The Pastor's Wife Wears Biker Boots (2 page)

He banged his head on the wall.

“No banging, Timmy. Remember the rules.
”

He banged again. I sighed. My heart broke every time his did; and his broke a lot. Timmy needed sameness. Five-inch corner braces had their own spot in the store and now there were none.

I left his side and walked over to where Reba sat on a stool smoking a cigarette. Timmy calmed best when left alone once he passed the violent phase of what we called his “nuclear meltdowns.
”

“I’ll leave the weighted blanket here from now on and get another one for home,” I said. “That is—if you’re still willing to work with him.”

“Ain’t been nothing ol’ Reba hasn’t conquered.” Curls of smoke wafted in front of her piercing blue eyes. “Timmy’s a pussycat. We’ll get along just fine. Why the heavy blanket?”

“It soothes him. The deep pressure is comforting.”

Reba blew a puff of smoke out of the side of her mouth, away from me. “Just let me know if I’m doing something wrong.
”

“You’re not doing anything wrong, Reba. It’s not you.” I looked down at Timmy and shook my head. The monstrous, ugly disease of autism was in the room staring me down, daring me to battle.

She took another deep draw on her cigarette. I worried that she smoked, but I didn’t judge her for it. Reba smoked. I ate mashed potatoes, fried chicken, and fudge brownie sundaes every chance I got.

She exhaled with a big huff. “Autism bites.”

I nodded. I hated the word. I felt myself tearing. She stood up to hug me.

“Don’t.” I threw up my hands to push her away. “I’ll lose it if you comfort me. I don’t know why I’m not more used to seeing him struggle by now. It makes me so mad. And when I’m mad I cry.
”

Reba grinned with a spark in her eyes. “When I’m mad, I cuss.
” She blew out a puff of smoke and flicked her cigarette into an ashtray sitting next to her by the stock room phone.

I laughed and wiped my eyes. I loved Reba. She was tough as nails, rough around the edges, and because of past hurts, didn’t attend church. But she and Trace had always treated Timmy with respect. From the time we arrived in Eel Falls, Timmy had loved the hardware store. When he was younger, we visited every day. Sundays were difficult because the store was closed, and he didn’t understand why he couldn’t stop in. But Monday through Saturday he loved spinning the washers around the bolts and screws and watching them wind up and down. He relished the smell of the leather tool belts and the feel of the cool heads of the hammers. The hardware store was Timmy’s Disneyland, and when the O’Malleys offered to let Timmy work there in the afternoons, we were thrilled.

Reba, my best friend outside of the church, didn’t have any expectations of me. I could be myself, and she’d never tell a soul my secrets. I never heard her gossip about anyone.

She lit up another cigarette. “You need to get that motorcycle you’ve been talkin’ about and ride with Trace and me this summer
.”

“I’d love that, Reba. I saw you ride by the church the other night. It looked like heaven to me.” I sighed
and watched Timmy huddle deeper into his blanket.

Me ride? What would people think? What kind of rumors would Elder Norman and Bernice start? Could Aaron lose his job? If he lost his job, we’d be on the street because the church owned the parsonage. Besides, who would take care of everything and everybody when I was riding my bike? What would happen if I had an accident?

What would happen if I didn’t do something for myself and lost my mind?

“You’re only human,” Reba lectured me. “You need a break. When’s the last time you went anywhere by yourself without your kids or your husband?
”

I shook my head. I couldn’t remember one time in the past ten years
.

“I can teach ya to ride,” Reba said. “Ain’t nothin’ to it. And you need the break. A time out.” She arched her fingers like quotation marks. “It’d give you something to do besides all that churchy stuff.
”

I nodded. I’d wanted a motorcycle ever since I was a little girl and my great-aunt put me on her Indian. I loved everything about them: the masculine smell of leather, the feel of the cold metal gas tank, and the rumble of the engine.

Was it time for me to pursue some dreams of my own
?

My cell phone rang. Aaron. I listened to his frantic voice on the other end.

“OK,” I sighed into the phone. “OK, I hear you. I’ll bring something home. And Aaron—I’m sorry…
”

I clicked my phone off and looked at Reba, trying to decide whether to laugh or cry.
I could only imagine the face I made.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“Oh nothing—just that…” I broke down in giggles. “Goliath ate tonight’s supper off the stove.
”

“That dog’s a monster.”

“You have no idea.” I turned to Timmy who had calmed himself down to small, puffy sobs.
“Ready to go to the Fried Eel and get hamburgers for Daddy, Timmy?
”

He looked up and smiled at me through tears. The Fried Eel was his favorite. “Fried Eel fwies? Timmy fwies?”
He wiped his nose on his shirt.

“Yes, Timmy. We’ll get you some fries.”

“I’m gonna look into getting you enrolled in some riding classes, Kirstie,” Reba said, putting out her cig.

I started to object.

Reba held up her hand and raised her left eyebrow parent style. “I don’t want to hear it. Won’t hurt a thing to find out about it. And in the meantime, let’s go shopping for a bike. An adventure like that’d be fun and do you good. Now, what color you want?”

“What color bike?”

“Yup. Let’s get specific.”

“Reba, you know me. What color do you think I want?” I gave her my most mischievous grin. I was a girly girl.

Reba wasn’t. She rolled her eyes. “Oh no.” She shook her head. “I don’t know if I can be seen going down the road with you.”

We walked out of the back room and past Trace, who had been listening to the tail end of our conversation.

“Why?” he asked. “What color does she want?”

Reba groaned and waved me off with her hand.

“Bubble gum pink!” I said. “What else?”

3

“What do you do for fun?” My doctor was completely serious when she asked me last week during my yearly checkup. At that moment, I couldn’t think of one thing that sounded fun. I felt like a piece of petrified wood.

Wash the dishes, dirty the dishes, wash them again.

Wash the clothes, dirty the clothes, wash them again.

Monotonous.

Except for the adventures I had with Timmy. He kept things more than interesting, but not in the kind of way that gave me butterflies. More like caterpillars crawling through my insides, making me nervous and scared until I wanted to escape out of my skin worrying what other people thought.

All I had was the day-to-day grueling routine of a rural pastor’s wife. Predictable, reliable, and so much a part of the woodwork, my husband nearly choked on his buttered corn when I announced my plan the next night at supper.

The thought of owning my own motorcycle sent butterflies flitting through my stomach I hadn’t felt since I was nine years old and jumped off the high dive for the first time at the city pool.

“I called motorcycle school today.”

Aaron coughed a second time and pointed to the cell phone attached to his ear. “We’ll discuss it later.” He continued talking on his cell and shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth. I could tell from his end of the conversation that the treasurer had a budget problem, and he couldn’t wait until after dinner to solve it.

I watched my three sons, Patrick, Danny, and Timmy, inhale in three bites, the fried chicken, coleslaw, mashed potatoes, and gravy I’d spent a good portion of the afternoon making. They each slurped down two glasses of milk without taking a single breath.

Aaron shut off his phone.

I spoke before he could, “I’m signed up to take motorcycle safety classes.”

Freeze frame.

Forks hung in midair. Mouths hung open. All eyes riveted on me.

Aaron choked again and took a drink of his iced tea.

They all giggled, shook their heads, and continued to scarf food like Goliath at his food bowl.

“Motorcycle safety classes?” My husband wiped butter from his chin. “What’s that?”

“You know, classes you take to get your motorcycle license.”

“Don’t you have to have a motorcycle?”

“No. They provide the motorcycles.” I rapid fired the words before he could completely understand them. “But I saw one for sale today that I think I should get. A Harley Sportster. I sat on one. I could flat-foot it.” I took a breath.

“Flat-foot it?”

“Yeah. You know. The bike was low enough for my feet to sit flat on the ground. That way if she starts to tip over I won’t drop her.”

He took a bite of his green beans, chewing on them along with my words. Then he tilted his head back and laughed again. “Honey, you’re a day late. April 1st was yesterday.”

I didn’t smile.

Tears trickled from his eyes as he looked right at me.

The boys laughed because their dad laughed.

I glared.

“I think that’s great, Mom.” Danny looked over at his dad to get his approval.

My jaw tightened. “Thank you, Daniel.”

“How are you going to pay for a motorcycle?” My husband reached for the apple pie.

I measured my words carefully. “I still have my Aunt Mary’s inheritance.”

He frowned. “But I thought we were going to take a trip.”

“I’m still going to be traveling with the money, Aaron. I’ll just be traveling on the back of a Harley.”

I was smiling now. I had their attention. I was in the room. I would never confess how terrified I was at the thought of riding. I felt alive.

Timmy clapped and flapped his hands and rocked back and forth. He always picked up on my emotions.

“Hands, Timmy,” I said. He kept rocking but wrung his hands in his lap.

“What if you crash and die, Mom?” Patrick looked worried.

“I could crash and die in a car, Patrick. Life’s too short to worry about that.”

Patrick threw down his fork. “Life
is
too short. That’s exactly why I think it’s a
stupid
idea!”

“Look, guys,” I said. “It’s doctor’s orders.”

“Doctor’s orders?” My husband tilted his head like a puppy and looked at me with his deep brown eyes.

“We…will talk more about it later.” I gave Aaron
the look.

Timmy jumped up from the table, clapped his hands loudly, and began to spin. “Cy-cle. Cy-cle. Ma-ma. Cy-cle. Cy-cle. Ma-ma.”

****

I brushed my teeth, slipped into my favorite pair of flannel PJs and brought up the subject again. “You know, honey, my motorcycle idea is sort of doctor’s orders.”

“Doctor’s orders?” Aaron unbuttoned his shirt and threw it on the floor next to the laundry hamper.

“Yeah. She thinks I’m depressed—or too stressed.”

“Why would you be depressed?”

“I don’t know, Aaron, it happens. She said something about a combination of too much stress, not enough down time and a chemical problem in my brain or something.”

“How long have you felt depressed?” We sat side by side on the foot of the bed and I pulled on my socks. I can’t sleep without socks.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t know I was depressed. I mean, I knew I didn’t feel well, and that I didn’t want to do anything for fun anymore. The doctor said it sounded like symptoms of clinical depression.”

“But she doesn’t know for certain?”

“She just suggested I find a hobby or something.”

My husband took my hand. “The joy of the Lord is your strength.” He used his soft and low pastor’s voice.

“I know that.” I pulled my hand away. “I’m not a backslider, Aaron.” I resented it when he went into pastor-mode with me.

“What do you have to be depressed about?” Panic squeaked in his voice.

I sighed. It wasn’t something I could explain. I read my Bible. I prayed. I had a close relationship with the Lord. Why was I depressed?

“Have you ever read the book of Lamentations, Aaron? Sometimes people just get down. When the doctor asked me what I did for fun, I couldn’t think of one thing. I feel sort of dead inside. Like the girl I used to be checked out and forgot to come back.”

Aaron crinkled his brow and pondered this. We were always in such a state of “just surviving” the next event at the church, the next crisis, or Timmy’s next melt-down. “Having fun” had definitely taken a backseat.

“Our ministry is fun,” he said. I could tell he was trying to convince himself. “We have everything we need.”

“Everything
you
need.”

“Well, I’m not sure that getting a motorcycle will be seen by the church as a need—I’m afraid the church board might think it frivolous—not to mention what it might do to our image.”

“My image, Aaron. Don’t worry. It’ll be me riding the motorcycle, not you, not the church membership.
Me
.”

“Sweetheart, I had no idea you were feeling this way. If you get a motorcycle—I’m not sure how I’ll handle that.”

I looked at Aaron. His concern caught me a little off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s dangerous. People die on those things. I love you. I’ll do anything you want to help you get through this…this hump or whatever it is. I’m just not sure a motorcycle is the answer.”

I sighed. “Aaron, all my life I’ve wanted one. I…”

Aaron looked worried. “I’ll pray about it.”

He kissed me on the forehead and crawled into bed. I flopped in beside him. There was no more talking to him tonight. I wanted his blessing and God’s if I intended to do this crazy thing. We turned out the lights on our bed stands and lay in dark silence. I felt creases in my brow deep enough to drive a whole motorcycle gang through. I massaged my forehead until the crevices vanished.

Tomorrow, I’d go shopping for motorcycle boots.

Big, black, bad ones.

4

“Aaron, I’m leaving! Keep an eye on Timmy. If you get hungry before I get home the crock pot has supper in it!”