A Death On The Wolf (12 page)

“
Did he have a flat?” I asked.

“
Almost,” Dick said. “He came in here about an hour ago to get gas and I noticed his front tire was low on air. He asked me to look at it. He’d picked up a thumbtack. He was lucky.”

“
Did you get it fixed?”

“
I patched it. You know we don’t have any motorcycle tubes. I’m gonna tell him he needs to get that tube replaced. A patch on a bicycle tube is okay, but I wouldn’t trust one on a motorcycle.”

“
Where is he?” I asked and looked around.

“
How the hell do I know? He wandered off. Maybe he went down to the diner for some coffee. He’s a strange one.”

“
I’ve seen him riding down around our house a few times,” I said. “He passed me this morning when I was riding down by the river. I was doing nearly eighty and he went by me like I was standing still.”

Dick looked at me. “What in the hell are you doin’ goin’ eighty miles per hour on that bike of yours? Your daddy know you ride that thing like that?”

“
It’s the only time I’ve ever gone that fast and it scared the crap out of me. I won’t ever do it again. And Daddy would kill me if he knew.”

“
You damn right he would. You ain’t got no business ridin’ like that. You’ll wind up gettin’ yourself killed.”

I knew for all his bluster, Dick wouldn’t tell my father, so I changed the subject. I pointed to the Vincent and said, “Daddy figures this guy is a pilot from down at Keesler.”

Dick started reattaching the front brake connections. “The guy that rides this thing ain’t no pilot from Keesler.”

“
How do you know?” I asked.

“
Look at that,” Dick said, and pointed to the front brake drums. “It’s got two front brakes.” He finished attaching the brake and speedometer cables, then stood up and tested the brakes. “I reckon that’s good enough,” he mumbled. “Pull those boards out when I lift up on the front end.” Dick leaned down and grabbed the front forks and grunted as he lifted the Vincent about an inch off the two-by-fours. I slid them out and held onto the handlebars as Dick let the bike down and I kept it balanced on the center stand. Dick used his foot to push the cinder block from under the bike.

I noticed a black leather duffle bag sitting on the bench over in the corner along with a black denim jacket and helmet. “Is that his stuff over there?” I asked.

“
Yeah,” Dick said.

“
So how do you know he’s not a pilot?”

Dick headed over to the tool box to replace his wrenches in the drawer. “Wait till you see him. He talks like a Limey and he’s got a ponytail down to his ass. He ain’t no pilot, he’s one of them hippies you see down on the beach at Gulfport.”

“
What’s a hippie doing in Bells Ferry?” I said.

“
Beats the hell outta me,” Dick said. “They’re everywhere nowadays. Between the hippies, the fags, and the niggers, the whole goddamn country’s goin’ to hell.”

I could count on one hand the number of times I’d heard Daddy use swear words over the last month, but I ran out of fingers and toes the first hour I worked for Dick Tillman. From him I got a full dose of profanity every time I came to work, and it was fun sometimes to prod him into getting wound up just to see what he’d come out with. He was always careful not to curse in front of customers, though. I, of course, had a small repertoire of vulgarities that I would use around my friends, especially Frankie, but they remained under lock and key when I was around adults, even Dick. This particular bit of cultural wisdom Dick had just offered up gave me pause. Normally, I would have shrugged it off as being just another “Dickism” to be ignored, but the reference to “fags” in the same sentence deriding niggers and hippies now had me thinking about Frankie. For the first time I began to contemplate just how bad things could get for him around here if people knew he was queer—or a fag, as Dick had put it. This was southern Mississippi, not California or New York or any of the other places where we assumed “alternative lifestyles” were tolerated or even openly accepted. The extent to which homosexuality was even acknowledged among my peers was to use the terms and behaviors associated with it as degrading predicatives while hurling what we perceived to be humorous insults at each other. Branding a friend “fag” or “queer” or “cock sucker” or inviting him to suck your dick was much more effective at putting him in his place than merely calling him an idiot or telling him to kiss your ass.

The bell announcing a car at the pumps dinged twice and my attention was forced back to my job. I went out and started filling Mr. Sonny Tanner’s new Ford pickup with gas. Just as I was finishing up, I saw the rider of the Vincent walking down the sidewalk from up town. I could see what Dick meant. No pilot in the U. S. Air Force I’d ever seen looked like this guy. He was clad entirely in black from head to toe. His black jeans had silver studs down the outside stitching of the legs. He was tall, maybe even as tall as my father, and his black tee shirt fit him snugly, revealing every ripple of his musculature. He had on black riding boots and a wide black leather belt with a big Bowie knife stuck in a sheath hanging from it. From a head-on view, his hair looked short, but when he turned to look at my Honda, which was parked off to the side of the station, I saw the ponytail. Dick hadn’t exaggerated; the guy’s dark brown hair was nearly down to his waist. Hippies were supposed to be all about peace and love, and if that were true, I was certain this man was no hippie.

As Mr. Sonny paid me for the gas, I watched the man in black enter the bay where his bike was parked. Dick started talking to him. The man asked him something, but I couldn’t hear what was being said. Then Dick pointed to me, and the stranger turned to look at me. He had a cold stare that unnerved me.

“
You gonna get my change?” Mr. Sonny said.

I looked down at the five dollar bill in my hand. “Yes, sir. I’ll be right back.” I glanced at the pump to see the amount and then sprinted into the office to ring up the purchase and get Mr. Sonny his 80¢ in change. He never gave me a tip when he stopped by for gas. I ran back out to the pumps and gave him the three quarters and a nickel. When I turned around, the man in black was standing there not six feet from me. I was startled and jumped back a bit and hit my elbow on the Hi-Test pump. This close, I could see he was not as tall as he had appeared at a distance. He had an olive complexion and there was an Oriental look to his dark brown eyes. Staring at me, he fished a cigarette out of the pack that was in his shirt pocket. It was a brown cigarette. I’d never seen a brown cigarette. He stuck it between his lips. When he pulled the lighter out of his left front jeans pocket, I said, “Can’t smoke out here at the pumps.” He ignored me, flicked open the lighter, and lit the cigarette. He clicked the lighter closed and stuck it back in his pocket. He took a long draw on the brown cigarette, then removed it from his lips and blew the smoke in my direction. The whole time his eyes never left me, and he never blinked. He was almost leering at me and it gave me the creeps. Finally, he spoke. “Is that your Scrambler over there, mate?” He did have an English sounding accent.

“
Yes,” I said.

The stranger put the brown cigarette back to his lips and took another draw. He blew out the smoke and said, “Was that you riding this morning outside of town with that pretty little Sheila on the back?”

“
Her name’s not Sheila,” I said defensively, and there was an angry edge to my voice. The guy was pissing me off now that he’d mentioned Mary Alice.

He smiled and blinked for the first time. He put the cigarette back in his mouth and stuck his hand out to me. “Name’s Bong,” he said, “Peter Bong.”

I reached out and shook the man’s hand. “Nelson Gody,” I said. “You’re from England?”

He laughed and said, “Not a pom, mate. I’m from Australia.” I guess he saw me eyeing that brown cigarette because he took the pack out of his pocket and held it over to me. “Want one?” he said. His voice was totally pleasant, and didn’t seem to fit the way he looked.

“
No,” I said. “I don’t smoke.” The one and only time Frankie and I had tried a cigarette was back when we were fourteen. It made us both sick and I decided then smoking wasn’t for me.

Peter Bong replaced the pack in his pocket. “You gave me a pretty good run this morning. You know what that is I’m riding?”

“
It’s a Vincent,” I said.

“
Not just a Vincent, mate. That’s the Black Shadow. You yanks have never made a bike that can run with the Black Shadow, and the Japs never will.”

“
How fast were you going when you passed me?” I asked.

“
About a hundred.”

“
How fast will it go?”

“
I’ve had it to one-twenty and she still had some go in her.”

“
My dad said Rollie Free went a hundred and fifty on a Vincent at Bonneville.”

I could see the surprise in the man’s eyes. “Your old man knows his bikes. Free was riding a Black Lightning, a racing version of the Shadow. It was faster.”

I could see Dick standing by the office door looking at me. “I gotta get back to work,” I said to the stranger.

The man dropped the brown cigarette and crushed it with his boot. He walked back over to the office with me. “Does your dad ride, too?” he asked.

“
Yeah, the Honda is really his bike. I just ride it all the time.”

“
Well, if you’re serious about riding, mate, you should get you a crash hat.”

“
A what?”

“
A helmet,” he said and pointed to his head. He looked at Dick. “How much do I owe you?”

“
Three dollars will cover it,” Dick said.

The man pulled a black leather wallet, which was chained to his belt, from his back pocket. He opened it and took out three one dollar bills and handed them to Dick.

“
Like I told you,” Dick said, “I only patched that tube. You should go to a motorcycle shop down in Biloxi or Gulfport and get a new tube as soon as you can.”

“
Will do, mate,” the man said. He looked at me. “Nice meeting you, Nelson.”

I smiled and nodded. Dick and I watched Peter Bong bungee his leather bag to the back of the bike’s seat. Then he put his jacket and helmet on and kick started the Black Shadow. It fired right off and had the same loping idle that a Harley does, but the sound of the Vincent’s exhaust note had a harder edge to it. He rocked the bike off the center stand, put it in gear, and roared off.

“
Hippie,” Dick said in disgust.

“
I don’t think so. He’s just different.”

“
Yeah, he’s different all right. He said his name’s Bong. What the hell kinda name is that?”

“
I don’t know,” I said. “He said he’s from Australia.”

“
Hippie,” Dick said again and headed into the office.

Chapter 9

Sea of Tranquility

“
Do you miss Uncle Jack?” I asked my aunt. I was sitting at the bar in her kitchen. It was Sunday morning, a little after ten, and I was dressed and ready for church. I even put on a tie since this would be my first time escorting Mary Alice to worship with me. She was in her room getting ready. Daddy and Sachet had already left since Daddy had to be there early to teach Sunday School, which Aunt Charity and I decided to forego since this was Mary Alice’s first Sunday.

“
I miss him every day,” Aunt Charity said. “What in the world prompted that question?”

“
I don’t know,” I said gloomily. But I did know. For the first time in my life I was grappling with the concept of a committed relationship and the dynamics of how two people in love managed their time when apart. The two adults that meant the most to me had both lost their life partners far too early, and yet they seemed to be getting along just fine. I, on the other hand, was reduced to near paralyzing melancholia at the mere thought of being away from Mary Alice.

Aunt Charity opened the oven and slid in the pot roast we would be eating later. She had decided to have us all over to her house for dinner today, especially since she knew we’d be over here anyway to watch the moon landing this afternoon on her color TV. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked. “Your chin’s been on the floor all morning.”

I sighed and said, “I’m going to miss Mary Alice when she has to go back to Poplarville.” I had not intended to admit that, but I’d let my guard down and the truth just spilled out of me.

Aunt Charity came over and sat on the barstool beside me. She smiled, and like before, I caught a glimpse of my mother in her face. “Why are you worrying about that now? She doesn’t have to go back until next month.”

“
I wish you’d never brought her here,” I said. There was movement behind me and to my left. I rotated around on the bar stool to see Mary Alice standing there. A quick look at Aunt Charity confirmed what I feared: Mary Alice had heard me.

The hurt in Mary Alice’s face paralyzed me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I watched her turn and walk slowly over to the door. She disappeared down the hallway and then I heard her bedroom door close. I turned to look at Aunt Charity. She just frowned and shook her head the way I’d seen her do a thousand times when she was displeased with something I or my sister had said or done.