Motorcycles & Sweetgrass (11 page)

Still, Maggie felt she was a good chief. This was now her second term, and other than the chaos of this particular land issue, she felt confident she wasn’t letting the people down. Land… no issue affected Native peoples and non-Native peoples so strongly and yet so differently. On the one hand, White people thought land was there to be owned and utilized. Something needed to be done with it. Otherwise it was wasted. This was even in the Bible, where God gave man dominion over Nature. Native people, on the other hand, saw themselves as being part of Nature. It was a big huge intertwining web. You could no more own the land under your feet than you could the sky over your head, though it was no secret White people were already working on that too.

But colonization had a nasty tendency to work its way into the DNA, the beliefs and philosophies and the very ways of life of the people being colonized. Nowadays, some of the people on Maggie’s Reserve, other than having a good tan, were indistinguishable from White people.

Lillian, however, had been what could be called an old-fashioned Indian, and she had taught her family respect for this land. Maggie had thought of that as she lay on her car, thinking about her departed mother, her rebellious but lovable son and the rest of her family. Maggie could have stayed on that hood all day contentedly pondering life, but damn her work ethic! There was still a lot to deal with.

Today, once again, she was driving alongside the controversial land. Maggie was growing to like this side road. It was thick with trees and, depending on the season, interlaced with snowmobile and ATV trails. Personally, she wished it could remain the way it
was, semi-wild. It would remind them all of the way the land used to be, its simplicity.

Blasting from her speakers and keeping her company was music from Maggie’s well-worn Nirvana tape.

Maggie was deep in thought when it happened. A sudden noise made her jump, and her car swerved to the left. Reacting quickly, she applied pressure to the brake, forcing the car over to the right shoulder and gradually bringing it to a stop, all the while grumbling under her breath. When the Chrysler had come to a stop she stepped out and investigated the trouble.

“Son of a bitch!” As she suspected, it was a flat tire. Her first one in almost fifteen years. And of course it had to be out in the middle of nowhere. Though technically she was only a ten-minute drive from her house, she was in one of the desolate patches of wilderness still to be found in Otter Lake. Maggie knew from experience that she had about as good a chance of finding cell phone reception out here as she had of finding affordable underwear that didn’t ride up. Luckily, Maggie had a spare tire in the back. She sighed. As a woman of the new millennium, she was confident she could do anything her brothers could do, and probably better, short of writing her name in the snow, but that didn’t mean she had to enjoy it.

Deep in the trunk, under a stained blanket, boxes of files and an old shoe, she managed to find the tire, which felt suspiciously low on air itself. But having no alternative, she hauled it out and began the laborious task of hooking up the jack, and then pumping it until the left side of the car was elevated. She was fiddling with the nuts when she heard the distinctive sound of a motorcycle approaching.

She could tell it was the stranger riding the machine everybody was talking about, evidently still roaring up and down the Reserve roads. She hadn’t seen him since the funeral. And here
he was, approaching at about sixty kilometres an hour. Maggie wasn’t unduly nervous, but she was a lone woman, on a deserted road, with a flat tire. Though she would have denied it, her hand tightened around the tire iron.

The bike slowed to a stop in front of her car. When the stranger took off his helmet, she could see that he was much handsomer than he had appeared across the graveyard. And his eyes were the most perfect shade of blue she’d ever seen. Wrapped around his wrist was a blue bandana.

Sitting astride his machine, he glanced at the tire iron in her hand. “Flat tire?” he said with a smile. “Need some help?”

“No,” she answered. “I can handle it.”

“I’m sure. Still, I have a way with rusty nuts.” He cocked an eyebrow.

Maggie looked down at the tires and noticed that he was right. They were rusted on tight. And like an idiot, she’d elevated the car without loosening them first. Which meant that if she had to fight to loosen the nuts, the car might fall off the jack and injure her or damage the axle or wheel alignment. This, she thought, is what happens when you change a tire only once every fifteen years.

“Damn.”

“I’ll ask again. Need some help?” The man swung his leg over the fuel tank and stood facing the woman, as he took in the situation with an amused expression.

Maggie’s brow creased in frustration. “I suppose you think I’m some sort of damsel in distress that you can save?”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am, I never make assumptions about a woman holding a tire iron. Just trying to be neighbourly. If you wish, I’ll keep going. And come next spring, maybe I’ll drive back here and gather your bones. Is that okay with you?”

Maggie reasoned out his offer and decided to take a chance. “All right, I suppose it would be okay if you helped.”

“Please, your degree of gratitude is overwhelming. I’m blushing.” The man got off his motorcycle and removed his leather jacket, revealing a white T-shirt.

Against her will, Maggie found herself smiling. “Sorry, just a little tired and not feeling very social. My name is Maggie Second.” She held out her hand.

The man removed the glove from his right hand and shook hers with a firm, though gentle grasp. His hand lingered, Maggie thought, a little too long.

“John. John Richardson. Well, I guess we should lower your car and take care of your rusted nuts.”

Maggie laughed. “Well, when you say it like that.”

“I’m sure mine are just as rusty. On my bike, I mean. May I?” He took the tire iron from Maggie and kneeled down to begin the task of lowering the car.

Maggie’s eyes wandered over to the man’s motorcycle. Though she knew little of such machines, she could see it was a superb work of engineering. Almost as beautiful as he was. Then, realizing she’d thought that, Maggie blushed ever so slightly.

“I don’t know about that. Your motorcycle looks in awfully good condition. It’s… beautiful. I’ve never seen one like it.” Maggie felt drawn to the magnificent motorbike, and moved closer to inspect it.

“It’s a 1953 Indian Chief motorcycle,” John began. “Gorgeous, isn’t it? It has an eighty-cubic-inch motor, which in today’s metric is 1300cc. Its top cruising speed is over a hundred and forty clicks an hour, and it could cruise all day without a problem. The engine is a forty-two-degree flathead/side-valve unit and no other machine
sounds like it. They don’t make them anymore, and fewer than eight hundred were ever made. I know it’s kind of old, but not everything new and original is better than what came before it. I’ll match this baby against a contemporary Triumph or Harley any day of the week. I gather it… meets with your approval?”

Maggie stroked the leather seat first, then the handlebars. “Where did you get it?”

“You’d never believe me.” Then, through gritted teeth, he said, “Man, these nuts are really on.” The first nut gave way just then with a tortured squeal. “That’s a good beginning,” John said as he tackled the second nut. From across the motorcycle, Maggie could see his muscles straining under his shirt. Almost instantly, the second nut came free as did the third and fourth.

Maggie turned to admire the motorcycle again, and was still running her eyes over its lines when she heard John say, “I could use some help over here.” She started and looked over to see him pointing to the spare tire.

“Sorry.”

By the time she rolled the tire over to him, John had the flat off. He lifted the new tire up and into place, tightened the nuts and lowered the car again. John stood up, and they both stared at the half-deflated tire.

“When’s the last time you had this thing checked?”

Maggie looked at him. “You’re supposed to have spare tires checked?”

“In theory.”

“God damn it!” Frustrated, Maggie kicked the tire, her fists clenched. “I don’t need this. I really don’t. I’m getting such a headache. You probably think I’m some ditzy broad who doesn’t know a thing about car maintenance.”

“Actually, I would say most men wouldn’t know to have their spare tire’s pressure checked either. I think forgetfulness is not gender-specific, like many acts.”

“Like stupidity.”

“That too. All right, you’ve got one blown-out tire, and one almost flat. What are our options?” He looked at her, waiting for an answer.

Maggie thought for a moment. “It’s not completely flat. I could drive it into town, to the garage. What do you think?”

John kneeled down to take a closer look at the tire. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t advise it. This could go anytime too. That would really fuck up wheel alignment, and your day. Know anybody in the village who might be able to help?”

Maggie nodded. “My brother Tim. He’s got a garage in his backyard full of tires and parts. He likes to fiddle with cars. He might have a good spare tire. Or at the very least, he’d take me to get a new one.”

“Looks like we have a plan. Tim’s it is. I’ll take you, but you’ll have to sit on the gas tank. Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall off. You guide, I’ll drive.” He hopped onto the Indian Chief, and was about to put his helmet on when he noticed Maggie still standing there. “What’s wrong?”

Maggie didn’t know how to put it into words. It was the idea of riding through downtown Otter Lake, straddling this hard-to-ignore motorcycle, this equally hard-to-ignore gentleman’s arms wrapped around her. A chief on a Chief. There was bound to be talk.

And there was something else.

“Who are you?” asked Maggie.

“Me? I’m a friend of your mother’s.”

“I gathered that, but from where? No offence, but you don’t look like her usual bunch of friends.”

John smiled. “Let’s just say I know a side of your mother that you probably don’t. She was a wonderful woman with many incredible traits, and I came to say goodbye to her. That’s about it.”

“I saw you at the funeral, standing by the road. Why didn’t you come to the service, or to the reception?”

He leaned back on his motorcycle, took a deep breath and met Maggie’s eyes. “A long time ago, your mother was forced to make a decision. She did, and I harbour no grudge against her, but I don’t go where I’m not wanted.”

“What do you mean, a long time ago? You’re younger than me. This doesn’t make sense.”

The man’s smile came flooding back. “Yeah, I know. Isn’t it great? Who needs sense! Hop on. Let’s get this puppy rolling.” With that, his boot kick-started the Indian Chief and it roared to life. Reaching back, he handed Maggie the spare helmet. He shrugged on his leather jacket again before putting on his helmet. To entice her, he roared his precious machine down the highway a dozen feet or more, then pivoted on his foot a hundred and eighty degrees, wheels squealing in protest, and pulled up to Maggie, where he waited expectantly.

“If your bike isn’t built for two people, why do you have an extra helmet?”

“You’re not the first damsel in distress I’ve had to save. Let’s just say I like to be prepared.”

With the helmet in her hand, the proverbial ball was now in her court. Maggie jammed the helmet on, sat herself on the gas tank and felt one of John’s arms quickly encircle her. She liked the feeling of leather and muscle against her back much more than
she would have expected. But it also felt a bit naughty. He was, after all, at least ten years younger than she was. Still, it felt good. Her earlier fatigue had mysteriously disappeared.

With a powerful lurch, the machine shot forward down the highway, toward Otter Lake.

People still talk about the day the strange man on the strange bike came riding through the village, with the widowed chief snuggled a little too comfortably into the driver’s lap. The patrons at Betty’s Takeout almost dropped their fries when the huge red-and-white machine raced past. The employees at the daycare centre almost forgot about the kids playing on the swings. Delia and Charlene, who traded off receptionist duties at the Band Office, almost dropped their coffee and cigarettes. When John and Maggie passed the Otter Lake Debating Society they waved at the assembled panel, who, unsure what else to do, waved back and were momentarily distracted from today’s topic.

Of course, the community’s reactions paled in comparison to Virgil’s when he saw them approaching. Walking casually along the road, a block or so away from the school, serious things were weighing on his mind. It was lunchtime and he was debating whether he should return to school after eating. He had an English class that after noon and his teacher had been giving him grief for not turning in an assignment. But he had promised his mom he would try harder… Maggie, bracing herself on the Chief, was looking the other way, toward the school. Virgil recognized her by the pants she had worn at breakfast, and her favourite black vest with red embroidery. John waved to him, and playfully pointed at the figure nestled much too closely against
him. Before Virgil could yell anything, they were gone, heading down Gate Road.

What the hell was his mother doing riding around with that guy? Virgil was standing there, still trying to figure out at exactly what point his reality had shifted, when Dakota pulled up on her bicycle.

“Holy! Virgil, was that…?”

“I… I think so,” he replied.

They both watched the dust slowly settle on Gate Road.

“Cool,” she said. “Think she can get me a ride with him on his bike?”

For reasons not obvious to Dakota, Virgil wasn’t listening.

“Wow, your mother is so cool. Mine just watches
North of Sixty
reruns. Come on, let’s get to class—we have to dissect a frog, I think.”

Unwilling or unable to argue, his mind so filled with that unexpected image of his mother on the motorcycle, he numbly followed his cousin back into the school.

What a day it had been for John. Luckily the flattire incident had worked out as he had planned, though it took a while. He had trailed Maggie into town and out again before the tire finally blew. If he ever found himself in such a situation again, he’d make sure to cut deeper into the rubber. At least now he had been able to establish himself as a rescuer, and that was always the first step. He remembered how she’d leaned against him as they drove into town. All in all, things had worked out pretty well. And in the bargain, during a subsequent conversation, he had learned a little more about what made Otter Lake tick.