Losing Julia (36 page)

“Maybe my brother could give you a ride,” he said.

“No, I’m not that crazy,” I said, waving good-bye as I headed out the door.

ON THURSDAY
morning I rode the bus into town and walked five blocks to Ray’s Motorcycles. The glass door chimed as I opened it and a young man in jeans and a black T-shirt emerged from a back room. I nodded at him and walked over to the motorcycles lined against the wall, their front ends all pivoted to the left in perfect formation.

“Can I help you?” he asked, looking distracted. Did he think I had meant to enter the pharmacy across the street? Maybe I should act like I think this is a pharmacy and see what he’s got for piles. Or perhaps I should just slam my wallet down and ask for the biggest, fastest damn hog he’s got. With chaps.

“Oh, just thinking about buying a bike for my grandson. Thought I’d take a look,” I said. I noticed a bikini-clad blonde staring down from a calendar tacked up behind the cash register. She was Miss June, which, given that it was August, suggested that she was better looking than July or August. I wanted to ask to see August, just to compare, but decided against it. Do pretty women really sell motorcycles? (“Yes, I’ll have whatever she’s sitting on. Same color, same style, everything.”)

“How old is he?” asked the salesman.

“Ah, about twenty-five.”

“An experienced rider?”

“No, not really.”

“Is the bike for commuting or just recreation?”

“Mostly recreation.”

“On or off road?”

“On road.”

“A lot of highway riding or just local stuff?”

“Local stuff mainly.”

“How much you looking to spend?”

“Couple thousand, I guess. Haven’t really made up my mind yet.”

“Well, they go from real light to real heavy,” he said, motioning toward the bikes.

“What’s a good light one?” I asked. “Just for short trips. Kind of a knock-around bike.”

“A knock-around bike? Try this one here.” He slapped the black leather seat of a bright red Kawasaki.

I put a hand on one handlebar and turned the front wheel. “May I sit on it?” I asked.

He studied me briefly, then pushed the bike forward and into the center of the room. He held on to one side as I worked my right leg over the back and then sat on the seat, which was firmer than I had imagined. Then I grabbed both handlebars and swung them left then right. He stepped back and smiled. “You look all right, man,” he said, nodding his head up and down. I tilted the bike a few inches to the left, then a few inches to the right, getting a feel for the weight. Balanced properly, the machine was almost weightless. I imagined igniting the throaty rumble between my legs. Then, as I leaned the bike to the left again, it went a few inches too far, and suddenly its weight surged against my left arm and leg. As I pulled the handle with my left hand the front wheel swiveled left and I felt myself and the bike falling when the salesman lunged forward and caught me.

“Careful there! You all right?’

“Yeah. It’s heavier than I thought.”

“You ought to try some of those monsters,” he said, pointing to the much larger motorcycles at the other end of the row. “If they fall over, it takes two men to pick them up.”

“And four of me,” I said. “Thanks for your help. I’d like to think about it.” My left wrist was beginning to throb.

“No problem, we’re open Sundays too.”

The door chimed again as I opened it and in the reflection of the glass I caught just a glimpse of Miss June before heading across the street to the pharmacy.

THE FOLLOWING
Saturday I took the bus back to town and paid twenty-one dollars to a man who rented me a little red moped for three hours on the assurance that I would not go too far too fast. I mounted it gingerly and then sat there in front of the shop, trying to look preoccupied with my watch and my pockets as I waited for the owner to go back inside before I attempted to ride. But he had no intention of missing my departure so he preoccupied himself by sweeping the sidewalk over and over again. After examining the controls and testing the weight and the brakes, I finally gave it a little gas and raised my feet, uncertain if I could maintain my balance. Once on the street I made a wide turn and then, after some searching, my feet found the foot rests. More gas. I was flying.

I crossed Fourth Street and headed west out of town, then followed a series of rural roads that looped back around behind Great Oaks, where I made a full-speed flyby just as Janet was walking to her car. (She did a double take but never said anything. I think the idea that I might be scootering past my own nursing home was just too much of a stretch.) Then I drove past Sarah’s house (I had long ago plotted her address on a map), pausing to imagine that it was my home too and wondering which room was her bedroom and what it looked like. I was one hour late and offered to pay the difference but the owner waved me off.

“How did it go?” he asked, looking amused and not a little relieved.

“She purred like a cat,” I said, struggling to dismount. “Thank you. I know you didn’t have to do that.”

“My pleasure. Glad you had fun.”

I walked the five blocks back to the bus stop, then returned to Great Oaks. That evening, I was in bed by seven p.m., unable to shake a sense of sadness in my throat.

“WORD IS
we’re going to hit the Hindenburg line,” said Page, walking somewhere in front of me. I looked over at Lawton, who’d been unusually quiet lately. He didn’t look back.

“What exactly is the Hindenburg line?” asked Giles.

“Their main defensive line,” said Page.

“Oh shit.”

“How far do you suppose we’ll go?” I asked.

“To Berlin,” said Page.

“Berlin? Shit. That’s far, isn’t it?” asked Giles.

“Not so far as we can’t get there,” said Page.

“I’d just like to get my hands on some of that beer,” said Giles.

“And a fraulein or two,” I said.

“War‘ll end before we get to Berlin,” said Daniel.

“You really think so?” I asked.

“No way. Not the Germans. We’re going to Berlin,” said Page.

“How long do you think the war will last?” I asked Daniel.

“Maybe another year,” he said.

“Maybe forever,” said Giles. “Like one of those hundred-year wars.”

“Jesus, you think so?” asked Lawton. Giles nodded grimly.

“Wouldn’t you hate to be the last guy to get shot before the war ends?” I said.

“Soon as we get to Berlin, it’s no patrols or raids for me,” said Giles.

“Just how exactly do wars like these end?” I asked. “Is there like a bell or something?”

“Both sides announce that it’s over,” said Daniel, sidestepping a large pothole in the road.

“Like at a certain time?” I asked. “Like, keep shooting each other until right after lunch and then call it quits?”

“Something like that,” said Daniel.

“How the hell are we going to know that they know that the war is over?” asked Giles. “I mean, what if we think it ends at three p.m. and they’ve been told four p.m., or they’re on Berlin time or whatever?”

“I’m not putting my goddamn head up,” I said.

“Well, they’ll have to surrender. We’ll just wait for them to surrender,” said Daniel.

“I just don’t see those bastards surrendering,” said Giles.

“That’s because we haven’t beaten them yet,” I said.

“So we’ve got to take the Hindenburg line,” said Page.

“Yeah, maybe that’ll do it,” said Lawton.

“What exactly does the Hindenburg line look like?” I asked.

“Big fucking trench,” said Lawton. “Tons of wire, machine-gun nests pointing every which way.”

“No fucking worry,” said Giles, clearing his throat to spit again.

I mustn’t show them that I’m afraid—because one of the things that spreads quickest of all is fear. If people in trenches start to shout and scream with fear it spreads like a flame so the best thing is to quieten the bloke, either brain him or, if need be, finish him.

—C. Miles, British Army.

AFTER MARCHING
most of the night we sat near a burned-out farmhouse and had a breakfast of rice with Karo syrup, then marched another two miles to a rocky clearing, where we were ordered to dig rifle pits. Daniel and I made a two-man pit, then sat down and lit cigarettes. As he smoked, Daniel ran his fingernails along the seams of his clothes, squishing lice. I pulled out an old letter from my father, reread it and placed it back in my pocket. His tone was unusually sentimental, which made me worry that he was ill. Or maybe he was afraid that there were things he wouldn’t get to say if his son never came home. Would I come home? I searched again for some gut feeling, the kind of intuitive certainty that so many other soldiers seemed to have about their lives, but felt none.

“So it’s true, that you’ve never been in love?” Daniel was staring at me.

“In love? Not really. Why do you ask?”

“It changes everything. Even the way things look and sound.”

I nodded.

“But it’s different than I had imagined,” he said.

“Better?”

“Yes. But more frightening.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you can’t imagine what you’d do without that person.”