Bike Week Blues (4 page)

“Sandra said you stopped by the Harley shop
on your way to work. Did you spring for a Harley Sportster?”

“No, your old Seal buddy, Saul’s mopeds are
more my speed. But, Penny Sue bought a Fat Boy.”

Bobby let out a low whistle. “Not bad. Good
for Penny Sue. Are you and your friends going to hit the biker hot
spots this weekend?”

“Penny Sue definitely is. She has her eye on
a biker for husband number four. I don’t know if Ruthie and I will
go. I’m not sure we’d fit in.”

Bobby sat on the edge of the desk. “At
least, you have to go to the Pub. Half the people there aren’t real
bikers. They drive their cars and park across the street at the
shopping center. It’s fun, a big party. There are bands, lots of
food, and a hoard of geezers like us pretending they’re young. It’s
an experience—something you’ll talk about for years. You shouldn’t
miss it.”

I’d had that thought. Next to stock car
racing, Bike Week was the area’s main claim to fame. A Daytona
Beach tradition dating back to 1937, it started small with a
handful of bikers racing a three-mile route, half of which was on
the beach. Since then, Bike Week festivities had spread out to the
adjacent communities like New Smyrna Beach and evolved into a
ten-day festival of bikes, beer, and scantily clad babes. People
attended from all over the world, so shouldn’t I at least sample
the experience since it was right in my backyard?

An image of Penny Sue and her white leather
getup popped into my mind. “What do people wear?”

Bobby frowned at my beige capri set. “Jeans
and a tee shirt, preferably one with Harley-Davidson on it. You
could have picked one up at the dealership or the Pub next
door.”

Easy enough. Maybe Ruthie and I should go
after all. I’d run it by her at dinner.

Bobby chatted for a few more minutes, then
left for lunch. I buried my nose in the books, determined to finish
early so I could do my shopping before Ruthie got home at three.
I’d entered the last number into the computer when Frannie May
arrived. “Go,” she insisted. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

She didn’t have to offer twice. First, I
went to the Pub and picked up two black tee shirts for Ruthie and
me. Tight fitting, sexy jobs with a zipper down the front, I
chuckled at Ruthie’s anticipated reaction. She was a conservative
dresser, to say the least, and the shirt had to be a first for her.
Actually, it was a first for me, since I usually bought my clothes
from beach boutiques or Dillard’s Better Sportswear department.

Shirts in hand, I drove back across the
North Causeway drawbridge to Flagler Avenue, the beachside
commercial district. Luckily, tourists were still on the beach or
taking a siesta, so I didn’t have to fight a crowd at The Wicker
Basket. With the proprietor’s help, I’d tried on four swimsuits,
made my decision, and was headed back to the condo by 2:50 p.m. Not
bad, even for a person who hated shopping, having acquired a bad
attitude about retailing from selling children’s shoes during
college.

I took a left onto the unpaved, sand
driveway for Sea Dunes and rounded the corner to our oceanfront
unit. I expected to see Penny Sue’s yellow Mercedes. Instead, I
found the new, white Harley with her expensive leather jacket
hanging from the handlebar. I pulled into a space on the far side
of the bike and quickly gathered my packages. Something was wrong,
very wrong.

* * *

The one and
only time I could remember
seeing Penny Sue cry was when her mother passed away—that is, until
now. She sat on the loveseat in the living room, dressed in her
kimono, swigging wine. Her eyes were red and puffy with mascara
streaked down her cheeks. Half-hearted attempts to brush away the
tears had only succeeded in smearing her makeup. I dropped my
purse, package, and her jacket on a stool at the kitchen counter
and rushed to her side.

“Are you all right, honey?” I asked, wedging
beside her on the loveseat and putting my arm around her shoulder.
“You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?” I held her at arm’s length to
check for blood and bruises.

“No, no,” she said, sniffling. “Rich dumped
me.” She stared into the wineglass.

“Dumped you?” I repeated stupidly, as if she
needed a reminder.

Tears sprouted like a sprinkler system. “He
said things were going too fast, and we shouldn’t see each other
for a while.”

He must have recognized the white leather
wedding ensemble! I’d worried about that, but Penny Sue was an all
or nothing type of person. She wouldn’t have listened if I’d voiced
my concern.

“Hi, y’all. What a beautiful bike!” Ruthie
called as she emerged from the hall into the open expanse of the
living, dining, and kitchen area. “Are you going to take us for a—”
One look at Penny Sue, and Ruthie clamped her mouth shut.

Penny Sue’s bottom lip quivered, and she
took a drink to cover it.

Ruthie shoved her books onto the kitchen
counter. “What’s wrong?” She sank into the sofa beside the
loveseat.

Penny Sue’s eyes brimmed. “Rich dumped me.
He doesn’t want to see me anymore.” She waved her empty glass and
headed for the refrigerator.

Ruthie glanced my way, eyes pleading for an
answer. I shrugged.

Penny Sue turned to face us, holding her
glass in one hand and a bottle of Chardonnay in the other. “Come
on, girls, I’ve got a bad case of the blues. Don’t make me drink
alone.” She poured some wine and raised the glass to her lips.

“Wait,” Ruthie shouted. She dashed to the
counter, pulled a small vial from her purse and squirted several
drops into Penny Sue’s wine. “Rescue Remedy,” Ruthie explained,
taking the wine bottle from Penny Sue and pouring short glasses for
each of us.

Penny Sue toasted the air. “To Rich. It was
great while it lasted.”

“Start at the beginning. What, exactly,
happened? You went to the Riverview to show Rich your bike, and he
just piped up with ‘See you around?’”

“Close. I called his room from the house
phone. Instead of inviting me up, Rich said he’d meet me on the
front porch.

“I showed him the bike, and he made over it
a little. That’s when I noticed that two guys had come out of his
room and were watching from the balcony. I called ‘Hi’ to them and
asked Rich to introduce me to his friends. He pulled me around the
side of the building like he was embarrassed to be seen with me.”
Penny Sue took a big swallow of vino. “Rich said the guys were old
friends, and he’d been doing some thinking. He wasn’t ready for a
relationship and needed space. He thought we shouldn’t see each
other for a while.”

She slumped onto a stool at the end of the
counter and rested her forehead on her folded arms. “I should never
have worn that outfit,” she said mournfully.

“Yeah, he must have recognized it,” I
said.

She looked sidelong. “Recognized? What are
you talking about?”

I sure didn’t want to broach the subject of
the wedding ensemble if she hadn’t already considered it. “What are
you talking about?”

“White before Memorial Day is bad
taste—before Easter it’s downright bad luck.”

Ruthie leaned across the counter and stroked
Penny Sue’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself. If those were old
friends, Rich had probably been talking about old times, which
brought up memories of his wife.”

Penny Sue sighed heavily and raised up to
her elbows. “You’re right, of course.” She smiled weakly and took
another sip of her drink. “My wise, spiritual friend. A kick in the
butt is what I need.”

“Try this.” Ruthie balled her right hand
into a fist and started beating her breastbone, at the point above
her breasts. With each blow she emitted a breathy HA. HA, HA, HA.
She did it three times, then dissolved in a wave of giggles.

Penny Sue curled her lip at the maneuver.
“That’s an interesting chant. What happened to OM-M?”

“It’s not a chant; it’s the thymus thump. I
learned this at the seminar. Whenever you’re out of sorts, this
will realign you energy centers.”

“You expect me to beat myself up and laugh
about it? What kind of masochistic philosophy is that?”

“At least say HA, HA, HA.”

Penny Sue rolled her eyes. “Ruthie, you’re
really getting weird.”

“Come on, do the HA, HA part. I’ll bet you
can’t do it without laughing. You’ll try it, won’t you, Leigh?”

Why not? As long as I didn’t have to pound
my chest like a Neanderthal, I’d give it a whirl. I sat up straight
and started in, “HA, HA ...” After about the fifth repetition, I
started to laugh. Damn, it worked! Whether the giggles came from
the HA’s or simply because I felt like a fool, I can’t say. Of
course, it didn’t matter, laughter was laughter.

“See?” Ruthie said to Penny Sue. “Try it
once—that’s all. One time.”

Penny Sue let out a half-hearted HA, HA.

Ruthie snapped her fingers. “Pick up the
pace.”

“HA, HA, HA, HA ...” It took six or seven
throaty attempts, but Penny Sue finally started laughing. The mood
was contagious. We all joined in, giggling like ninnies until tears
streamed down our cheeks. Penny Sue wiped her eyes as she reached
for her glass.

I nodded at the wine. “Alcohol is a
depressant, Penny Sue. You probably shouldn’t drink, it will make
you feel worse.”

She cut me an
I know that
look. The
sass was back—a positive sign.

“That’s why I hit the wine in the first
place. I wanted my body to feel as bad as my heart. At the very
least, I hoped it would put me to sleep. Better still, a massive
headache that I could blame on Rich.”

“I see your point,” I said, reaching for the
bottle. “Want some more?”

Penny Sue put the glass down. “No, I’m over
it.”

Good, she was back to her spunky self.
Crying in her beer was not Penny Sue’s style. In the old days,
she’d have walked away from Rich and never given him a second
thought. A new soul mate would have manifested within hours. It was
uncanny how she drew men, absolutely like ants to honey. Yet, her
crying jag told me that, either Rich was indeed special or Penny
Sue’s hormones were seriously out of kilter.

The H word was something I tried to ignore
since, at forty-seven, I’d reached the age where the old juices
started a downhill slide. I’d never given the issue a thought until
our last trip. Penny Sue had harped on it continuously, warning
Ruthie—who absolutely could not pass a bathroom without going
in—that peeing all the time was not normal and one of the first
signs of plummeting estrogen. Foggy-brained, weight gain, unstable
emotions—Penny Sue’s warnings went on and on. I’d have dismissed it
all as her normal chatter had it not been for the fact that she
started waving a gun around.

In the months since then I’d noticed one or
two of the symptoms in myself. With time on my hands, I decided to
do some research. I wish I hadn’t, the darn books read like horror
novels. First, there was perimenopause, the stage where the
hormones became unstable. Up and down, up and down, a roller
coaster that somehow involved the pituitary gland. The bottom line
of all of this being that many women experienced depression and
wild mood swings—PMS run wild that could last as long as ten
years!

There was the story of a lady who walked
down the aisle of the supermarket, looked at the corn flakes, and
burst into tears. Two minutes later, a clerk gave her a sidelong
glance and the woman took the poor girl’s head off (figuratively, I
assume, unless she packed a weapon like Penny Sue.) There were
other terrifying tales about memory loss. Misplacing the car keys
was nothing, many women suddenly forgot their names and addresses.
As if that weren’t enough, the anecdotes ran on to encompass
wrinkles and osteoporosis and sagging breasts and fat stomachs.
Horrible, truly horrible, especially the stuff about memory loss,
because I’d experienced some of that myself.

I tried to write it off as being
preoccupied, which was part of the problem, but I’d had trouble
remembering my name and address on more than one occasion. I didn’t
think there was a family history of Alzheimer’s; still, the
episodes were so unnerving, I’d called Ruthie for advice.

“That’s great,” she’d said.

Great?
Did she hear me right?
“Ruthie, I said I’m losing my memory. I can hardly recall what I
did this morning and I’ve actually forgotten my address and phone
number a couple of times. It’s like a brain cramp.”

“
The past is gone, it can touch me
not
.”

“What?”

Ruthie had slid right through hormones and
health into spirituality. “Come on, Ruthie, I’m serious. Do you
think I could be getting Alzheimer’s?”

“No, of course not.”

“Do you think I should look into hormone
replacement therapy?”

“Couldn’t hurt, if it’s bothering you.”

Well, I didn’t check into it, because all
the latest studies came to wildly conflicting conclusions that
confused me more. So, I decided to muddle through until my symptoms
got worse. If push came to shove, I could have my clothes
monogrammed to jog my memory or start wearing my driver’s license
hanging from my neck like people did in airports nowadays.

But, Penny Sue was another matter. She was
on HRT, she’d mentioned having a hot flash that morning, and now
the depression and crying episode which were totally out of
character. Perhaps her prescription needed to be adjusted. Then, I
wondered if she still carried a .38 in her pocketbook. I wasn’t
sure I could take another vacation with a flighty Penny Sue
wielding a revolver.

“By the way,” I said as casually as I could,
“I ran into Woody the other day. Did you ever get your gun
back?”

“Heck no, I had to buy another one,” she
said, eyeing me suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondered.” I took a good slug of my
own Chardonnay.