— smoking, drinking at lunch — and by the time she stepped out of the shower, she was humming.
3
Bill didn’t torture her with doubt by being late. Rosie had pulled one of the kitchen chairs over by the window so she could watch for him (at quarter past seven she had done this, three
full hours after she’d stepped out of the shower), and at twenty-five past eight a motorcycle with a cooler strapped to the carrier-rack pulled into one of the spaces in front of the building.
The driver’s head was covered by a big blue helmet and the angle was wrong for her to see his face, but she knew it was him. Already the line of his shoulders was unmistakable to her.
He gunned the engine once, then killed it and used a booted heel to drop the Harley’s kickstand. He swung one leg off, and for a moment the line of his thigh was clearly visible against his faded jeans. Rosie felt a tremor of timid but unmistakable lust go through her and thought: That’s what I’ll be thinking about tonight while I’m waiting to go to sleep; that’s what I’m going to see. And if I’m very, very lucky, it’s what I’ll dream about.
She thought of waiting for him up here, of letting him come to her the way a girl who is comfortable in the home of her parents might wait for the boy who is going to take her to the Homecoming Dance, waiting even after he has come, watching in her strapless party dress from behind the curtain of her bedroom window, smiling a small secret smile as he gets out of his father’s newly washed and waxed car and comes to the door, self-consciously adjusting his bowtie or tugging on his cummerbund.
She thought of it, then opened the closet door, reached in, and snatched out her sweater.
She hurried down the hall, slipping into it as she went. It crossed her mind as she came to the head of the stairs and saw him already halfway up, his head raised to look at her, that she had reached the perfect age: too old to be coy for the sake of coyness, but still too young not to believe that some hopes — the ones that really matter — may turn out against all odds to be justified.
‘Hi,’ she said, looking down from her place. ‘You’re on time.’
‘Sure,’ he said, looking up from his. He seemed faintly surprised. ‘I’m always on time. It’s the way I was raised. I think it might have been bred in my genes, too.’ He held one gloved hand up to her, like a cavalier in a movie. He smiled. ‘Are you ready?’
This was a question she didn’t yet know how to answer, so she just met him where he was and took his hand and let him lead ‘her down and out into the sunlight washing over the first Saturday of June. He stood her on the curb beside the leaning bike, looked her critically up and down, then shook his head. ‘Nope, nope, the sweater doesn’t make it,’ he said. ‘Luckily, my Boy Scout training has never deserted me.’
There were saddlebags on either side of the Harley’s carrier-rack. He unbuckled one of them and pulled out a leather jacket similar to his own: zipper pockets high and low on either side, but otherwise black and plain. No studs, epaulets, lightning bolts, or geegaws. It was smaller than the one Bill wore. She looked at it hanging flat in his hands like a pelt, troubled by the obvious question.
He saw the look, understood it at once, and shook his head. ‘It’s my dad’s jacket. He taught me to ride on an old Indian hammerhead he took in trade for a dining-room table and a bedroom set. The year he turned twenty-one, he rode that bike all over America, he says. It was the kind you had to kick-start, and if you forgot to put the gearshift in neutral, it was apt to go tearing right out from under you.’
‘What happened? Did he crash it?’ She smiled a little. ‘Did you crash it?’
‘Neither one. It died of old age. Since then they’ve all been Harleys in the Steiner family.
This is a Heritage softail, thirteen-forty-five cc.’ He touched the nacelle gently. ‘Dad hasn’t ridden for five years or so now.’
‘Did he get tired of it?’
Bill shook his head. ‘No, he got glaucoma.’
She slipped into the jacket. She guessed that Bill’s father must be at least three inches shorter and maybe forty pounds lighter than his son, but the jacket still hung comically on her, almost to her knees. It was warm, though, and she zipped it up to her chin with a kind of sensuous pleasure.
‘You look good,’ he said. ‘Kind of funny, like a kid playing dress-up, but good. Really.’
She thought she could now say what she hadn’t been able to when she and Bill had been sitting on the bench and eating hotdogs, and it suddenly seemed very important that she should say it.
‘Bill?’
He looked at her with that little smile, but his eyes were serious. ‘Yeah?’
‘Don’t hurt me.’
He considered this, the little smile staying on, his eyes still grave, and then he shook his head. ‘No. I won’t.’
‘Do you promise?’
‘Yeah. I promise. Come on, climb aboard. Have you ever ridden an iron pony before?’
She shook her head.
‘Well, those little pegs are for your feet.’ He bent over the back of the bike, rummaged, and came up with a helmet. She observed its red-purple color with absolutely no surprise. ‘Have a brain-bucket.’
She slipped it on over her head, bent forward, looked solemnly at herself in one of the Harley’s side-mirrors, then burst out laughing. ‘I look like a football player!’
‘Prettiest one on the team, too.’ He took her by the shoulders and turned her around. ‘It buckles under your chin. Here, let me.’ For a moment his face was kissing distance from hers, and she felt light-headed knowing that if he wanted to kiss her, right here on the sunny sidewalk with people going about their leisurely Saturday-morning errands, she would let him.
Then he stepped back.
‘That strap too tight?’
She shook her head.
‘Sure?’
She nodded.
‘Say something, then.’
‘Iss sap’s ot ooo ite,’ she said, and burst out laughing at his expression. Then he was laughing with her.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked her again. He was still smiling, but his eyes had returned to their former look of serious consideration, as if he knew that they had embarked on some grave enterprise, where any word or movement might have far-reaching consequences.
She made a fist, rapped the top of her helmet, and grinned nervously. ‘I guess I am. Who gets on first, you or me?’
‘Me.’ He swung his leg over the saddle of the Harley. ‘Now you.’
She swung her leg over carefully, and put her hands on his shoulders. Her heart was beating very fast.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Around my waist, okay? I have to keep my arms and hands free to run the controls.’
She slipped her hands in between his arms and sides and clasped them in front of his flat stomach. All at once she felt as if she were dreaming again. Had all of this come out of one small drop of blood on a sheet? An impulse decision to walk out of her front door and just keep going? Was that even possible?
Dear God, please let this not be a dream, she thought.
‘Feet up on the pegs, check?’
She put them there, and was fearfully enchanted when Bill rocked the bike upright and booted back the kickstand. Now, with only his feet holding them steady, it felt to her like the moment when a small boat’s last mooring is slipped and it floats beside the dock, nodding more freely on the waves than previously. She leaned a little closer to his back, closed her
eyes, and inhaled deeply. The smell of sunwarmed leather was pretty much as she had imagined it would be, and that was good. It was all good. Scary and good.
‘I hope you like this,’ Bill said. ‘I really do.’
He pushed a button on the right handlebar and the Harley went off like a gun beneath them.
Rosie jumped and slipped closer to him, her grip tightening and becoming a little less self-conscious.
‘Everything okay?’ he called.
She nodded, realized he couldn’t see that, and shouted back that yes, everything was fine.
A moment later the curb to their left was rolling backward. He snatched a quick glance over her shoulder for traffic, then swung across Trenton Street to the right side. It wasn’t like a turn in a car; the motorcycle banked, like a small airplane lining itself up with the runway.