Town Burning (23 page)

John drove carefully, yet with unusual speed down the gravel road from the Stevens farm. He decided that he would not think about Jane. “What a decision!” he said out loud in the enclosed, rocking privacy of the car. “I will not think about anything!”

He
had
kept his resolution—or was it Jane’s resolution? And why was the resolution so important? Perhaps this new departure had brought them both back to adolescence, with all of adolescence’s moral strictures. They would wait and take it slow. He remembered something Bob Paquette had said in high school: “If you ain’t had it for two weeks, you’re a virgin again.” For his drunkenness and his fornication and his sin of casualness, he must somehow pay. The greatest sin he had committed was the sin of dissociation, of detachment. No risk: no reward. O.K.

Soon after he turned onto the hard-top road at the bottom of the hill he heard a roar behind him and for a moment thought he had lost his muffler. He turned around to see, and a bank of unsteady headlights came at him, swerved around the car and cut in sharply in front. On the Riders’ black leather jackets white death’s-heads grinned. One rider at the front of the column raised his hand and with military precision the column fanned out to block the road, then slowed down and made John stop. The head rider swung around and came back. It was Bob Paquette.

“Hi, John!” He yelled above his idling engine. “Where you going?”

“Home to bed!”

“Where you been? You’re not going anyplace, then?”

“Home to bed!”

“Follow me!” Bob pointed back along the road, motioned the Riders to go along the way they were pointed, then motioned John to turn around. John reluctantly backed into an old logging road, turned around and followed Bob back toward Cascom, keeping Bob’s elusive taillight barely in sight. In the driveway of the Paquette farm Bob slued around and parked his machine next to the kitchen door, hot cylinders creaking and smoking as they cooled.

“What’s the idea?” John asked.

“Don’t like to see nobody go to bed,” Bob said. “Come on in and have a beer.” He bent over his machine for a moment and patted the saddle. “Don’t she go!”

“She goes, you ass. You’ll kill yourself.”

Bob grinned and nodded his head. He turned around so that John could see the death’s-head on his back, then led him into the big kitchen. Dick looked up from a thick ledger, scowling.

“So you wrecked your bike already? I thought you was going on a wingding or some such. Hi, John. You bring him home?”

“That ain’t a wingding, just going for a ride. A wingding is a kind of a way to flop,” Bob said. He took three cans of beer out of the refrigerator.

“Don’t mind if I do, seeing as it’s your beer,” Dick said. He took the beer and went back to his ledger.

“Dick’s gitting married next week,” Bob said.

“Congratulations,” John said.

“Thank you, John.”

“I offered to let him ride my old bike, but he’s gitting chicken now he’s going to be a family man.”

“Amen,” Dick said.

“Where were you headed when you came up on me?” John asked.

“To Billy Frisch’s, then to Pinckney’s on the flat. Old Slug says he’s got a barrel of cider come out pink and hard. Beautiful! We was going to get a little of
that,
then take ourselves a little ride to Summersville and back. You take my old bike and come along!”

“Me?”

“Sure. What’s the matter?”

Dick looked up. “It’s been nice knowing you, John.”

“Hell!” Bob said, “You can take her slow till you git the feel of it. You don’t have to go no sixty, seventy miles per hour! Besides, you been on a bike before. I seen you ride that old Harley of Slugger’s once.”

“Around the block. I’m no daredevil, Bob.”

“Aw, lay off that!” Bob said disgustedly. “Ever since you come home you been acting like a heart attack. Like you et something maybe would gag a maggot. What you need is a long ride, boy! Flush your glands out! Put some red in your cheeks!”

“Put some red all over the goddam road,” Dick said.

“You shut up! Just ‘cause you’re gitting chicken and respectable in your old age.”

“Don’t start that again,” John said. “Next thing you’ll be out in the woodshed again.” The brothers looked at each other cautiously and then smiled.

“I’ll tell you what,” Bob said. “You come on out and try my old bike, anyway. Won’t hurt you none to try it. Maybe you’ll git the bug.” He stood up. “Come
on,
John. Bring your beer along.”

He followed Bob through the sheds, reluctant but unable to do anything about it. He wanted to go home and think (not think) about Jane, to remember the way she moved involuntarily under his hands, to suffer his wait for her. And now this hard monster of a machine came in between with its oily weight. Bob kicked down the starter and the engine hissed, popped and roared in the shed, shook the discarded oil lamps on the walls and brought dust down from the rafters. A thin cloud of blue exhaust smoke rose to the bare bulb over their heads. Bob grinned and turned off the motor.

“Damn’ good bike!”

“It’s alive,” John said.

“You damn’ right! It ain’t no car sitting on four legs like a lousy bathtub. Hell, John, a bike’s right under your ass yelling bloody murder and let’s git going! You got to
ride
a bike! You don’t sit back like a sack of potatoes and steer with your pinkie! It takes your whole body to ride a bike. You can feel them old pistons humping between your legs. Man, you’re out there in the air where a man ought to be.” He kicked aside a cardboard box and wheeled the machine out onto the gravel. John took it by the handlebars and nearly let it fall. Stationary, it was tremendously heavy and awkward, wanting to jackknife.

“Go ahead. Take her for a spin,” Bob said, standing well back.

“I can’t remember how to start the damn’ thing.”

“Well, now, look. This here’s an Indian, so everything’s just about bass ackwards from a Harley. Here’s your gas on the left, spark on the right. Push your clutch
in
to connect her up. That’s all. You’ll git the hang of her. O.K., retard your spark, turn switch, disconnect clutch, give a little gas—good, good! Kick her down. You can see how to shift. Three speeds forward. Let her rip!”

It seemed fairly simple, except that the machine wanted to fall over against his right leg, and when it had leaned far enough he had to exert an almost unbearable amount of strength to straighten it back up again. The engine started on his second try. He knew enough to adjust the spark, then sat precariously balanced, tentatively zooming the engine.

“Put her in low and let her go!” Bob yelled.

The little knob moved easily on its short post and the machine began to creep forward with a disconcerting, animal eagerness.

“Clutch!”

He pushed the clutch forward a little too fast. The back wheel spun and the machine surged out from under him. He held on, out of control for a second, but managed to keep his seat and to remember what to do. He rode slowly around the yard in low gear, surprised by the stability of the machine once it was in motion. He waved to Bob on the next cautious circuit of the driveway, shifted into second and shot into the darkness of the main road, clawing desperately for the light switch. He found it just in time, shifted into high, and as the panic drained out of him the chain noises smoothed into a high roar. The road and the trees together dipped and flashed toward him and past. He banked instinctively on the curves and let the world tilt—until he saw the glowing speedometer. The needle pointed to 70. He felt for a moment as if he were falling, but held steady and let the engine slow him down. He made a pretty U-turn in the road and came back, each moment learning easily a new economy of control, a new bit of confidence in his speed. The machine seemed to become more and more a part of his body.

When he stopped in front of Bob he gunned the engine and turned off the switch. In the sudden silence he felt a draining weakness as that source of power died away, and the machine again became heavy and unbalanced.

“O.K., I’ll go with you,” he said.

Bob tilted his head and squinted at him.

“You liked it, huh?”

“I don’t know whether I liked it or not, but I’ll go. I hit seventy!”

“You want to take it easy at first. You got a lot to learn.”

“You asking
me
to take it easy? Old Cautious John?”

They went back to the kitchen for more beer. Dick had gone to bed. “It’s twelve o’clock,” Bob said. “We better hump.”

“Maybe I better not go, Bob. I’ve got to work in the morning.”

“Who don’t? You’re young yet. You can stand it. Only time to ride is now. No cars on the road. Come
on!”
They went back to the machines, where Bob showed him how to jam the beer can into a special rack on the handlebars.

He knew what to do this time and they left the dooryard, bounced creakily until they hit the asphalt, then bored down on Leah against the air. Bob’s taillight kept creeping away and disappearing on the corners, and in order to catch up John had to go just a little faster than he wanted to each time. Yet each increase in speed, each greater degree of list on a fast corner, once he had done it successfully, did not frighten him again. Fear became a matter of control and experiment, a twist of his left wrist increasing or barely decreasing it.

He looked up, startled to see the high elms and the darkened storefronts of Leah Town Square, then followed Bob through a power turn, his footrest sparking on the pavement, to shoot past the empty sidewalks toward the river flats and Pinckney’s farm.

In the dooryard the shiny machines were lined up in formation, each leaning just so on its kickstand, each front wheel turned slightly and aligned perfectly with the others, coontails and boon-doggie streamers hanging down. Light shone from the big kitchen which separated the barn and the house, and when he and Bob slued to a stop the door opened and a big man whooped at them, bending his head and trying to make them out.

“Hoo, boy!” It was Junior. “Who is it? Bob? Who else you got?” Then he saw who it was. “I be go to hell!” He turned back to the kitchen. “No wonder he was late,” he said, and went inside. John and Bob followed him in.

The Riders and their women sat straight and neat in their uniforms, each holding a tumbler of hard cider. Slugger Pinckney went to a cupboard and got two more glasses, filled them from a pitcher and gravely handed them to John and Bob. John held his to the light and nodded, feeling quite sloppy in his civilian clothes. He felt that he had entered a highly select and formal club, and had a weird feeling that perhaps he should propose a toast, or at least bow and click his heels. He stood straighter under their scrutiny, took a sip and said, “Beautiful.” It was. It was as good as Billy Muldrow’s. The Riders seemed to approve of his formality. Billy Frisch, tall and rigid as a Prussian officer, nodded and let a tight smile cross his face. Wilma Berry, who was Slugger’s girl, got two chairs from the entryway and without speaking motioned for them to sit down. Even Bob sat straighter. Junior was the only one who lolled back and looked gawky. Even the tight jacket and riding pants of their uniform could not Prussianize him. John had always thought of Junior as a leader of the Riders, and now began to realize that this was not true. They disapproved of Junior. It was evident in the way they ignored his sarcasm, even interrupted him—not to talk, because they rarely talked, but to get up, to pour more cider, to study a new piston and rod that lay on the table.

“Were you scared?” Junior said. “Did Robert scare your pants off?” The Riders listened, blank-faced, and then looked to John for his answer.

“When my footrest scraped in the square it scared me. I never did that before.”

“
Your
footrest?” Junior asked, laughing.

“Sure, his footrest, whatever he wants to call it. You ought to slow down, Junior,” Bob said.

Slugger Pinckney smiled and went for the pitcher. “Oh, Junior,” he said, “you going blind? Seems to me I heard two bikes come in. Didn’t you see ’em?” He looked disgustedly at Junior.

“You mean
he
rode over here?”

“Sure he did,” Bob said. “You ought to slow down, Junior. Why don’t you lay off? Give it a rest.”

“I thought he rode behind on your bike.”

“No!” Slugger said. Junior looked angry and confused, and the Riders smiled.

Billy Frisch took pity on him: “When you going to stick that piston in?”

“Tomorrow, maybe. The other’ll do all right tonight,” Junior mumbled. He poured himself some more cider and drew his chair a little farther away from the table. He would sulk a while.

But it was time to take off. The Riders began to zip up their pockets, straighten their pants and tuck them into their black riding boots. The women—John noticed one in particular and was startled that he hadn’t recognized her. It was Dianne Rousseau, and he remembered her in high school as an awkward girl with acne. Now she stood tall and svelt with square shoulders and a trim waist. She stood proudly by Billy Frisch, evidently his girl. The acne had gone, leaving only a few discolored places on her cheeks. Her eyes were dark and wide apart.

The women stood up, carefully secured their hair beneath their caps and smoothed their clothes down with their hands. Gussie Contois, another girl, had been married after the war and had been pretty fat. Now she was as trim as the rest. She’d had a baby, too, he’d heard, and her husband had run off somewhere. Gussie was Joe Foss’s girl—had been from high school, in spite of her marriage. Funny
they
never got married. Gussie had worked in Blakemore’s drugstore for as long as he could remember her. They were all so much alike, except for Junior. Bob didn’t quite fit, either, but he knew how to act with them. He kept his mouth shut longer, and his eyes open.

The Riders went out, each going to his bike, his girl waiting beside him until he started the engine. Then they lined up again, this time headed toward the road. One after another the bikes roared until the staccato sound of one was lost in the rumble of the fleet—a thunder blotting out the creak of stanchions in the barn, the hum of the wind, all the night sounds. John sat on his bike and felt the smooth rhythm of his engine. He retarded the spark for a second to hear the flat popping sound, then put the engine back in tune. The Riders began to peel off from the end and zoom past him, each girl posting slightly as a machine hit the edge of the hardtop, holding harder to her man for the pulling shift into second. Then Bob spun his back wheel and it was John’s turn to follow. He turned his wrist, pushed in the clutch and his arms straightened out as the bike pulled beneath him straight into the cloud of yellow dust. His headlight beam shortened and then flicked out again as he came through the cloud. The little red lights ahead of him were the taillights of the Riders, and he had to go too fast to keep up with them, thinking: this is why they ride together, in the wash of all their explosions, and in formation. The whole world turned and faded in fragments. This was flight—not the slow motion of the airplane as it is insulated by distance from the ground and all obvious indications of speed, but close and in range of all the things that are hard and deadly. A mailbox, a patch of loose gravel, a barbed-wire fence, a fallen branch—ordinary things—all the ordinary things were remade by velocity into weapons directed against the Riders. At seventy-five miles an hour a corner turned the world into a hill. Leah traveled by, surely stunned and shaken by the sound of their passing.