmth of him behind me. He throws his leg over mine. Now we leave a gap of a few inches near his stomach, knowing it throbs with pain.
“You gotta promise me one thing,” he whispers into my hair.
I tell him I will promise him anything.
“I know I ain’t leaving much in the way of life insurance, but you get yourself a kick-ass Harley out of it.”
I wake in the night and lay my hand on his chest, feeling his breath come and go in his frail body. I lie awake, dreading the day I might not feel his breath under my fingers.
LONE STAR FAREWELL
2010–2011
I thought that love would last forever:
I was wrong.
W. H. AUDEN
FULL CIRCLE
“I “want to thank y’all for coming to our wedding.” Jeremy holds his longneck Shiner beer high. “But I am especially glad tonight that my Uncle Dwayne is here.” Jeremy is the son of one of Dwayne’s oldest friends, the one who opened the first motorcycle shop in Bryan with him. He and Dwayne were also married to sisters.
The crowd around us cheers wildly. All of us stand on the dance floor of the local bar where the wedding reception is being held. The woody smell of BBQ drifts from outside. The wedding cake towers above a white tablecloth. The blue-and-silver icing celebrates the Dallas Cowboys. Everyone turns to look at us after Jeremy’s toast.
Dwayne moves through the crowd toward the stage. All of his friends and family part to let him through. Beside me Janice whispers to me, “He was always scrawny, but tonight I can’t believe how sick he looks.” She pauses and softly pats my arm.
At the front of the room Dwayne hugs Jeremy. He clinks his bottle against his. “I just hope you’ll be as happy as Mary and I have been.” We all raise our bottles and drink with the two of them. Jeremy visited us a couple of times when we lived in College Station as newlyweds, and sometimes he’d meet us for coffee on visits to his mom, Dwayne’s former sister-in-law. We haven’t seen him for years, and the invitation to his wedding was a surprise.
Janice turns to face me in the crowd. “You know when Dwayne and I got divorced, the only damn thing Jeremy and Bubba asked was that they not lose their Uncle Dwayne. My own sister’s kids.” She shakes her head. Her heavily sprayed platinum hair sways with the movement. She takes a deep drink from her beer. She remarks, “We were a wreck as a couple, but Dwayne was always a good dad and uncle.”
I agree, “Yeah, he’s a good dad. Stephanie needed one when we got married.”
We stand and watch him shake hands and hug his Bryan friends. His starched Wranglers sag over his wasted hips. His black leather belt with a silver Harley bar and shield buckle cinches tightly around his waist. Wads of excess denim fold beneath it. His daily dress now consists of cargo pants and suspenders, but he couldn’t bear for his friends to see him in “old man’s clothes” tonight. He is surrounded now by a sea of black leather vests, starched pearl-snap shirts, and Stetsons.
Jessica joins her mom. Her one-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, in pink satin and petticoats, perches on her hip. She reaches out to me with chubby hands sticky with cake icing. We walk across the floor to meet Dwayne.
He wraps his arms around the two of us. “How’s my girls?”
Elizabeth hides her head under my chin. I try to coax her to go to her grandpa. She refuses. Dwayne tells her, “You don’t know me yet, but when you get a little older, you’ll know I’m your Peepaw. I’m gonna take you and your mom for a ride in my hot rod.”
Someone pushes the buttons on the jukebox. A Jim Reeves song. We look at each other across Elizabeth’s curly hair. It is the song from our blind date. Dwayne turns to me. He reaches out and takes my hand. “Can I have this dance, ma’am?”
I turn and hand Elizabeth to Jessica, who has followed me. I slide into his arms. We press together. He rests one hand on my hip. He clasps my hand with the other. We hold our clutched hands between our chests. We glide across the dance floor in the Texas two-step. Step. Step. Glide. I wrap my arm around his waist, and he leans against me. One of his hands grips my shoulder, and the other lies on my arm on his waist. I balance the two of us, his feet stumbling across the floor.
“I’m dancing with my wife again,” he whispers in my ear. His breath lifts my hair. He sings in my ear. A chill runs down my spine.
At the end of the song, we find our table in the corner. Dwayne drops down with a thud into the chair. His shallow breaths wheeze in and out of his lungs. Sweat covers his pale forehead.
I dip a napkin in a glass of water. I stroke his face with it. “You okay, sweetie?” He looks at me and nods weakly. We watch each other in the
dim light of the candles.
The music begins again. Guitars and fiddles. People laugh and talk. Bottles clink. Pool cues click against balls in the back room. I clutch the damp napkin in my hand. Water drips onto my knee. We both open our mouths to speak. We stop before the words come out.
Dwayne’s friends Roger and Jerry join us. Jerry tells Dwayne he just bought a shovelhead Harley. Roger says, “There ain’t no better shovelhead mechanic than Dwayne.”
Dwayne stands up to face them. He grabs the back of his chair. His fingers tighten around it as he pushes himself upright. He reaches down and picks up his abandoned beer, tilting it back for a long gulp.
I look up at them and listen to their loud laughter and talk about all of the times Dwayne fixed their bikes. How he used cigarette-rolling paper to measure the gap for the spark plugs.
Eventually, Jerry announces he has the shovelhead on a trailer behind his truck outside. He asks Dwayne to come look at it. They walk toward the door. Dwayne turns around and looks at me. He motions for me to follow them.
We walk out into the dark, damp night. A Texas November night. Stars blink across the vast blackness of the sky. A chilly wind bustles through the parking lot. Now a week before Thanksgiving, it has dropped into the forties. We move over to Jerry’s truck. The shiny black paint of the truck shines in the glare of the lone streetlight. The shovelhead perches on the trailer stretching behind it. The motorcycle has been reformed into a chopper. The long front forks extend forward at a sharp angle. The handlebars flow straight up in ape hanger bars. Orange flames streak across the elongated neon-purple gas tank.
Dwayne whistles with admiration. “Damn. That’s a good-looking scooter.”
He moves forward. The three men step up on the trailer. They cluster around the motorcycle. The shadows of the branches of the live oak tree above them move across their faces as the wind lifts and shakes the leaves.
I stand by the truck bed. I lean against the cold metal, happy to see Dwayne immersed in motorcycles again. He gently strokes the smooth enamel of the paint. He touches the chrome heads of the engine. He folds his hand over the rubber handlebar grip.
A sentence floats over the space between us. Dwayne is agreeing to our coming to Jerry’s house tomorrow. He tells them how much I miss riding. I am going to ride the chopper. I lean forward to catch the rest of the conversation. Dwayne is now telling the story of the time I rode through a sandstorm near Phoenix.
Roger and Jerry mutter curses of admiration for my toughness. I stare at the shovelhead chopper in front of me. I walk over to the trailer. Dwayne’s arm waves through the air to demonstrate the desert wind that day. I reach up and touch his elbow.
He turns and looks at me. He steps down on the gravel by me. He lowers his head and peers into my face. I see the other two men also watching me. I take a deep breath. I thank Jerry for the offer. I pause.
Dwayne’s face tightens in the dim light. His hand reaches out and grips mine. I take a deep breath. “I guess I’ll see you guys tomorrow morning.”
Dwayne throws his arm across my shoulder. He hugs me close to him as we walk back into the bar. The neon light above the door flickers a welcome. I step through the door ahead of Dwayne. Dancers twirl across the dance floor. Glasses tinkle. The night of celebration has just begun. My first motorcycle ride in six months waits for me on the other side of midnight.
I drive us home, since he has become too weak to do it. Dwayne chatters all the way. Most sentences begin with “Remember when?” Then he urges me to remember a moment of our shared riding history. I nod and smile but don’t say much. The ninety-minute drive home to Austin passes in a blur of reminiscences and passing headlights.
We perform our nightly ritual as we prepare to go to bed. Dwayne swallows pill after pill. I check the pump containing a small plastic bag of drugs around his waist. Then I slowly adjust its position until he’s comfortable. I stack pillows against the headboard. I take both of his hands as he lowers himself against them. The pump whirs and clicks as it dumps the chemicals into his bloodstream.
I glide in beside him. I press my leg against his.
He says, “You were awfully quiet on the ride home, baby.”
“I’m just tired.”
“I can always tell when you’re lying, you know. Your face shows everything.”
I admit I’m nervous about riding the chopper. I remind him I rode a bagger, a big solid machine. The chopper is a rock star with its narrow tires and tall handlebars. “What if I drop the damn thing?”
Seconds tick by. Dwayne is silent. Finally, he reaches over and pulls me closer. “I just want to see you on a Harley again. I can close my eyes and pretend I’m right there with you.” He pauses. “Even if I’m not.”
My tears drip and puddle on the pillowcase under my head. “We better get some sleep, then. I am riding a chopper tomorrow.”
The alarm at six wakes us up. I get out of bed. I silently dress in blue jeans. I dig in my drawer until I find a Harley T-shirt. I sit on the couch and buckle on my Harley boots. As I dress, I hear Dwayne get up and go into the garage. I join him. He has laid out my helmet, my fingerless riding gloves, and my leather jacket. I scoop them up.
We silently get in the car and drive back to Bryan and Jerry’s house. I pull into the driveway. The chopper waits in the open doorway of the garage. Jerry waves at us as he comes outside. We shake hands. Dwayne and Jerry exchange some local gossip. I walk over to stand by the chopper.
Jerry joins me. “Are you ready to ride again?”
I nod silently. I reach down and pull out the choke. I tap down on the shifter and click it into neutral. I push the start button. The engine roars to life. I roll the throttle gently back and forth. The motor vibrates through the chilly morning air. Puffs of smoke swirl out of the exhaust.
I take a deep breath, and I swing my right leg over the narrow seat. I am relieved to find I can put my feet flat on the pavement. I reach up and grab the grips and pull in the clutch with my left hand. I pull the lever up to first gear with my foot. I ease out the clutch and accelerate with a lurch. The front wheel wobbles slightly as I move forward. I gently move the handlebars back and forth. I will need to push them hard to move the front wheel in a turn.
I take another deep breath. I lift my feet onto the pegs. I flick my right wrist on the throttle. The chopper sails down the driveway. I push firmly down on the left handlebar and up on the right handlebar. The bike and I swerve left out of the driveway.
I see Dwayne and Jerry standing in the front yard. Dwayne gives me a thumbs-up. I jerk up into second gear. I take off with a screech. The wind whips loose hair from my ponytail. The strands of hair sting against my ears. I lay my left hand over the clutch just in case I have to grab it to stop the motorcycle suddenly.
The chopper shudders beneath me. The rough pavement of the street bumps beneath my tires. A rock bounces off my knee, and the sting burns under my jeans. The muscles in my hands and arms ache from the effort of keeping the chopper straight in the road. I wiggle my shoulders to loosen them up. I check the speedometer. It reads fifty miles per hour. Shit. It feels much faster.
I spot a school parking lot ahead. I swing into it and stop with a heave, tapping it into neutral. I swing out the kickstand and click it off. I wait, knowing I can’t go back to Jerry’s yet, so I get off the bike. I want Dwayne to believe I took a long ride on the chopper. I sit on the ground in the shade of the lone tree and look at the bike. I wonder if I’ll ever ride again.
After enough time has passed, I start the chopper and put it into gear. I ride back to Jerry’s. I can see the two of them sitting in lawn chairs in the doorway of the garage. They jump up when they see me coming. Dwayne grins and waves to me.
I pull the chopper into the driveway. I turn it off and dismount. The men ask me how it rode. I tell them it was a bitch on the corners. We laugh together. Jerry goes into the house to get me something to drink.
Dwayne reaches for me. I lean against his bony chest,
listening to his steady heartbeat. “I’m proud of you for riding a chopper. You’re always going to be a Harley rider.” He strokes my cheek. “Even when I’m gone.”
THE LAST BIRTHDAY
The sound of hammers and drills coming from the garage wake me up on Dwayne’s birthday. He is sixty-three years old today. Over a year of chemotherapy lies behind us. I trudge into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. A fresh pot waits for me. I close my eyes and pretend for a moment that time has reversed in the night. Clock hands have whirled backward. The sun has risen on a normal day where Dwayne makes coffee and goes to the garage to work on his latest car or motorcycle project. I will sit with him as he works. Then we’ll ride our Harleys to the local diner for breakfast. A line of anniversaries and birthdays stretch out into the future.
I open my eyes to the present day. We have just returned home after two days in the hospital. A stronger mixture of chemicals has been pumped into his weakened body.
I pour the coffee into my mug and carry it into the garage. I open the door and lean against the doorframe, watching him work the way I always do. His welding helmet hides his eyes. His bandaged hand quivers as he tries to direct the flame onto the metal of the door. The former wreck of a truck now gleams in the fluorescent lights with its new stainless-steel bodywork.
Dwayne shuts off the welder with a snap. He flips back his helmet and looks at me. “Look, baby, I almost have the door where I need it. Do you think you could hammer it into place while I weld? I don’t have enough oomph to do it.”
I set down my coffee on the workbench. I take the hammer from his hand when he holds it out to me. He hands me a helmet, and I shove it on my head and pull down the visor. It will protect my eyes. It will also hide the tears streaking my face.
I bang and pound the hot metal as he heats it with the welder. Eventually, he can close and latch the door into the lowered roof of the hot rod truck.
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