Miss Julia Hits the Road (32 page)

After pulling carefully into a parking space, I rested my hands on the steering wheel and sat for a minute as the others piled out. I drew a quivering breath, then stepped out of the car, telling myself that by sundown it’d all be over. If I lasted that long.

I pulled my coat closer against the chill in the air, as a cloud covered the sun. Shivering, I looked around, hoping somebody would call off the whole endeavor.

Little Lloyd spotted Sam across the lot and started toward him. “Come on, Miss Julia, that’s our ride right over there.”

Hazel Marie took LuAnne’s arm and said, “Let’s go around to the front. J. D.’ll be pairing up riders and passengers and setting up leave times. Gosh, there’re so many here, we’ll have a dozen different groups, all leaving at different times. Can’t have us all on the highway in one big pack.”

I heard LuAnne say that she couldn’t wait to see who she’d be riding with, and Hazel Marie’s response that J. D. would be sure she had somebody good. As little confidence as I had in my own designated driver, I took comfort in the fact that Mr. Pickens had no say about where and with whom I would ride. He had an unusual sense of humor that I didn’t trust for a minute.

Left alone, I clasped my pocketbook close and hurried after Little Lloyd, taking my life in my hands as one motorcycle after another wove in and around the crowded lot. It was like a nest of hornets that’d been stirred with a stick. Noxious fumes from the growling machines nearly suffocated me, but I made an effort to maintain my composure as I walked across the lot amid the roar of dozens of unmuffled motors.

Sam, clad in his black, zippered leather outfit, looked up from his tinkering and smiled widely as we approached. “Hey, Little Lloyd. Glad to see my co-pilot’s here.” He looked over at me, still smiling, and said, “And here’s my navigator. Julia, you are a good sport, and I’m proud of you.”

“Hold your praise, Sam,” I said, sweeping my eyes over the huge machine with the bullet-like car on the side. “I’m not in the thing yet.”

“What can I do, Mr. Sam?” Little Lloyd asked. He was walking around the propped-up cycle, running his hand over the shining chrome and admiring the curved windshield and the dashboard, which had more gauges and switches and what-nots than my dearly bought foreign-made car, which itself had more than I had any use for.

“We’re all set, Little Lloyd,” Sam said. “Just waiting for time to get a map and draw our first card. Julia,” he went on, turning to me. “You want to try out the sidecar before we start?”

“I’m not in any hurry,” I said. “Little Lloyd, do you have to use the bathroom?”

“No’m,” he said, then changed his mind. “Yessum, I guess I better.” And he hurried off.

I turned to Sam. “Have you seen Emma Sue and Norma?” I asked, worried that they might’ve lost their nerve again.

Sam laughed. “They’re here, and J. D. has them inside, where he can keep an eye on them. He’s not going to let them sneak off. Besides, Emma Sue brought her Bible, and she’s cornered a couple of long-haired dudes who can’t get away from her. Helen Stroud’s here, too, and that young Baptist preacher’s wife. Several others, too.” He pulled a black bubble-looking thing from the sidecar and held it out to me. “Want to try on your helmet?”

“Not until I have to,” I said, drawing back.

“Well, look,” he said, turning the thing upside down. “See this? It’s your microphone. You’ll be able to talk to me while we’re riding, and you can hear me through these speakers, here.”

I couldn’t imagine having anything to say while enduring the next few hours other than “Look out,” “Slow down,” and “Let me off this thing!”

I nodded as he continued to point out the features of his Road King, showing me the gas tank, gears, brakes, accelerator and clutch—some on the handlebars, of all places—the purposes of the various gauges, the storage compartment, the passenger seat where Little Lloyd would ride, and I don’t know what all. None of which was of lasting interest to me.

I kept glancing around, fearful of seeing somebody who knew me. All I wanted to do was hide my face and get the whole thing over with. As far as the eye could see on the back lot, there were clumps of leather and denim-clad people standing around or sitting on motorcycles. It was a hairy bunch, too; I’d never in my life seen so many beards, goatees, mustaches, stubbled chins, ponytails, and pigtails.

This was not the sort of social activity I was accustomed to attending, as anybody who knew me could tell you. I felt ill-at-ease and overdressed, as if I’d misread an invitation. But because the event had been so thoroughly played up in the newspaper and on the Asheville television station, everybody in six counties was going to know I’d put in an appearance. I expected there’d be onlookers along our route and at every stop. So, as much as I dreaded putting on that helmet and looking like a space alien, I was thankful that the black visor would hide my face.

I was even more thankful for the helmet when I saw a television news van pull into the parking lot. A lot of yelling, catcalls, and the like greeted the cameraman and news-caster as they alighted from the van. Some people act like idiots at the sight of a television camera, thinking that a passing shot of themselves on the six o’clock news will turn them into celebrities.

Just as Sam finished his spiel about the wonders, plus options, of his machine, I happened to catch sight of an alarming figure walking somewhat stiffly around the side of the restaurant, threading his way around and through clots of cigarette-smoking and beer-sipping riders and spectators.

“Lord, Sam,” I said, reaching for the helmet. “Put that thing on me, quick.”

“Well, sure, Julia,” he said, pleased that I was showing some interest. I grabbed the helmet and smashed it down on my head. “Careful, now. Here, let’s pull up the visor.”

“No,” I said, putting up my hand to keep it closed. “I don’t want anybody to see me.”

He looked at me quizzically, probably wondering how I thought a helmet would fool anybody. And I wondered, too, for the visor did no more to limit visibility than a pair of sunglasses. But I’d not recognized Sam in the same get-up when he first rode into my yard; so, the thing blocked the lookee from the looker. Still, I moved to the other side of Sam, just in case, hoping his bulk would keep me hidden.

Peeking over Sam’s shoulder as he continued his monologue on the virtues of open-road riding, I was dismayed to see the bandy-legged figure making a beeline for us. It seemed that Thurlow Jones had recovered from his crippling malady, but I preferred to keep my distance. For all I knew, it could strike again at any time.

“Sam,” I said, clutching his leather-clad arm. “I’ve heard enough. Let’s ride.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. He’d thought he’d have to coax, beguile, and shoehorn me into the thing, and here I was, ready to jump in and hit the road. “It’s not time to go yet, Julia. We won’t be leaving until Pickens is ready, and that’ll be with the last wave.”

“I don’t care. I need some practice time.”

He grinned at my enthusiasm, delighted to show me the thrills of riding a Harley. He took my arm, pointed at a foot-rest, and said, “Put your right foot there, Julia, and swing on in. It’s just like mounting a horse, only in reverse.” Which didn’t clarify a thing.

“Hurry, Sam,” I said, holding on to his shoulder as I crawled gingerly onto the sidecar, then slid into the seat. It was lower to the ground than I’d expected. I scrunched down in it as far as I could, so that only the top of my bubble-encased head emerged from the top of the sidecar. I felt like Kilroy. “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

“Okay,” Sam said, still bemused at my sudden eagerness to experience the freedom of the road. “Buckle up, and fasten your helmet. Little Lloyd’ll find us when we get to the front.”

Sam pulled on his helmet, walked to the other side of the motorcycle, and swung his leg over the seat. As he prepared to ignite the thing, Thurlow Jones presented himself alongside the sidecar.

“I be dog,” he said, putting a hand on the sidecar by my shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d do it.”

I looked straight ahead, dismayed that he had so easily recognized me, but determined to ignore him. Which wasn’t hard to do because Sam hit the ignition and a mighty roar filled the air. Thurlow didn’t seem affected by the noise. He leaned down so that his face was right in front of my black visor.

“Knock, knock,” he said, grinning like the fool he was. “Anybody home? Just want to thank you for the plant garden and the note.”

I gripped the pocketbook in my lap and looked straight ahead.

“Hey, Sam,” Thurlow yelled, his voice piercing the noise of the motor. Sam turned, saw him for the first time, and glanced down at me. He did something to the controls and quieted the motor to a throbbing rumble.

I heard Sam say, “What do you want, Thurlow?” It was hardly courteous, but Sam seemed to have something against him. I pretended not to notice a thing.

Thurlow yelled out, “Just came down to check on my investment, but I can’t get her to talk to me. What’s wrong with her?”

Looking neither to the one nor the other, I managed to see that Sam was sizing up the situation. “Maybe she can’t hear you,” Sam called.

“Well, hell, man,” Thurlow yelled, bringing his face down to stare at me through the visor. “She can
see,
can’t she?”

“We have to get with our group, Thurlow,” Sam said, revving up the motor. “Glad to see you up and around again, but we have to go.”

Thurlow Jones cackled and patted the top of my helmet. I ground my teeth and kept my eyes to the front.

“You better take care of this woman, Murdoch,” the yellow-toothed wonder bellowed. “I got dibs on her.”

To my relief, he began to turn away, thought better of it, and came back to lean across the sidecar. “I ain’t sayin’ you got to worry about this,” he yelled at Sam. “But I seen Clarence Gibbs down the road a piece, hangin’ around with a coupla Harley Fat Boys. They’ll outrun this fancy thing any day of the week.

“An’ another thing,” he yelled, almost draping himself across the sidecar to make sure Sam heard him. As Sam revved the motor again to indicate his impatience, Thurlow jabbed his cocked thumb right in my helmeted face. “You tell her she’s not seein’ a penny more from me ’less she’s back here by five o’clock. I already talked to Pickens and he told me that’s the deadline, so all bets’re off a minute after five.” He stepped back, then thought of something else. “An’ another thing,” he bellowed, “she better make ever’ stop and go the whole entire way. It don’t count if she just goes a few miles an’ comes back in.” Then he leaned over, put his face right against my visor, and, grinning like an ape, yelled, “The whole way, woman! You hear me?”

Giving no sign that I had, I reached up, tapped Sam on the shoulder and pointed a stiff finger straight ahead. “Go,” I said, although he couldn’t hear me because my communications system wasn’t hooked up.

But he got the message, twisting the handlebar controls so that the motor roared and the whole machine rocked on its wheels.

Thurlow Jones stepped back and bowed low, although some discomfort seemed to accompany the effort. But he grinned manfully and swept his hand in a broad gesture to wave us on. As Sam eased off the brakes, I felt a jerk in the mechanism, then it smoothed out and we were moving. I forgot about my pocketbook and clung to the sides of the sidecar with both hands, holding on for all I was worth.

When I dared open my eyes, I could see that Sam was maneuvering slowly through the clumps of people and cycles, puttering around the building until we reached the far side at the front of the lot. He pulled up along the edge under a straggly tree that looked as if it had been stunted by years of engine exhaust.

Sam knocked on my helmet and motioned for me to elevate my visor. “If you’re going to hibernate in there, let me hook up your microphone.” He did, and the next thing I knew his voice seemed to come out of my own head. “We better go find Little Lloyd,” he said. “He won’t know where we are. And you need to play a hand, too, so you’ll have evidence to show Thurlow.”

I cocked my head close to the microphone and lifted my voice so he could hear me clearly. “I don’t think I can get out,” I said, and Sam almost levitated off his seat. I made an effort to modulate my delivery. “And you know I’m not a card-playing woman, Sam, so draw one for me.”

“Okay,” he said, looking as if he was having trouble keeping a straight face. Riding a motorcycle certainly put him in good humor. “You be all right by yourself for a minute?”

“Just don’t be too long. And keep Thurlow Jones away from me.”

“I’ll try,” he said grimly. “I don’t know why he keeps hanging around you. What was he going on about, anyway?”

“Oh, Sam, the man’s been sick, and he wasn’t all that responsible before being struck down. Don’t pay any attention to him.”