Miss Julia Hits the Road (37 page)

She grabbed a handful of leather where it’d slid down and bunched around my lower hips, then she sawed and sliced until I experienced a loosening of the bonds. “There,” she said, reaching around and jerking the pants up so that they stayed up and might have even buttoned, if I’d had a mind to try.

Hazel Marie finished by tucking the sides of my coat under each leg, where I hoped it would stay, else everybody was going to get a glimpse of Christmas from the new opening she’d cut in her prized leather pants.

I was as settled as I’d ever be then, so I tapped Mr. Pickens on the shoulder, and called out, “What time is it?”

“It’s after four,” Mr. Pickens shouted, revving and rocking the motorcycle so that I had to clutch at him. “We gotta roll. You ready?”

“Ready!” I yelled back, thinking, Lord, I hope so.

I had every intention of waving as we left, but Mr. Pickens’s machine took off with such a surge of power that I had to clasp my arms around his chest and bury my helmeted head against his back. We roared out onto the highway, slicing through wisps of fog in the diminishing light, the ends of my coat flapping in the breeze, and began eating up the miles.

There was no talking en route on Mr. Pickens’s cycle, since his helmet wasn’t wired for sound, but that was all right with me. We were going so fast and my perch was so precarious that I had no heart for engaging in conversation. Believe me, this ride was considerably different than the one in Sam’s sidecar. For one thing, Mr. Pickens was hunched over the handlebars, and I had my arms around him so tight that I was all but riding on his back. And for another thing, we were mortally flying—trees, fences, side roads, and the occasional barn flipping past in a blur.

The two-lane highway that we continued on took us down and around one mountain after another. We’d go into steep, curving declines, Mr. Pickens leaning into the curve—me along with him—with the sound of the motor whining and echoing from both sides. My breath caught in my throat so many times, I thought I was going to strangle myself.

Once or twice we passed some high country pastures opening out from the roadsides, so that I could see a few scudding clouds across the lowering sky. There was still some daylight when we weren’t enclosed by thick stands of trees, but there wouldn’t be for long. Lord, it’d be five o’clock any minute. One part of me wanted to urge Mr. Pickens to hurry, but another part already had the living daylights scared out of it. As we leaned into an s-curve, the motor screaming between the mountainsides and me screaming inside my helmet, I caught sight of a lone headlight behind us.

When we hit a short, straight stretch, I risked patting Mr. Pickens’s shoulder, then pointed with my thumb up beside his face toward the rear. I didn’t want to distract him from holding us on the road, but he needed to know that someone was following us. He nodded his head and put on more speed, which I hadn’t thought possible. Lord, the man could drive, or ride, or whatever he was doing.

Other than the one movement to warn him of impending danger, I don’t think I moved an inch the whole twelve miles to the next stop. I feared I’d unbalance the vehicle, and we’d go flipping and skidding across the pavement, down an embankment to mire up at the bottom of a ravine, where not even the Mountain Rescue Squad could find us. Hazel Marie would never forgive me.

Mr. Pickens began nodding his head, so I lifted mine to peek over his shoulder. There, some little distance in front of us, I could see the cloud cover reflecting the lights of Abbotsville. We were almost there, thank the Lord. Recalling the map that Little Lloyd had shown me, I knew we’d be entering from the south side and would make a stop at Harold’s Full-Service Esso Station for our final card drawing. Then we’d have to motor through Abbotsville, down Main Street, and out onto the Delmont Highway for about eight more miles to Red’s Stop, Shop and Eat.

Maybe, just maybe, we would make it in time.

As we got closer to Abbotsville, traffic began to pick up, which would only get worse since it was Saturday evening, when everybody came to town. I wish somebody would tell me what kind of pleasure people take in cruising up and down Main Street, but I knew the high-schoolers would be out, cars would be stacked up out into the street by the drive-ins, and pedestrians would take their time ambling from one sidewalk to another. At the thought of the impediments to come, I just about lost all heart.

But not Mr. Pickens, for he began weaving in and out between slow-moving cars, passing on the left when he could, and on the right when he couldn’t. Then he turned so fast and so sharply into Harold’s Full-Service Esso that the edge of his foot pedal scraped against the pavement, scaring me to death. Mr. Pickens skidded us to a stop between the gas pumps and the door of the station, and let the motor idle.

He lifted his visor as I turned loose of him and straightened up. “You doing all right?” And without waiting for an answer, blew his horn and called out, “Harold, get your sorry self out here!”

Lord, I’d forgotten what we’d have to put up with in Harold, the slowest human under the sun. The only reason he was still in business was because his was the last station in town where you could have your gas pumped and your windshield cleaned without getting out of the car. He said he didn’t believe in self-service, but it took him half an hour to tell you why. I’d never lingered to hear it all. The only customers he had left were old ladies who didn’t know how to pump their own, and didn’t want to learn.

Harold came strolling out the door, dressed in his usual grease-covered coveralls, his hair hanging down over his glasses and a welcoming smile on his face. He was just as pleasant and helpful as he could be, if you could put up with him.

“Where’s the deck, man?” Mr. Pickens said, both of us taking note of Harold’s empty hands. “Give us a card, so we can get out of here.”

Harold stopped, looked us over, and finally drawled, “Thought there wouldn’t be any more of you. Everybody else’s been and gone.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Pickens said. “That’s why we’re in a hurry. How ’bout that deck of cards?”

Harold lifted a hand, nodded his head, and finally turned to go back inside. “Got ’em under the cash register.”

“Oh, me, Mr. Pickens,” I said, having opened my helmet for a little air. “He’s so slow I can hardly stand it.”

“Hold on. He’s coming.”

Anxious to see him moving, I leaned down to peer through the station’s window. My heart thumped as I saw the large clock hung up on the wall. Almost twenty of five, and even as I watched, the big hand ticked off another minute. Harold had barely rounded the counter. It was all I could do to hold myself in check.

Finally he ambled out to us, smiling as he held out the deck but, as I reached for a card, he pulled back. “Better shuffle ’em.”

He awkwardly shuffled the cards, while my hand was left hanging in midair. “Hurry up, Harold,” I urged, wondering why in the world the Poker Run’s organizers had made his station one of our stops. I intended to lodge a protest, if I ever got back to Red’s.

“Here you go,” Harold said in his unhurried way. He tried to fan the deck out, but the cards were all bunched together.

I reached for a card again, but he pulled them back. “Whoops,” he said. “Better fix ’em better’n that.”

“Just give me a card, Harold, any card,” I said, so agitated by this time that I could’ve snatched the whole deck from him. Watching him as he continued to fumble around just about sent me over the edge. “If you don’t let me have a card right now, Harold Cox, I’m coming off this thing and thrashing you to within an inch of your life!”

“It’s all right,” he said, not at all offended by my threat. “I got it this time. Here you go.” He fanned the deck with a flourish. And dropped every last one of them.

It was all I could do not to shriek in despair, and even Mr. Pickens had had enough. He revved the motor and rocked the cycle on its brakes, then leaned down and picked up a card from the ground.

“The three of spades, Miss Julia,” he said and dropped it. “Get him to initial your scorecard, and let’s get out of here.”

I’d already surreptiously recovered my card from my secret hiding place, so I grabbed Harold’s arm and in no uncertain terms said, “Sign here.”

“Sure thing. Just let me get a pencil.” And unbelievably, he turned to go back into the station.

Mr. Pickens nearly came off the cycle reaching for him. He snagged Harold’s coveralls and dragged him beside us. “Use this,” he ordered, and stuck a ballpoint pen from somewhere in his jacket into Harold’s hand. With his tongue stuck out, Harold laboriously wrote in the three of spades and his full name. I snatched the scorecard from him and, in my anxiety, stuck it back in my brassiere without giving a thought to the public exposure.

Mr. Pickens put one foot on a pedal and prepared to take us out of there, for which I was so thankful I could’ve cried.

“About eight more miles,” he said, lowering his visor.

“Hallelujah,” I said, and lowered mine, getting myself ready to run the gauntlet on Main Street.

Before he could lift his other foot from the ground and give us the gas, another roaring motorcycle pulled in and braked in front of us, stopping us cold. A hot streak of the most irate kind swept through me as soon as I saw the black cycle with orange stripes. Another delay! And by somebody who ought to’ve been minding her own business.

Tammi pushed up her visor and smiled in a flirtatious way at Mr. Pickens. Then she flicked her head toward me and said, “Why don’t you get a real woman to ride with, J. D.?”

It came to me like a flash:
She thinks I’m Hazel Marie!

Before Mr. Pickens could say a word, I flipped up my visor and snapped, “I’ll have you know he’s already
got
a real woman. And I’ll tell you another thing, young lady—if you’re looking for trouble, you’ve just about found it. Now get that thing out of our way!”

Her mouth had dropped open at the sight of me, and it stayed that way. As Mr. Pickens backed us away from her machine, she was too stunned to make a move to stop us.

Mr. Pickens revved the motor and headed toward the street. And we almost made it.

Mr. Pickens slammed on the brakes, almost catapulting me over his shoulders. We skidded to within a hair’s breadth of a sheriff’s squad car that had barreled to a stop directly in front of us, tires screeching and siren whomping.

“Go around him, Mr. Pickens!” I yelled. “I’ll pay the ticket!”

I didn’t know what we’d done to deserve a traffic stop, but I didn’t aim to find out. I was a law-abiding woman, as anybody could tell you, and I wasn’t all that eager to engage in a high-speed chase, but this deputy was going to have his hands full if he thought he was going to stop us tonight.

The window of the squad car slid down, and Deputy Coleman Bates yelled over the rumbling of Mr. Pickens’s motorcycle, “I know about the deadline, so come on! You’ve got an escort!”

“Coleman!” I cried. “What’re you doing here? Where’s Binkie?”

“False alarm!” he yelled back. “She’s home eating ice cream.”

And off he took, heading down Main Street, blue light bar flashing and siren screaming. Mr. Pickens stepped on the gas, getting us up to speed before we even hit the street. We bounced over railroad tracks and went tearing off after Coleman. Mr. Pickens hunched over the handlebars—for the aerodynamics, don’t you know—and I hunched over him, my coattails flapping like Zorro’s cape. Coleman’s siren cleared out the block in front of us, then two deputies on official sheriff’s motorcycles and wearing knee-high shiny boots, came peeling out of a side street, lights and sirens going, and tucked themselves on each side of Coleman’s patrol car.

Lord, it was a spectacle of thrilling proportions! Lines of cars separated before us, pulling over left and right; people on the sidewalks stopped and stared; buildings flashed by before my eyes; stoplights, streetlights, and shop lights whizzed by, and I was clamped onto Mr. Pickens like my life depended on it. Which it did.

One after the other of the motorcycle deputies pulled ahead of Coleman to hold cross traffic at the intersections so we could fly down the street without stopping. Then they’d catch up and pass us to provide the leading escort. Before I caught my breath good, we were beyond the traffic lights and on the Delmont highway, leaning into the curves and screaming down the straightaways.

I squeezed Mr. Pickens’s chest until I felt him grunt. I was so proud of him and our civic-minded sheriff’s department, I didn’t know what to do. And I was downright thankful that only Hazel Marie and I knew I was out in public in a pair of pants that were unzipped, unbuttoned, and about to slide off.