I Can Hear the Mourning Dove (23 page)

“You're way over my head, Red, and besides, I thought we were talkin' about Dr. Rowe.”

“But I don't think I
am
over your head, Luke. If you don't see people, if you only see bullshitters, all you will ever do is react. I remember when you threw the tables over in the cafeteria. Rebelling against authority is reacting, and reacting isn't choosing. Authorities will make decisions and you will react. Instead of making real choices, you will only react to the ones
they
make. It seems like freedom, but it's really not.”

Luke looks at me and lights another cigarette. I wish he wouldn't ask me to do things I'm no good at; he wants my opinion and then he expects me to defend it. My face must be giving me away because he says, “Don't feel bad. I asked you and you told me.”

“I don't think I've ever spoken to a person this way before. I can't imagine how judgmental I must sound.”

“You have an amazing mind,” he says. “You go real deep.”

“I wish I could explain things as well as my father could, he always said when you protest it has to be because you're
for
something, not against. You have to be
for
something. I want you to understand, Luke, but I would never hurt your feelings. My own life is such a mess, how would I dare to criticize another person?”

“Like I say, you apologize too much. This is food for thought.”

Then he tells me he needs to go to the bathroom and get cleaned up.

He leaves me sitting by myself. I hope and hope I haven't hurt his feelings. The waitress comes to ask me if I want more coffee, but my cup is still half full. She doesn't understand that I am not a coffee drinker, but how could she?

I should call my mother. I made DeeDee do it. I could get some change at the bar.

I hope Luke won't be gone long. How can it be that he is now such a source of reassurance? The eye is rotating. Of course it is only a spherical Budweiser clock but a rotating eye has a total field of vision.

Then two policemen come in laughing, in brown uniforms. They are middle-aged and overweight and hitching their belts. Nothing would ever intimidate them. I watch their epaulets and their sidearms, but the light pops; I swallow hard. They sit at counter stools eating doughnuts and drinking coffee and talking to the waitress. They are sitting directly beneath the eye. I wonder if they are state troopers.

From time to time they look at me. Do they look at me because they know I am helping a fugitive or only because there is no one else to look at? All of a sudden my breathing is tight.

I don't believe the policemen have knowledge of me, but they are sitting beneath the eye. If they get control of the eye, I will be helpless; they will know everything. Don't forget, it's just a clock, it's delusional thinking which makes it a rotating eye. Everything has trailers of light. This shouldn't be happening, do I have to backslide this way? If I don't get away from this booth, the shakes are coming. I may even get scrambled.

I stand up and walk rapidly out the door. There are gas pumps. I go around to the side of the building where the bathrooms are. The women's has a cardboard OUT OF ORDER sign on the door. My breath is so short I have no choice; I knock loudly on the door of the men's room.

I hear Luke's voice say “It's open,” but I knock again anyway.

“Please, Luke, it's Grace. May I come in?”

“I said it's open.”

I step inside quickly, close the door behind me, and lean against it. The light is dim. There is a small sink. On the other side of the metal stall partition, Luke is urinating. I lean hard against the door.

“I'm awfully sorry, Luke.”

“No problem, what's the matter?”

“This is unfair of me. You deserve your privacy.”

“I told you it's no problem. What's the matter?”

His urine is plunging into the toilet in a loud and steady stream. Can a man pee so much? I'm quite sure his large organ is out and he is holding it. I won't move, but there's no reason to be afraid. I tell him quickly about the two policemen.

“What it probably is is a couple of local sheriffs deputies. I doubt if they can find their ass with both hands.”

“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?”