The Pastor's Wife Wears Biker Boots (4 page)

“I think you should, Opal. It’s time you lived a little.” Lily patted her on the back.

Opal sighed. “I’ve just always been afraid of my shadow, you know? Still am. Oh, I shouldn’t have come.” She unlaced the boots.

Lily stopped her. “Oh, yes you should have. You’ve been hiding your entire life, and it’s time you stopped. We only get one shot, Opal. One shot. Do you get what I’m saying?” Lily knelt down and looked her life-long friend in the eye.

This was getting too intense. I gave them a group hug to disrupt the mood. “Oh, ladies, we’re going to have so much fun!” I turned to where the boys stood looking for boots. “The guys’ boots are over there on the right-hand side. Daniel, can you help Timmy?”

“Are we getting boots, too, Mom?” Patrick asked.

“Do you want boots?” Dumb question.

They shouted a deafening “Yeah!” including Timmy.

We made our choices and kept three clerks busy helping us try them on.

“Lily, look at all these rivets and buckles and—” I turned sideways in the mirror “Zippers!”

I had never owned a pair of boots. These were bad boots. The kind of boots you wear and sing that silly song about walkin’ with boots on. I slapped a hand over my mouth to stifle the un-ladylike giggles. Was I acting like a proper pastor’s wife? In the mirror, my eyes twinkled with excitement. I looked around to see if I recognized anyone in the dealership, then walked over to Lily and Opal and whispered so the boys couldn’t hear.

“Do you think I could wear these with a skirt to church? Can’t you just see Bernice’s face when I walk up to the piano in front of God and everybody wearing them?” My face warmed with the thought.

Opal and Lily laughed, but then the thought of Bernice seeing me and the thought of her predictable reaction made me feel bad. With her temperament, she’d get way too upset. I’d never be able to do something so bold. “I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.”

“I know what you mean. It’s hard to be like Jesus and not be ornery, sometimes.” Lily admired the pair of boots she’d pulled on and moved her feet back and forth in front of a full-length mirror.

“Yes, well, if that’s the most we suffer for Jesus—refraining from gossiping about people who don’t like us—we suffer very little.” I pulled the zippers up and down on my boots. I loved that sound.

“His grace is amazing if it keeps this mouth shut.” Lily smiled at me in the mirror, and I smiled back.

I admired my feet and decided I’d found the perfect pair of boots: tough but stylish with extra zippers, laces, and steel toes. They looked and sounded strong and powerful when I walked. Like leather jackhammers with rattling chains.

“Can I help you ladies?” A sales clerk looked up from helping Timmy with his boots. “You look like you’re having a good time.”

“Oh, we are.” I pointed to my feet. “I want these.”

“And I want these,” Lily said, gesturing toward her feet like a game show hostess.

“How about you?” The sales clerk looked at Opal.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I should be learning to ride a
motorsickle
at my age.” Opal yanked off the footgear.

“Oh, come on, Opal. When are you gonna lighten up and start living? You’re not getting any younger.” Lily tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.

Opal looked hurt.

“You’re the one who said you’re getting old.” Lily pulled off the enormous pair of leather clompers and admired them.

I laid my boots back in the box and headed for the counter. “C’mon, Opal, think of all the rumors we’ll start in town.”

The boys piled their boxes on top of the counter with mine, and I paid the cashier.

Timmy celebrated by spinning.

“Kirsten, I think you have a rebellious side.” Lily placed her box on the counter and went to help Opal pack up her black lace-ups.

“I think I might.” I grinned. The thought of embarking on an outrageous escapade gave me giant butterflies.

Lily picked up Opal’s boot box and handed it to her. “Tell you what, Opal. If it turns out you absolutely hate riding, I’ll refund your money for the mukluks. Deal?” Lily held out her hand, and Opal reluctantly agreed to the purchase with a limp-fish handshake.

“Deal. But if I’m maimed and live out my last days as a vegetable, you have to promise to nurse me until the day I die.”

“You got it, girlfriend.” Lily was a gifted nurse and famous for tending to her friends’ health needs.

“Kirsten? Can you come here for a minute?” Aaron and Reba emerged from the sales office and walked toward me frowning and shaking their heads.

“What’s wrong?” At the sight of their somber faces, the butterflies in my stomach took a nosedive.

Lily, Opal, and the boys gathered ’round.

“Honey, I’m sorry.” Aaron looked down at the ground.

“What?”

“We couldn’t get a deal on that white bike,” Reba said. She popped her gum and huffed.

“Oh.” I was stunned. “Oh well.” I shrugged. “We’ll just look in the paper for another one.”

“I don’t think so,” Aaron said. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not? I need a bike, Aaron. I just spent a fortune on boots for everyone.”

“Oh, that’s really logical, Kirsten.” Aaron rolled his eyes.

I wanted it to make sense. “Why can’t I keep looking? Surely there are other bikes.”

“There are. There are,” he agreed. “But I don’t see one here that’s suitable. Maybe we should go home and pray about it some more.”

Why was he doing this to me? Nausea overcame the spaces where the giant butterflies had rejoiced just moments earlier. I was so close to my dream. What had made him change his mind?

“But, Aaron, I thought you said you came today to support me, I—”

An engine growled. We all turned to see where the rumbling came from. The sales guy, Rocky, roared out of the service area on a Harley.

A pink Harley.

Bubble gum pink.

I looked up at Aaron, who grinned down at me with absolute satisfaction.

“Are you serious? Really? Is that mine? Is that my bike?”

Rocky revved the motor.

Timmy squealed and jumped up and down.

Tears came streaming down my face. I couldn’t move.

“You better get over there and sign the paperwork before they all change their minds,” Reba shouted over the roar of the engine and handed me the papers.

My hands shook as I took them. “Give me a minute to read this,” I said. I took a few steps away from them. I still felt guilty about the money. “Is this what I’m supposed to do, Lord?”

I reminded myself that Aunt Mary stated specifically in her will that under no circumstances was I to spend this money on Timmy or the boys. She set up trusts for them. This money was just for me to do with whatever I wanted. I already tithed and gave to missions. And Aunt Mary had left a substantial amount to missions, too.

The engine roared again, and everyone gathered around the pink and chrome.

I wanted that bike. But it pained me to do something unnecessary with the money. Aaron didn’t make a mega-church salary. Ours was a little rural church. Without Aunt Mary’s help through the lean years of ministry, we wouldn’t have put food on the table.

“Please, God,” I whispered. “If I’m not supposed to get this bike, if I’m going to die on it, or it’s going to ruin my marriage, or something…” I looked at Aaron. “Are you sure it’s OK?”

He nodded. His face glowed. Aaron handed me a pen. “Isn’t it what your Aunt Mary wanted?” He rested his hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

An image of my aunt formed clearly in my mind, riding free on the back of her husband’s fire-engine-red Indian Chief. The wind tangled her chestnut hair and her exquisite, tranquil face rested on my uncle’s broad shoulder. Her graceful arms draped about his waist like gossamer scarves.

Aunt Mary would celebrate this moment. She would cheer for me along with my friends and family. She would guide my hand as I signed the papers.

In that moment, I thought I could hear her speaking in her soft Irish brogue:

“Go for it, Kirsten. Ride free. Ride hard. Just ride.”

6

“Kirstie! Come quick.” Opal’s voice squealed into the phone. I jerked the receiver away from my ear but answered in haste.

“What? What is it?”

“I got one! I got a
motorsickle
!”

“I’ll be right there.”

I practically ran to Opal’s house, two blocks away. Which is saying something, because I don’t think I’ve run that far since tenth grade, when Mr. Jacob’s turkey chased me out of his yard.

I found Opal in her driveway sitting on the back of a brand new cherry-red Honda Rebel. She looked adorable. And terrified.

“What have I done?” She looked at me through the opening in her full-face helmet.

I giggled. “Looks to me like you got yourself a real motorcycle!”

“Can you believe it? Isn’t it cute, Kirstie?” Opal jumped off the little bike and stood proudly beside it. Her hands shook.

“Your bike is adorable! But not nearly as adorable as you in that getup.” I took in the motorcycle leathers, helmet, and boots she wore. They made her look like that tiny, outer space alien I’d seen in a cartoon on television.

Opal posed like a wrestler getting ready for a match and gave me her toughest look. “Don’t mess with me, girlie. I’m a biker chick now.” She pulled off her helmet.

I laughed and hugged her.

“What got into you? I thought you said you were too old to ride.” I walked around Opal’s bike admiring it.

“You know Reba, Kirsten. She has an extraordinary gift of persuasion. I’m more scared of her than riding, I guess.”

I snickered. “I know what you mean. Oh, Opal, I really believe this is going to be the best summer since I moved to Eel Falls.”

I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Aaron and the boys.

“Opal got a motorcycle!”

“You’re kidding.” Aaron looked at me with disbelief. “Opal? Little, scared, doesn’t-do-anything-unsafe Opal?”

“Yes! Isn’t that wonderful?” I squeezed Aaron’s neck and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use to describe it.” He stiffened and crinkled his eyes with concern.

I rubbed at crevices between his eyes. “Don’t scowl, you’ll get wrinkles.”

That evening while I made chicken Alfredo for dinner, Aaron came behind me and gave me a hug. “It’s fun seeing you excited about something,” he whispered in my ear and nuzzled my neck. Usually, while I’m cooking, his advances annoyed me. But I found myself serene and happy in his arms while I stirred the noodles.

“Thanks, sweetie. I hope I do OK next week. I’m really nervous.”

“You’ll do fine,” he whispered in my ear and kissed my neck again. I plopped the spoon down, turned, and kissed him.

“Ewwwwww.” Patrick slapped his hands over his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you guys—no PDA!”

“PDA?” Aaron pretended to not understand.

“Public Display of Affection, Dad. Gross.”

The next Thursday night, the girls and I, and twenty other novices, stood in an abandoned parking lot in Fort Wayne waiting for motorcycle class to start. We were the only women in the group.

Reba already had her license, but took the class with us for moral support, and it was a good thing she did, because while we waited for our little bikes with 250cc engines to be assigned, Opal made a beeline for Reba’s truck.

“Opal, get back here right now,” Reba ordered.

Apparently, Reba
is
more frightening than a motorcycle class.

Opal turned around and stood with her head down. She trembled from head to toe.

I felt bad for her.

“Don’t you dare,” Lily growled through gritted teeth in my ear.

“What?”

“Don’t you feel sorry for her. This is the best thing that’s happened to her in years. She’s been scared of her own shadow her entire life. It’s about time she started living.”

“I just don’t want her to have a heart attack.” I wiped the sweat off my top lip. Even at six o’clock in the evening, the ninety-five degree sun reflecting off the blacktop roasted me.

“She won’t have no heart attack,” Reba said. “She’s healthier than the three of us together. She’s gonna live to be two hundred.”

I hoped they were right. It was bad enough I’d recruited women in the church to ride motorcycles. There’d be a church board meeting for sure if one of them died in the process.

After we got our books and bikes assigned, we went into a tiny trailer and viewed a video that prepared us for the course. We learned all the parts of a motorcycle, but I became lost when they taught the “friction zone.”

“I’m clueless, Reba.” My hands trembled as I rubbed my forehead. What if I failed?

“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’ll all make sense once you’re on the bike.”

But getting on the bike didn’t happen immediately in motorcycle school.

Pushing
the bike came first.

The teachers lined us up in groups of seven. I learned where all the controls were on the handlebars. Then the fun began.

We pushed our bikes all around the parking lot. Turn and push and turn and push—and gasp, and cough, and sweat—and turn and gasp and don’t forget to breathe and push and turn.

I looked ahead at Lily and Opal, older and fitter than I was by a long shot. Lily, a farmer’s wife, spent her days wrestling equipment and hogs and cattle. And spunky little Opal pushed the bike like a toddler’s tricycle. Reba’s smoking habit impaired her ability to breathe in the thick humidity, but she still did better than I could manage with my chubby legs squeezed into a tight pair of jeans. I refused to buy the next large size which I realized now was a mistake.

“Water.” I gasped like an Eskimo in the desert. “I need water.”

Reba pulled a water bottle out of her jacket. “Where’s
your
water?” she asked.

“I didn’t know I’d need water.” I gulped down half a bottle and wiped my mouth. “How can I drink water while I’m riding a motorcycle?”

The sun beat down on the black asphalt where my Harley boots made indentations every step I took. I was drenched in sweat, and my eyes stung from the salty perspiration on my skin. The adorable pink helmet I took so much pride in was a mini sauna.