I Can Hear the Mourning Dove

by James Bennett

  “They were looking at me.”

  “No other chicks to look at, right? Don’t worry about it.” Then he changes the subject. He says, “Hey Red, check this out. There’s an eight hundred number on this spare roll of toilet paper. It says here if you have any questions or comments you should call this tollfree number.”

  I’m not sure how to react to the toilet paper data, but at least I’m not so lightheaded. Luke has flushed the toilet and is emerging from the stall. He begins washing his hands. “Is that prime or what? What bullshitter thought that one up, you s’pose? I’m sure I’m gonna call an eight hundred number and have a conversation about a roll of asswipe.”

  The idea of phosphates occurs to me, but the way he says it seems funny; I begin to giggle.

  “It can get real gritty and funky on the road,” he tells me. He goes on to say that it helps your morale to keep yourself cleaned up. He takes off his shirt and begins to scrub his torso with soap and water. His muscles are well defined and I find myself looking at his skin.

  I am embarrassed but at least I have stopped giggling. I step inside the stall and close the partition door. “Luke, how am I supposed to clean up? I don’t have any bathroom items.”

  “Do what I’m doin’. Take off your shirt and wash up.”

  Take off my shirt? What does this mean?

  “I’ll loan you some stuff. I’ve got lots of extra supplies. I’ve got an extra washrag here.”

  He passes me a hot, wet washcloth over the top of the partition door, along with a small bar of Ivory soap.

  I’m sure it must be good advice. I take off the fatigue jacket, but it seems like a long time before I find the nerve to finally take off the Looney Tunes tee shirt.

  I put both shirts on top of the dusty toilet tank. I am naked to the waist; it feels so vulnerable. Luke is only three feet away, splashing in the sink and brushing his teeth. If Luke saw me at this moment would he find me arousing or would he be indifferent? Which would be worse? It would be so embarrassing. It feels like such a scary situation, but I know I don’t have to fear him. DeeDee feeds the fish in her underwear; I wonder if she enjoys knowing that males are aroused by her large and shapely breasts, or is it a matter of no interest to her?

  I resume my breathing and begin washing with the soapy cloth. I remember immediately why I don’t shave my armpits; I have prickly stubble.

  When I mention it to Luke, he passes me his Bic razor. “You can use this. It’s pretty sharp. You can use the soap for lather.”

  I shave slick and clean. My tee shirt has B.O. so I decide not to wear it. I roll it up and put on the fatigue jacket by itself; the coarse material is scratchy on my nipples, but I need the ventilation.

  “I need to brush my teeth but I don’t have a toothbrush.”

  He says, “You can use mine.”

  Can you share another person’s toothbrush? The idea is repulsive to me, but if I said so it would only hurt his feelings, so I decide to say nothing. He continues, “I’ll sterilize it for you. I’ll scrub it with soap and water. It’ll be like a toothbrush that just came out of the box.” At times it seems like he can read my mind.

  Anyway, Luke says the road has different rules. He has gotten us this far and he has made the right choice. I need to trust him. I run a comb several times through my hair and scrub my face.

  Before we leave, I brush my teeth.

  The gravel pit seems like a desert, especially on this day of hazy Indian summer heat. There’s no moisture here, and nothing growing except a few pitiful weeds. The piles of gravel look like dunes reaching into the distance. It seems like another planet or another world. It would be easy to get lost among the piles; they all look the same and there are no lines to follow.

  I ask Luke why we have stopped here. I tell him it’s important to get back to the hospital.

  He is drinking warm wine from a large bottle and eating pretzels. “What’s the rush? We’ll get back soon enough.”

  “I wonder how your leg is.”

  “That’s another thing. I need to rest the leg.”

  I’m afraid for him, I wonder how bad his wound is. When we get back to the hospital, the staff can heal him. He gives me a banana which I eat slowly. He wants to give me driving lessons on the Iron Horse, but I tell him I never could.

  “How do you know unless you try?”

  “I could never drive a motorcycle, I wouldn’t know the first thing about it. Don’t you think we need to get back to the hospital?”

  “You know your problem, Red? You need to take a chance every once in a while.”

  “I took a chance by coming to Allerton to find you. It scares me to take risks. I don’t have my medicine. I have no experience with motorcycles.”

  “You just spent several hours on the bike. All you’re gonna do now is move up to the front seat and drive. Come on, Red, live a little.” He takes another bubbling swallow of the wine.

  Before I know it, Luke has kick-started the bike. I am straddling the front seat and gripping the vibrating handlebars. He is behind me, on the passenger’s seat. His strong hands are on my waist.

  The motor is too loud. “To tell you the truth, Red, there’s not a hell of a lot I can do from back here. I can’t reach the handlebars to help with the controls, so you’re gonna be basically on your own. ’Bout all I can do is use my feet to help keep the bike standin’ up.” He is shouting. His sweet, winey breath is hot on my neck.

  I am scared. I release the kickstand and suddenly the bike is so terribly heavy it seems more than I can do to just hold it upright.

  When I tell him so, he only says, “That’s because it’s standin’ still. I’ll help you keep it up. There’s no weight at all hardly once it’s in motion.”

  He reviews all the basics loud in my ear, but why do I have to try this? Aren’t we supposed to be on our way back to the hospital? The throttle is right and the gearshift is left. The front brake is the right handbrake and the rear brake is the right foot pedal. You shift with your left toe and be sure you don’t rest your leg against the tailpipe.

  I shift into first and turn up some throttle. We are surging forward and it’s scary. I can’t help myself, I turn back on the throttle and the motor kills. The bike is so heavy I can’t hold it up; it topples to the left and something hard and sharp is gouging painfully into the calf of my leg. I yank with all my strength to get the Iron Horse upright again. Luke is grunting and cursing and gripping at the seat beneath me.

  He gets off quickly, puts down the kickstand, and kick-starts the motor once again. “Everybody kills it when they’re just learnin’,” he says. “Don’t back off the throttle when you’re movin’. Stayin’ in motion is the secret. Try it again.” The perspiration is beaded on his forehead and on his temples.

  “Please, Luke, do I have to?”

  “Don’t be scared. You can do it.”

  I try again with the same result. Luke jumps off immediately, starts the bike, and gives me more advice.

  We try it a third time and a fourth time, but I can’t do it. My leg hurts and there are tears stinging my eyes. It is so frustrating. Why am I in an alien gravel pit trying to drive a motorcycle?

  “Please, Luke, I can’t do it.” The tears are running down my face.

  “Goddamit, Red, don’t quit.”

  “But I just can’t.”

  “That’s bullshit. Keep tryin’.”

  The throttle is right and the gearshift is left. The front brake is the right handbrake and the rear brake is the right foot pedal. You shift with your left toe and be sure you don’t rest your leg against the tailpipe.

  Again and again, but he won’t let me quit. Is this his secret, that he just takes life by the throat? I find myself suddenly getting angry, but who or what is the target of the anger?

  Finally, I have the bike in motion and keep it there. I have made it into second gear and we are cruising at a moderate pace. I am doing this. It’s a little scary, making the curves around the gravel piles, but I
manage. I throttle up a little bit and we are moving faster. I feel in control. Motion is my ally. It is frightening but also exhilarating, like learning to fly. My leg still hurts, but what if my father could see me now?

  I am doing this.

  Before we shut down the bike altogether, Luke tries to teach me to kick-start it, but with only partial success.

  Then we do shut the bike down, and Luke says this calls for a celebration. He is limping severely. We hollow ourselves a comfortable niche in the base of one of the gravel piles. We are passing the wine back and forth. I am taking small sips but he is taking his long, bubbling swallows. It is the first time I have had wine except from the glass of one of my parents.

  Luke has lit another cigarette. “I knew you had it in you, Red; you are a bad-ass momma.” He seems to be getting a little drunk.

  “I’m glad I did it,” I say, “but you are achieving an altered state.”

  He laughs. “I’m gettin’ a little looped, I guess.”

  “It seems like the recent years of my life have been one continuous altered state. But it frightens me if you get drunk; how will you drive the motorcycle? We need to be getting back to the hospital.”

  “There’s no rush, Red, chill out a little bit.”

  “Luke, don’t call me Red. Please call me Grace.”

  “Okay. Grace. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any disrespect.” He seems to be having trouble with his breathing.

  “It’s okay. Please tell me why you taught me to drive the bike.”

  “I just thought it would be a good idea. It’s a good thing for a person to know how to handle a bike.”

  Now I feel that reality is dawning on me. I knew it couldn’t be this easy. “That’s not the real reason, is it?”

  He looks away and closes his eyes. “I wanted to give you something.”

  “I guess I must be an idiot or I would have understood sooner. You wanted to give me something because we won’t be seeing each other anymore. You’re not going back with me, are you?”

  “I can’t do it, Red. Grace, I mean. Now that we’ve got this far, you can get back on your own easy. Use the phone at the roadhouse. Your mother or your friend can get down here in less than an hour.”

  “But what will happen to you?” I ask. I feel hollow inside.

  “Me and the Iron Horse will be on the road. I’ll be free and clear.” His words are coming through clenched teeth. He has so much sweat.

  “That’s the real reason you made sure we left Allerton. That’s the real reason we’re here at this gravel pit. You never meant to go back with me.”

  “Don’t take it personal, Grace. I’m real sorry I had to lie to you.”

  There are tears sliding down my face. “Teaching me to drive a motorcycle is not a real gift. If you want to give me a real gift, come back to the hospital with me.”

  “There’s one thing that wasn’t a lie: I really do appreciate how you put yourself out for me. I can’t remember when anybody cared about me that much. I won’t forget it.”

  I know he’s telling the truth; he has far too much conscience to be a psychopath. But he’s trembling. I reach over and touch his face. He is soaking wet and very warm. “You’ve got a fever,” I murmur.

  “I’ll be okay,” he says.

  My fingers travel above his left knee to a place where his jeans are wet and sticky. “You’re bleeding.”

  “I said I’ll be okay.”

  The knife he used for peeling the fruit is on the ground beside him. I use it and begin slitting his pants leg from mid-calf up the inseam. It’s slow going because it’s so difficult to saw through the heavy denim and still be careful that the knife won’t make contact with his skin.

  “Oh God no.”

  Blood. There is so much blood. Some of it is dried and caked, but most of it is fresh, flowing from the long and deep gash in his thigh. I have to catch my breath. I take the deepest breaths I can. So much blood. There was blood in the bathtub, it flowed like a river of red.

  “This is the wound,” I say. “This is the wound from fighting with the security guard. There was blood; I asked Mrs. Grant if there was blood but she didn’t know.”

  He doesn’t speak. He seems so passive now. I go on, “This was starting to heal. You opened it up again when you were teaching me to drive the bike.”

  He doesn’t answer but he doesn’t have to. I know what happened and I know I have to be strong or he will die. I am still breathing hard with a rapid pulse, but I have found a calm center somewhere.

  “You can go,” he says, in a hoarse voice. “All I have to do is rest a little while and I’ll be okay.”

  “You think you can drive the motorcycle, don’t you? You can’t even think properly; you’ve lost so much blood you aren’t getting enough oxygen to your brain.”

  “A little rest and I’ll be okay.”

  It frightens me to look at the gaping, flowing wound but I have to act. “This is absurd. Luke, you have no idea, do you? If we don’t go back to the hospital, you’re going to die from loss of blood.”

  “I have the Iron Horse.”

  “You have to listen to me. If you don’t do what I say, you’re going to die. You have to listen to me.”

  He has the sweats and the shakes. “Jesus Christ, I’m gettin’ cold. I’m about to freeze here.”

  I help him squirm into his leather jacket and I zip it up. “You’re cold because you have fever. That means you have infection. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. We’re going back.”

  He moves his head up and down several times. I guess it means yes. There is still the bleeding. I have to do what needs to be done or he will die.

  “Do you have a belt?” I ask him.

  “Why do you care if I have a belt?” he wants to know.

  “Because there has to be a tourniquet.” I am taking off my fatigue jacket. I wind it and twist it into a ropelike shape and then wrap it in a tourniquet around his upper thigh. I am naked to the waist, but the bleeding has to be stopped. “You have to understand,” I tell him.

  “I said I’d go back,” he says. He is shivering with chills. His words come through clenched teeth.

  “It’s not enough if you’re only going back because you’re too sick to do anything else. All those things we talked about at the road-house. You have to understand.”

  “I don’t understand things fast. I’ll work on it.”

  I am getting the knot tied, but it’s difficult, I have to be careful not to hurt him. It takes an anchor to make a good tourniquet. There is a stick on the ground which seems strong enough. When the stick is tied into the tourniquet, I twist it tight; it has to stop the bleeding. “I want you to understand the point. That’s all I want.”

  He shakes his head rapidly up and down. I guess it means yes. I tuck the slit pants leg into his sock as carefully as I can, so it won’t gap open too much when we’re riding.

  I am done and I get to my feet. I’m a little lightheaded, but I take some deep breaths. “You think you can be free and clear on a bike that’s stolen,” I say to him. Then I realize I’m preaching at him and I have to stop it, especially when he’s down so bad. It’s taking advantage, and I should be ashamed.

  He interrupts my thoughts: “Hey, Red.”

  “What?”

  “Nice tits.”

  “Stop it. You’re practically dying, and you choose to make a smart remark.”

  He is smiling, as much as he can through the chills. “I guess I gotta be me.”

  My tee shirt and the leather jacket are both in the duffel bag on the bike. The weather is hot, but I’ve got chills; I put them both on quickly.

  The two of us are very clumsy, the way we stumble to the bike and climb on. It doesn’t seem real when I take the handlebars and he sits slumped behind me; it seems like “Let’s Pretend.” Luke has his arms around my stomach; his fingers make a tight grip on the folds of my jacket.

  The bike is so heavy and I’ve never started one before on my own. I str
addle it, shaky, and try to kick the motor over. I kick down with all my might but I am too shaky. The bike is going to fall over; I am going to fail because the panic is coming.

  Oh God no. If I can’t do this, Luke will die.

  Of course I could walk to the roadhouse; it can’t be more than four or five miles. I could walk to the roadhouse and phone for help. My mother would come in the car or DeeDee would come. I am starting to cry and the tears are running salty into my mouth. I went to Allerton by myself and urged him to come back for all the right reasons. I rode on the motorcycle with him and I even learned a little bit about driving it. I made a tourniquet and stopped the bleeding. I did all of that.

  Isn’t that enough? Haven’t I done enough? Do I really expect myself to do more? The voice wants in and so does the panic. The voice wanted to be the eye and now it wants in.

  But the point is, I have done the rest of it, and now I can do this. Dr. Rowe tells me over and over that I can take control of my own life.

  If I don’t do this, Luke will die. I have done the rest, and I can do this.

  I wipe my tears roughly on the jacket sleeve.

  I yank with all my strength and kick down with all my might. Luke is grunting his pain. There is suddenly anger in me and only anger, adrenalin pumping through me like a fountain. I am angry at fear and loneliness. I am angry at suffering and paralysis. I am angry at disorientation and panic. I am furious at the scum who taunted me and molested me.

  The throttle is right and the gearshift is left. The front brake is the right handbrake and the rear brake is the right foot pedal. You shift with your left toe and be sure you don’t rest your leg against the tailpipe.

  Once again I kick down with all my strength and the motor suddenly turns over and blubbers to life. I rev its throttle several times and ease it carefully into gear. We are in motion the way Luke taught me. I am doing this.

  We are moving fast enough to keep balanced but I have to work my way carefully across the gravel surface until we pass through the wide-open gate.

  I am gulping air; my gear shifting is clumsy but we gather speed. Faster, and even faster. The turns are scary, but I remember the way to the highway. The anger is still in me, and I will do this.