She Rode a Harley

by Mary Jane Black

  One day as I sit there in the silent room, I call Dwayne’s cousin Sandra, now my cousin. “I’m ready to clean out Dwayne’s stuff. Can you help me Sunday?”

  Sandra arrives early on that day. She hugs me tightly when she steps through the door. We don’t talk. Over the next hour we empty the drawers in the chest. We pull clothes off hangers in the closet. Some we put in a carved wooden trunk for me to keep, and some go into the Goodwill bag.

  We throw out dated magazines and wadded auto parts receipts. We discover scattered stacks of small pieces of paper filled with notes, drawings, and phone numbers. Some of these also go in the chest, while others go in the trash.

  Our packing develops a mechanical rhythm. Sandra hands things to me, and I decide the fate of each article. I force myself to make the decision as quickly as possible. When we come to the box with the ring, I pull it out and push it slowly onto my thumb. Its weight hangs loosely against my knuckle.

  Finally, we stand in the middle of the pile of boxes and bags. I allow myself a deep sigh, and I breathe. My chest aches with its rise and fall.

  As we load the boxes into her car for her to take to Goodwill, we stop and look at the Harley cabinet in the corner of the living room. Dwayne spent weeks refinishing it. He painstakingly painted a Harley bar and shield emblem on the front. My first Harley boot buckles were turned into door handles. Inside sits a lifetime of Harley memorabilia.

  I turn to Sandra. “I know where this belongs. Wild Bill’s motorcycle shop in Bryan.” Wild Bill from the Bryan Harley dealer, where Dwayne worked when we were first married. The one who shook my hand and called me Dwayne’s Mary all those years ago when I visited the first Harley shop where Dwayne worked after our marriage.

  The next day I call and ask him if he could find a spot in the shop for the cabinet.

  He immediately says, “You know how much I loved Dwayne. I’ll put it where everyone sees it as soon as they walk in.”

  The next Saturday a neighbor helps me load the cabinet and boxes into the back of a rented truck. I drive the ninety miles to Dwayne’s hometown and the town where we began our married life. I find the motorcycle shop and park in front of the garage doors.

  Bill arrives with a roar on his Harley a few minutes later. He rolls up the large door. We unload the boxes. We carry the cabinet to a wall in the showroom, and Bill describes the way he wants to make it a showcase of Dwayne’s life in motorcycles. I nod and rub one finger on the glossy surface of the wood.

  On the way home, I drive to our first house on Dowling Road. I park the truck on the edge of the road. I look at the small green house under the large live oak tree. The garage where we built our shovelhead Harley. The front porch where we drank our morning coffee.

  I reach into my purse and pull out the Harley ring from an inside pocket. I slide my wedding ring off my finger. I ease both of them onto a silver chain and fasten it around my neck. The world will now know I am an unmarried woman. I drive away and leave Bryan behind.

  I draw breath.

  THE PROMISE

  “You’ll be on a Harley in no time,” the girl kneeling at my feet tells me as she tightens and ties the last boot on my foot. She smiles up at me. Her deft tattooed hands snap the Velcro straps in place across the laced-up boot.

  I stand up and wiggle my feet inside the stiff new boots. I dangle the flip flops I wore to the Harley shop in my right hand. Around me the chrome and paint on the new motorcycles reflect the fluorescent lights. “I never intended to ride one today,” I tell the girl. I explain I was only looking.

  “How’s long has it been since you’ve been on one?” She stands up to face me.

  “I sold mine four years ago.” I take a deep breath and think about the reason I sold it.

  Pete joins us. “Hey, are you ready to go?” He is my salesman and Harley friend for the day. I turn to look at him in his black Harley tee, black jeans, and boots. His crew cut shows only a fuzz of blond hair on his head. Tattoo flames curl out of his orange T-shirt and up his neck.

  I nod to tell him I’m ready. I follow him out of the shop. We head to a large white tent in the corner of the parking lot. Line after line of used Harleys stand in regimented rows under the canvas. They are grouped by model. Sportsters, as the smallest, stretch out in the first row. Electra Glides, as the largest bikes, hulk in a line in the last row. We stop at the Sportster row.

  “Ah, the girl bikes first.” I sigh. Pete leans his head to one side while he considers my comment. I assure him it’s fine. After this long, it may be what I need. I wonder what Dwayne would say.

  I grab the handlebar of the first Sportster. I lift it off the kickstand and swing the handlebars straight. I hear my heart beating loudly in my ears. I settle into the seat. My legs quiver slightly when I feel the unfamiliar weight. Then I push the starter button. The motor vibrates through the seat and up my back. Quickly, I shift up and roll the throttle, lifting my feet up on the pegs. The motorcycle turns awkwardly as I guide it to the rear of the parking lot. My hand covers the clutch lever as I ease into the rhythm of riding. Shift. Accelerate. Lean and turn.

  I make five circles around the building and the lot. On the first circle, Pete is standing in the empty spot under the tent. He sticks his thumb up when I go by him. I hold my left thumb up to let him know I’m okay. By the final circle, I see him sitting at the picnic table on the far side of the tent. He gets up and watches me while I stop the Sportster and push it back into its space.

  I join him at the table. We perch on the edge of it, and our booted feet rest on the bench. Around us the explosive sound of motorcycle motors roar when Harleys race in and out of the parking lot. I close my eyes. The sun warms my face. I hear Pete’s lighter click when he fires up a cigarette. I smell the smoke curling across my nose, and I remember the smell of Dwayne’s Marlboros.

  I slide off the picnic table and turn to tell Pete I’m leaving. Then I stop.

  He stands up. He crushes the cigarette butt in the asphalt. “What’s next?”

  “I’m going to ride the black Road King there.” I point to it.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He grins at me.

  I stand by the Road King for a few minutes. Its black surface gleams in the sunshine. It’s a mirror image of my first Harley. I deliberately slow my breathing when I push myself onto the seat. I can’t slow my speeding heart. Trembling with nervousness, I repeat the ritual of starting a Harley. The motor comes to life beneath me.

  Slowly I ease it past its neighbors in the row, each massive bike only inches away from my handlebars. I balance it while it mumbles and pulses in first gear. Then at the end of the row I simultaneously flick my right wrist and flex my left hand to grab the clutch. I step down on the shift lever. The Road King leaps forward. I sway in the seat. The King gently swings with me when I curve away from the other motorcycles. At the driveway entrance I stop the motorcycle with my feet on the pavement. The tent and Pete wait on my left. The street stretches to my right. The motor beneath me beats in a steady rhythm. Its heat warms the inside of my legs.

  “Here we go, Dwayne.” I turn right. The wind rushes past my face. I bobble my head with the unexpected weight of the helmet. My skin tingles with the forgotten pleasure of riding on two wheels with the wind pushing past my face.

  With surprise, I hear the growl of another motor. It comes closer and closer. I look to my right. Pete has joined me on an orange-and-black Harley with tall ape hanger handlebars. Side by side we roll down the street. We weave in and out of a neighborhood. I don’t see him. I only hear the sound of his engine. I am in a tunnel of time where it is Dwayne on my right.

  Finally, we return to the Harley dealership. We park together at the front of the store. Pete gets off his bike, and he pulls off his helmet. “Damn, girl, you can ride!” He laughs and holds up his hand with the palm toward me, waiting for me to slap his palm with mine in a high five of celebration. He drops it when he sees I am still clutching the handlebars.

  I sit on the now quiet Har
ley. The motor clicks and cools beneath me.

  Pete moves to my side. He frowns as he lays his hand on my shoulder. Minutes tick by. Eventually, I wipe my sweaty hand across my face. I unfasten my helmet and swing one leg over the seat. I sit bent over my knees.

  Pete kneels down by me. I tell him about my promise to buy a kick-ass Harley. I tell him about Dwayne and his love of Harleys—and me.

  I stand up and say I won’t be buying a Harley today. “Someday I’ll be ready to buy that Harley. Not today.”

  I drive away from the Harley shop and the crowd of motorcycles. Pete stands in the middle of the parking lot and watches me leave, raising his hand in goodbye.

  I wave back and go home to an empty garage. I lean against my car in the dim light. The dying sunlight streams across the cold gray concrete. The ghosts of our motorcycles seem to appear side by side there in the shadows.

  I close my eyes, and in the bleak space I feel again the vibration of a V-twin motor breathing beneath me. I stretch out my arms and imagine flying through the wind on two wheels. Silence brings me back. No echoing motor on my right. The fearless Harley rider inside me still hasn’t been resurrected. Not yet. She’s still missing.

  Then I turn on his radio, and the music echoes through the abandoned space. I walk away and leave a Harley-sized space in the garage and in my life.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Like grief itself, writing often forces someone into isolation and solitary reflection, but getting my story of Dwayne and our love story and Harley life shared and published took a community of supporters. With heartfelt gratitude I thank all of you.

  For Dwayne, you’ll live again within these pages for all of my readers just as you’ll always live in my heart. I know they’ll love you too.

  For my daughter, Stephanie, thank you for allowing me to include you as a character in my story. Your bravery and love keep me going even on the darkest days.

  Finally, for Joyce Maynard and all of the amazing women writers who sat with me in the 2014 writers’ circle under the volcanoes by Lake Atitlan in Guatemala, you gave me my voice back after grief had rendered me speechless.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mary Jane Black studied English and journalism as an undergrad, and went on to pursue a master’s in English with a concentration in creative writing. She left her writing degree program to accept a job teaching high school English when she became a solo mom with a teenage daughter. She taught writing and literature in high schools for fourteen years, and is currently a literary specialist for the State of Texas. Excerpts from her memoir appeared in the July 2016 issue of Shark Reef Journal and in the August 2016 issue of American Oxford magazine. She Rode a Harley is Black’s first book.

  SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS

  She Writes Press is an independent publishing company founded to serve women writers everywhere.

  Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.

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