The thunderstorm ahead looked menacing, and the fuel warning light was beginning to wink on and off, so what with discretion being the better part of valor and all, he decided to pull off the interstate and gas up at the next exit. A gust of wind whipped across the prairie, and he rode it out by shifting his weight a little, leaning into the wind a bit. He flipped on the cruise control and lifted his hand from the throttle, flexed his wrist a few times, then slipped his helmet's visor open a few inches and let some fresh, ozone-laden air wash across his face. The smell of an approaching storm had always intrigued him, and had since he was a little boy, but with age came a deeper appreciation of the dangers that rode on these storm-borne winds -- and today he definitely felt danger in the air. He scanned the clouds again, saw a curtain of greenish cloud drop from the deep slate blue wall that lined the northern horizon, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle with electric anticipation.
He felt more than heard the rifle shot of lightning that arced into the scorched Utah landscape somewhere off to his left, but the thunder that followed a microsecond later crashed into him with urgent ferocity. He felt an icy grip on his heart for a moment before big, fat raindrops hammered onto his visor -- just as he slammed it shut, and within that heartbeat his body was assaulted by heavy, pummeling rain; visibility dropped to less than a hundred yards as sudden blinding, whiteness defined his universe, so he cut the cruise control to let his speed bleed off slowly. He saw that the few cars ahead had already pulled off the road, but there wasn't any shelter out on this barren moonscape for anyone on two wheels -- and as it was only a few more miles to the gas station he plowed on through the driving rain.
And the rain was surprisingly cold, too, he realized, and that set off alarm bells in his head. 'With icy rain, get ready for pain'? Wasn't that one of the old motorcyclists' sayings his father had passed along, once upon a time? Now, wouldn't a nice pelting of icy hail be peachy-keen? He swept the road ahead, looking for any sign of hailstones bouncing on the concrete -- then he saw the loom of gas stations not far ahead. He fought the urge to hammer the throttle and race for safety, but he simply felt ecstatic when he made out the red and gold Shell sign through the swirling mist, and he slowed as the exit approached. He pulled off the highway and over to the covered fueling area with a sigh of relief, then he slipped the kickstand down and crawled off the bike, stretching all the kinked muscles he could in the process.
"Pretty ugly out there," he heard a voice say, and he turned towards the voice, saw an ancient man standing by the pump behind his, filling up a battered old pickup truck.
"It is that," he said. "Rain's getting cold too."
"Probably be snow up there tonight," the old guy said, pointing toward the Wasatch mountains off to the east.
"What about hail? Get much around here?"
"In October? No...usually too cold now for much of that, unless you hear thunder..." And this received wisdom was accompanied moments later by another bolt of lightning and the shattering crash of thunder, then a pea-sized barrage of hail. The old guy smiled knowingly as he finished fueling his truck, then he climbed into his truck. "Keep your eyes open," the old man said. "Never know what you'll run into around these parts."
"Got that right," the man said. "Have a good one."
"You too." The old man waved, then rolled up his window and drove off into the storm.
He lifted his bike onto the center-stand and opened the fuel cap, then fed his debit card into the pump and put almost five gallons into the tank, all the while casting a wary eye toward the horizon, looking for signs the storm was receding or moving closer. The sky was almost black now, though it was not quite noon, and he thought the air was quite cool for October. When he finished fueling the Beemer, he rode the bike over to a diner across the parking area and went inside for a cup of coffee, and as he walked to the door he saw a woman standing by the side of the building, staring off into the ether -- oblivious to the rain. He shook his head and went inside, ordered coffee and a club sandwich from the grumpy waitress behind the counter and sat there, waiting, hoping she would turn off the air conditioning before hypothermia set in. He cleaned his sunglasses while he waited for the coffee, then checked his email, hoping for a note from his son. As was almost always the case, there was nothing.
He looked at his watch: just a little past noon, plenty of time to make it past Salt Lake City, maybe all the way to Pocatello if the storm let up a little. He finished his coffee, pushed aside the soggy sandwich and paid the bill, then when a burst of sunshine came along he went back out to the bike. The woman was still out there, still almost rigid, only now she was staring at him, and while he couldn't decide what flavor of crazy she was, something about her seemed to call out to him, and without really knowing why he walked over to her.
"You alright?" he asked as he looked her over, trying to decide if she was dangerous or not.
"Yup. Nice rain. Been a long, hot summer." The woman's gaze remained fixed in his direction, but seemed focused somewhere behind him, almost beyond infinity.
"I hope I'm not sticking my nose into your business, but are you waiting for someone?"
And at that, she tuned her eyes to face his directly. "Yes, I suppose you could say that."
"Do you live around here?"
"No. Not anymore."
"Listen, I'm not trying to be nosy, but are you okay?"
"Okay? I'm not sure I understand the question."
"Uh...well...is there anyone I could call for you?"
"Call? Oh, no, there's no one."
"Somewhere I could take you? Is your home around here?"
She looked at him quizzically now, then smiled. "Sorry. No home, either."
He nodded his head, perplexed, because there was something about this woman he simply couldn't ignore. Maybe it was her eyes, as honest and at peace as any he'd ever encountered, but something about her was drawing him inward, and suddenly, he remembered the lightning. He pulled back from his memory of the light, looked at her, took her in: late fifties maybe, close-cropped salt and pepper hair, clear skin, rail thin and almost his height. Worn-out khakis, denim shirt, ragged blue wind-breaker, old work boots and a navy blue ball cap. All very clean, but soaking wet now, and he noticed she was shivering slightly.
"Have you eaten anything today?"
She shook her head.
"Are you hungry?"
"A little, yes."
"Could I buy you lunch?"
"That would be nice."
He led her into the diner and they took a booth by the windows that looked out on the parking lot. The waitress, Miss America 1956, came by and dropped off two menus, and he noticed the waitress's scowl when she looked at the woman.
"You want somethin' to drink, honey?" Miss America asked.
"A Coke, maybe?"
"We got Pepsi."
"Oh," the woman said, "that's fine."
"Make it two," the man said.
"Right." The waitress waddled away, leaving them in silence.
"The club sandwich is dreadful," he whispered.
She shrugged. "Would you order for me?"
He seemed taken aback. "What...do you like?"
"Something simple. A salad, maybe."
"Are you a vegetarian?"
"No. Listen, I don't want to put you out. It's nice of you to do this, but I don't want to impose."
"Oh. Okay."
Miss America returned with the Pepsis, and asked if they were ready to order.
"Two t-bone steaks, medium. Each with loaded baked potato, salads with Thousand Island."
"We got broccoli."
"Then I guess we're having broccoli."
"Cheese sauce?"
"Don't suppose you have Hollandaise?"
"Sure do. On both?"
"Reckon so."
"Okay. Hope you're not in a hurry." The waitress disappeared again.
"What's your name?" the woman asked him.
"Tom. Yours?"
"Mary."
"Of course."
"Excuse me? Why do you say that?"
"Mary. That was my wife's name."
"Oh. How long has she been gone?"
"Ten years." He looked at her closely again. "How did you know?"
"The ring on your finger, the sorrow in your voice."
"Ah." He looked at her left hand, saw the ring on her third finger. "You too?"
"I was married to Jesus Christ. I quit. A few days ago."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'm, I was, a nun."
"Until three days ago?"
"Yup."
"I take it the parting wasn't exactly amicable?"
"You could say that." She smiled, though there was something beyond pain in her eyes.
"And you're heading where?"
She shrugged her shoulders through the pain of her smile.
"How long have you been here? I mean, standing out there?"
"Yesterday. I walked down from the mountain. Got here late in the day."
"And you slept where?"
She pointed across the parking lot. "Under that tree."
