The Motorcycle

The motorcycle was a classic: unique and sleek. She had fallen for Drew at the same time he had acquired it and it became a physical manifestation of their love. Their courtship had involved ambling rides through the countryside. The bike had participated in their honeymoon, towing camping gear in the cargo sidecar. And most weekends of their marriage had included a leisurely ride. When they stopped at the dens of serious riders, they were not rebuffed. She loved when the hulking, hairy men called the bike “cute” and patted it as if stroking a kitten on its proffered furry cheek.

The motorcycle provided relief from a steamy day. It provided freedom. She was accustomed to sitting behind him, to wrapping her thighs around his hips and leaning into him as they wound their way through villages and farmlands. She had been a remora, covering his back and his need for company, while he led the campaign. They had seen places that they convinced themselves went completely ignored by the strait-laced in their coffin-like cars.

Then a coffin became something in their lives.

When Drew’s diagnosis became unavoidable, she had asked him what she should do with the motorcycle after… . There were no words for after after. She was convinced she would have no life after after.

Drew had requested that she keep it. He seemed convinced that she would be able to handle it, handle all of it—the motorcycle, his death, her loss—on her own.

After Drew passed, she could barely bring herself to enter the garage. So much of it was him. The tools, the exercise equipment, the motorcycle. She eventually was able to enter so that she could bestow some of his possessions on his friends. Then, she truly resided in the after. He was gone, most of his things were gone, and she was alone.

On a day that was too gorgeous to ignore, she decided to ride the bike. Drew had convinced her years ago to get her license, but she had rarely been in control of the vehicle. She wanted to feel that freedom again, she wanted to stop living with death and feel alive again.

She circled the motorcycle, noticing that at times her shadow split into two. And at those times, it looked like Drew’s shadow had joined her own, but that was just her mind playing tricks on her.

She put on her helmet and straddled the bike. She felt only the humming seat between her legs. This was so different from when his body used to be in front of her, acting as a shield, acting as a comfort.

She decided she deserved a ride into the mountains. She hadn’t been since prior to his diagnosis and the leaves were at their most colorful point. At times, and at turns, she swore she could still feel Drew, his solid hips, his long back, his ribs swimming in and out with his measured breath. It had been so long since she had felt him physically that this phantom sense made her ache.

She swore she could smell Drew and wondered if he had ever worn her helmet by accident. The smell increased the aching which had developed into a throbbing sensation. The warm, leather seat reminded her of his large hands and she sped up the bike with a sense of urgency that was all in her mind.

She saw lights flashing in the mirror on her handlebar and a quick “blip” from a siren behind her told her she had to pull over.

She slowed the bike onto a shoulder of empty road that was shrouded by trees. As the wind blew through the foliage around her, her shadow shifted and broke, splitting into two again.

She removed her helmet so that the police officer could see her face and she stepped off the bike.

She watched him approach and noticed that he looked up and down the road as he got closer. His eyes were covered with reflective sunglasses and he had a neck gaiter pulled up over his nose and mouth.

“Beautiful day,” he said through the gaiter. He was wearing leather gloves and a knitted skull cap pulled over his hair. She found the cap and gaiter odd and hoped he would give her a ticket and quickly leave.

He stood and looked at her without speaking, which, again, she found odd.

“Why was I pulled over, officer?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head slowly and made a “tssk” sound. “That’s kind of rude, isn’t it? I asked you if you thought it was a beautiful day and you completely ignored me. Only interested in getting down to business, aren’t you? Completely rude.”

Her stomach dropped, registering how alone they were. No one had seen them pull over; no one would hear her call out on this deserted road.

He reached in his pocket and as her eyes followed his hand, she realized his pants were swollen at the crotch.

She remembered a report on the news about a rapist impersonating a cop.

Before her mind could process these thoughts, his arm was around her neck and he dragged her away from the bike. His free hand held a knife which he pressed into her side.

“You are going to step back into the woods with me,” he instructed, “and you are going to keep quiet, or else this knife will find its way across your throat.”

She struggled against him, but his hold was tight.

Through tears, she watched her shadow as he dragged her. She had not one shadow, but two. The smell of Drew was stronger than ever.

The fake police officer shoved her to the ground, the knife sharp against her throat.

“Please,” she begged, “I haven’t seen your face, you could let me go.”

He laughed. “And why would I do that?”

She saw the motorcycle lights come on over his shoulder and heard the hum of its motor. “Because…we are not alone…”

∼ Elaine Pascale

© Copyright Elaine Pascale. All Rights Reserved.