Miss Julia Hits the Road (27 page)

No one said a word for a long minute, then Mr. Pickens stood up. “Ladies,” he said, his white teeth gleaming from under that black mustache. He looked directly at LuAnne, and I heard her catch her breath. “Ladies, let me reassure you about a couple of things. Everybody you’ll be riding with is highly safety conscious, and you won’t be in any danger at all. Another thing, forget all you’ve ever read or heard about bikers. You won’t meet a nicer or friendlier bunch of people anywhere. There won’t be any fussing, fighting, or brawling; just a lot of good, clean fun.”

Emma Sue Ledbetter sniffed and Norma Cantrell, taking a cue from her, twitched her shoulders, but Mr. Pickens pretended not to notice. “Now,” he said, “I’ve brought my bike and I’d like to ride each one of you around the block to let you see what it’s like.” Then, looking deep into the eyes of each woman there, he lowered his voice and said, “I need somebody to go with me. Who wants to be first?”

He smiled that heart-melting smile right in LuAnne’s face, and she jumped right up. “I will!” Then she stopped and looked down at herself. “But I have on a skirt. Hazel Marie, can I borrow a pair of your pants?”

Before Hazel Marie could answer, Mr. Pickens said, “We can fix that. I’ll tuck you in good, and we won’t go fast, anyway.”

We all went out on the front porch to watch the performance. Lillian, not wanting to miss anything, edged out behind us. Mr. Pickens helped LuAnne put on the extra helmet he’d brought, then assisted her onto the backseat—what he called the saddle. Then, to her great delight, he carefully tucked her skirt around her so that it wouldn’t blow up. Then he adjusted his own helmet and climbed aboard, giving the machine a kick that started the motor with a great roar. LuAnne shrieked and grabbed his waist. Then he propelled the two of them out of the yard in the most careful and sedate manner possible.

“I can’t believe she’d do that,” Emma Sue said, a disapproving frown on her face. “What is Leonard going to say?”

“Leonard’s not going to say anything,” I said. LuAnne’s husband seemed half asleep half the time.

While we waited for them to circle the block, I noticed a long, black car parked at the curb, not quite in front of the house but near enough for me to see a man sitting in it. I thought he was going to get out, but the spectacle LuAnne and Mr. Pickens presented may have caused him to think better of it. Probably a sales-type person, I thought, wanting to demonstrate a vacuum cleaner by throwing dirt on my Orientals. It was just as well that he kept his seat, for I never welcomed salespeople inside my house. When I want to buy something, I go to the store and get it. I don’t need to be talked into something in my own living room.

I forgot about the salesman when Mr. Pickens guided the cycle back into the yard and helped LuAnne off in a gentlemanly fashion. When she took off the helmet, her face was lit up with excitement.

“That was wonderful!” she crowed. “I’m ready to go again. But somebody else take a turn. You’ll love it.”

When nobody volunteered, Mr. Pickens scanned each face, then pointed at Helen Stroud. “How about you? Wouldn’t you like to ride with me?”

Well, put that way, what woman wouldn’t? With a giggle, Helen took LuAnne’s place and soon she and Mr. Pickens were roaring out into the street. She yelped as a sudden gust of wind blew her dress over her head, and I thought Emma Sue was going to die laughing on the spot.

LuAnne chattered on about the thrill of it until Helen was deposited back into the yard. Strange things must happen under that helmet—or from holding onto Mr. Pickens—because she was just as flushed as LuAnne had been.

Mr. Pickens put down the kickstand and walked up onto the porch. Mildred Allen backed away, saying, “I would, but I won’t fit on that back seat.” And she was right, for the seat was molded across the back and along the sides, and even if she’d been able to fit into it, she’d’ve been wedged in for life.

“We can fix something up for you,” Mr. Pickens said. Then, noticing her self-consciousness, he sidled up to her and said, “Bikers go crazy for full-figured women.”

She turned as red as a beet, while I rolled my eyes. Mr. Pickens had no shame at all. But he turned his black eyes on Emma Sue, smiling at her and ignoring her tight mouth and frown of disapproval.

“Mrs. Ledbetter,” he said, “you’re the one I particularly want because you have the influence to make or break this charitable enterprise. I know people look up to you, so your approval would mean everything in making the Run a success.”

Her mouth loosened just a little, as she nodded her head. “That may be true, Mr. Pickens,” she said, “but I am totally dedicated to Christian work alone. I just can’t spread myself too thin, you know. This sort of thing, even if it is for a good cause, would take time and effort away from spreading the Gospel.”

“Ma’am, I’m glad you brought that up,” Mr. Pickens said, as if it’d just occurred to him. “See, there’ll be riders from local Christian motorcycle clubs joining us. A good many of them, in fact. You won’t believe all the good they do, witnessing and testifying and preaching and teaching the Bible everywhere they ride. You really ought to meet them. They’d open up a whole new field ready for harvest and waiting for someone like you.”

I glared at Mr. Pickens, trying to warn him not to try to fool her with all that pious talk, but Norma Cantrell chimed in. “I’ve heard of them,” she said. “Emma Sue, I think that new preacher out at Pine Grove Baptist is a member. And so is his wife. I heard that his congregation wasn’t too happy at the thought of their preacher running with a motorcycle gang, especially since he’d already bought a red Trans Am and put headers on it. But he explained that it was all part of his ministry, and now I understand that almost all his deacons are bikers.”

“Yes,” Helen Stroud said, nodding her head vigorously, “and I heard they have a Sunday School class just for Harley owners. Harleys for Heaven, they call it.”

“Is that right?” Emma Sue murmured, eyeing Mr. Pickens’s motorcycle with increasing interest. “It
would
be a new field of endeavor, wouldn’t it? And, you know, if I could say that I’d ridden a motorcycle, I’d really be able to reach young people.”

“They’d think you were the greatest thing on two wheels,” Mr. Pickens said, flashing that smile of his, knowing he’d talked another woman into doing what he wanted her to do. “Let’s try it. Want to?”

And she did, shrieking and laughing and gripping Mr. Pickens’s waist as they took off down the street. I wondered if Pastor Ledbetter could hear her, and what he’d do if he did.

By the time they got back, Mr. Pickens had another convert, for Emma Sue was ready to be catechized and baptized into motorcycle heaven. If there was such a thing.

Our only semi-failure of the day was Norma, who didn’t mind the ride but hated the helmet. It mashed her teased hair down flat, and she was considerably upset about it, stomping off to the bathroom when she dismounted to back-comb it again.

I gave Mr. Pickens credit for convincing the ladies that motorcycle riding was not only safe and fun, but charitable and evangelistic. I didn’t know another man in the world who could’ve done it.

In spite of having achieved what we wanted, though, I noticed that Hazel Marie had been unnaturally quiet during all the time Mr. Pickens was working his wiles. Women who used the same methods to get their way had nothing on Mr. Pickens, who could wrap a woman around his finger when those black eyes lit on you and his muscles started rippling and when, well, he moved his heavily cologned presence next to you. No wonder Hazel Marie’d held her tongue; he was a wonder to behold.

“We need to get the word out,” I said to Hazel Marie’s back. She was still gazing pensively out the window long after Mr. Pickens had disappeared from sight, although the noise of his departure lingered on behind him.

“Advertisements, radio announcements, and what-have-you. You’re good at that sort of thing, Hazel Marie; why don’t you take that on?”

Tearing herself away from the window, she agreed to word the announcement to go in the newspaper and on the flyers that we intended to distribute around town.

“Let’s get their names out as soon as we can,” I told her, “before they have second thoughts and decline the honor. Be sure to put in that any other ladies who want to join in are welcome, as long as they get sponsors.”

“Okay. But, Miss Julia,” Hazel Marie said, a worried frown on her face. “I’ve been worrying about something J. D. said last night.”

“Lord, Hazel Marie, it’s a wonder you don’t worry about everything he says, day or night.”

“Well, I do, sometimes. But he mentioned that we might have a problem with the bikers’ regular riders, their wives and girlfriends. How’re they going to feel if they’re replaced by other women? They might not like it.” She stopped, frowning even more. “I don’t think I would.”

I didn’t doubt that a minute, given the fact that she couldn’t trust Mr. Pickens around other women as far as she could throw him.

“What we have to do, Hazel Marie,” I said, “is give those displaced riders something else to do. You know, make them feel that they’re contributing something by not riding. What could it be?”

“Well, they usually have contests of some kind set up where the runs end. I know Red will have something in mind, maybe like a Burnout Pit. That’s where they rev their motors and burn the rubber off the back tires. The one who creates the most smoke is the winner, and a new tire is usually the prize. He might have a Slow-Ride Contest, too, to see who can go the slowest without falling. Maybe even a Wienie-Bite Contest, but J. D. won’t let me enter that.”

I thought it best not to inquire about the last-named contest. If it was too much for Mr. Pickens, I didn’t want to hear about it.

“And, Miss Julia,” she went on, “there’ll be vendors selling souvenirs, like stuffed teddy bears and bike replacement parts and so on. And bands playing, and people singing and dancing, all kinds of things for everybody to do.”

“Since the displaced riders are all women, maybe they could help with the food,” I said, then bit my lip. “No, let’s not suggest that. Sounds too much like church. I tell you what, why don’t we get Mr. Pickens to come up with something? From what I’ve observed, he can make a woman love something she doesn’t even like.” Then I realized that that wasn’t the most tactful thing I could’ve said, but Hazel Marie didn’t take offense at hearing the truth.

“Well,” she said, “he’s probably the best one to do it. Maybe he can put them in charge of the contests. You know, deciding the winners and handing out the awards. Oh, I know! He could have a Best-Dressed Female Biker Contest. They’d love that.” Hazel Marie’s face lit up, just like it did every time she had an idea. “I’ll call him and suggest it, but first, I’d better get something ready for the newspaper.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” I said, and took myself to the far side of the house.

That afternoon, while I busied myself counting up the donations we were likely to get, LuAnne called me.

Before I could thank her for her willingness to ride in the Poker Run, she took off on the latest news. “Julia, have you heard about Thurlow Jones? He’s in the hospital, sick as a dog.”

“No!” I said, sitting up with the sudden fear that he wouldn’t be able to fulfil his promise. “What’s the matter with him?”

“Nobody knows,” she said, her voice quavering with the excitement of her news. “But I’ve heard he’s on complete bed rest. Can you believe that?”

“Oh, LuAnne!” I said, patting my chest. “You scared me to death. I thought he was dying, the way you sounded.”

“Why, Julia,” she said in a sly tone, “I didn’t know you’d be so concerned. Anything you want to tell me?”

“Not a thing. It’s just that he’s made a pledge to the Willow Lane Fund and, as long as he’s not broken his check-signing hand, I don’t care what he’s done.”

“Well, believe me, it’s not his hand, and it’s not broken.” Then she giggled and, lowering her voice, went on. “Don’t tell anybody I told you, but what I heard is that he’s had a sudden spurt of growth in an unmentionable area of his anatomy. They sat that every doctor and nurse in the county has dropped by to see it.”