Remembering the Bicycle

DECEMBER

Monday

"Aren't you late for your panel?" I asked my wife.

"What panel?"

"Mothers Against Drunk Driving victim impact panel."

"I'm not going. What's it going to accomplish?"

"You've been going ever since Cynthia was killed."

"She's still dead, and the woman who killed her is living happily ever after."

"Victim impact panels keep people from driving under the influence. At least they reduce people doing it a second time."

"Our daughter's killer... she murdered a ten-year-old girl never..." Millie sighed deeply and got up from the kitchen table. "It was murder," she said. "The car was her gun, the liquor the bullet. I'm going upstairs to pack."

"You're not leaving for another week."

She shrugged and went to the closet where we kept our suitcases.

Wednesday

Millie came in the door limping and in obvious pain. I rushed to her side. 'What happened?'

"I forgot to put the car in Park before getting out. It kept going and banged my leg."

"Is anything broken?"

She grimaced and shook her head.

"What happened to the car?"

"It stopped when it hit the garage wall."

I sat Millie on the couch, instructing her to put her leg up on the ottoman while I went to the kitchen for an icepack. I held it in place for about twenty minutes after which she hobbled towards the bedroom. "I have to pack."

"I thought you packed on Monday."

She stared at me for a moment before continuing. "Umm, yes I did but... I've got to check that I have everything."

"Where are your car keys?"

"Why are you asking about my car keys?"

"Are they in your purse?"

"I suppose."

They weren't. I grabbed my keys and ran down to the garage. Our car was still pressed against the wall of the garage, in Park, with the keys in the ignition, the motor off and the doors unlocked. I backed it away from the wall and examined the damage. Two front fenders, the front grill and the hood all needed major work. The car wasn't a write-off, but my insurance rates were sure to jump.

I went back to our condo and made the necessary phone calls before checking on Millie. She was in the bath, her suitcase not having budged from where it had sat for the last two days.

Monday

I had to hurry my wife if she was going to catch her flight. Millie was in her bathrobe having a leisurely breakfast when I pointed out that we had to leave for the airport within twenty minutes.

"Where are we going?" she smiled.

"I'm not going anywhere. You're going to Florida without me. If you don't hurry, you're not going anywhere either."

"Why aren't you coming? Who will take care of me?"

"This is the second year you're going without me. You know I can't get away from work. I guess the Brodys will have to take care of you."

"Yeah, that's right, the Brodys..."

Millie went to get dressed, and was soon at the front door, her makeup a little hastily applied. I took a tissue, wiped off the excess, and brought her out to the rental we were using while the Chevy was in the body shop.

"Whose car is this? Where's ours?"

"We're using a rental until ours is fixed. There was quite a bit of damage when you crashed it into the garage wall. You must have seen that."

"Yes, yes, of course. You don't have to be rude about it."

I didn't think there was anything rude in what I said, but kept my mouth shut. I didn't want to part company with either of us being upset.

Traffic was miraculously light, and we got to the curbside check-in with plenty of time to spare. I carried her two suitcases to the scale, then opened her car door, offering my hand to help her up. Her leg must have still hurt from her accident, that she didn't get out on her own initiative. I walked her to the counter, pulled her ticket from her purse and wrapped her in a hug. We didn't kiss that often, but I figured the coming three-month separation merited a good smooch.

She gave me a perfunctory kiss, not reciprocating the hug.

"Goodbye Millie. Be a good girl."

She looked around before answering, "Yes, goodbye; I will." She disappeared into the terminal, and I headed home to my solitude. I didn't begrudge Millie her trip but would have been happier if she chose to stay with me.

LATE FEBRUARY

Monday

I'm drawn to women on bicycles. To me there's nothing sexier than a good-looking lady, preferably in shorts, bent forward and speeding along the road. I don't own a bike myself; I haven't touched one of those things since my kids were young, and that was a long time ago. Biking is a spectator sport as far as I'm concerned.

I have no illusions about the women I pass as I drive to and from work. They're much too young for me, and besides which, I'm happily married. I appreciate the sexy cyclists the same way I appreciate a fine sculpture or painting: beauty to behold, but nothing to get involved with.

Sometimes I get pissed at them. There's one girl I see all the time no matter the weather. She'll be peddling along in a heavy rain, wearing boots and a rubber rain set. She'll be wiping the hair out of her eyes, trying to keep her hood from blocking her vision as she plows through all the puddles. If it's not raining, she'll be in shorts and a t-shirt. I won't lie: I love it when she occasionally gets caught by light rain in that outfit. The visual effect is mesmerizing.

The one thing she doesn't wear, rain or shine, is a helmet. Doesn't she realize how dangerous her commute is? I've seen other drivers cut her off as they turn right or squeeze her up against the sidewalk in order to pass another car on the right. It's not because she's drop-dead gorgeous that I'm concerned. Every cyclist should wear a helmet: ugly, beautiful, man, woman, young or old. Bike riders are at the mercy of everything else on the road, from potholes to trucks.

When I bought my five-year-old daughter her first bike and insisted she wear a helmet, she argued that if I didn't, she wouldn't. I realized she was right and became a passionate advocate for head protection. And here I was two decades later heading to work, watching this beautiful leggy cyclist splash into a water-filled pothole from Sunday night's downpour, and come crashing down on her side a few yards ahead of me.

Her head didn't hit anything, but she was scratched and scraped, soaked with dirty water.

I stopped right behind, put on my flashers, ran out of the car and knelt beside her. "How badly are you hurt?"

She didn't answer; her eyes were welded held closed by the pain. I could see wide, bloody scrapes on her leg, on her arm. Her blouse was shredded at the elbow; there were rips in her shorts.

"Do you need an ambulance?" This question got her to open her eyes and shake her head. "I'll be right back." I ran back to my SUV, grabbing a water bottle and the first aid kit from the back seat.

I crouched beside her. "Can you stand?" I offered my hand. She looked at me and tried slowly to rise. It must have hurt too much, because she stopped. "Can you raise your left leg? I'll pull your bike out so you can move more easily." That she could do, and I dragged her bike onto the sidewalk.

"Try moving all your limbs. Let's find out if anything's broken."

"I don't think so; just hurts like hell." She finally spoke as she flexed her limbs. "Thank you."

I held up the water bottle. "You need to rinse the dirt off."

"Please, do it."

I poured water over her thigh, rinsing most of the visible dirt away. I gently lifted her forearm so I could wash her elbow. "I have alcohol swabs to disinfect the cuts. It will hurt, but you should use them." I opened the first aid kit and showed her.

"You." She winced as she spoke.

"You want me to clean the cuts?" This beautiful, albeit injured young woman wanted me to work on the limbs I had been admiring for so many weeks. "Okay, if you're sure." I dried the injured areas with tissues, then opened a packet and ran the thin alcohol-soaked pad across what looked like the worst of her cuts. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. I was running my fingers across her exquisite thigh, but this was not any kind of erotic experience for her. My wife was out of town, so the touch had a more dramatic effect on me. Nonetheless, I resolved to control myself. This girl was probably younger than my son Ben, and I was happily married.

I went through my entire supply of alcohol swabs but there were still a few scrapes and cuts that needed attention. "I don't want you to get any infections. You have to shower ASAP." I stood up and offered her a hand.

"Are you a doctor?"

"No. I'm an ordinary white-collar worker, who's dealt with serious bicycle accidents in the past. You really should wear a helmet, you know."

"You're not ordinary. An ordinary person wouldn't be so concerned." She took my hand, slowly pulling herself up. She took a few painful steps just to see if she could, turned to face me and smiled. "Thank you." She reached for her bike.

I was surprised that she could smile, given her injuries. I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself. "You're not going anywhere on that. Look at how your front wheel is twisted."

She looked at the wheel. She looked at me. She sniffled. "I've been working all night. I need to go home now and sleep. What am I going to do?"

She started to cry.

Should I put my arm around her to comfort her? It didn't seem appropriate. I had a better idea. "Where do you live?"

"Near Royal Boulevard and Jubilee."

"That's right near my office. Would you like a lift?"

She hesitated, even though it was the perfect solution to her dilemma.

"Listen, I'll show you my driver's license. Call someone and read off my name and address; explain that a stranger is giving you a ride home after your bike got wrecked."

She still hesitated.

"Tell the friend to call you in thirty minutes, and if you don't answer call the police."

She was still grimacing from the pain of her injuries, but there was a light in her eyes. "Never mind, I'll trust you." Despite everything, she seemed at ease.

"Yes, do mind. It's for my own protection too, that you don't accuse me of anything." I pulled out my wallet and showed her the license.

"How about if I just take a picture and send it, Mr. Davies?"

"No. I don't want to give out all that information. Privacy, identity theft and all that."

She called her mother while I loaded her bike in the back of my SUV. It was difficult for her to bend her knee, so she leaned on my shoulder as she climbed into the passenger seat. I closed the door for her. "Call me 'Phil.'"

"Thank you, Phil Davies. I don't know what I'd have done without you. Am I making you late for work?"

"You're welcome, whoever you are. I set my own hours, so don't worry about that."

"Oh, sorry. I'm Janet Marx."

"Any relation to Karl?"

"Thankfully not."

"How about Groucho, Chico and Harpo?"

"Who?"

"Never mind." We rode in silence. It was obvious Janet was still struggling with the pain from her injuries. She had me pull up in front of a narrow townhouse with a tiny yard and a few steps up to the entrance. I came around, opened the car door and helped her out. She took a step and would have fallen if I hadn't caught her. She looked at me with round, tear-filled eyes.

"How bad is it?" I said.

She took a deep breath. "Not terrible, just stiff." I offered my arm and she hung onto it as she hobbled up to the front door. I stopped at the threshold.

"Maybe we should go to a hospital?"

She shook her head.

"Are you going to be okay on your own? Do you have a friend you can ask to come over? You really have to take a shower right away, clean those wounds."

"My mother would come, but she's forty miles away and there's traffic. She'll come in the afternoon, for when I wake up. The shower's upstairs. Can you walk up with me?"

Janet saw my hesitation. "I won't molest you," she said.

I didn't move.

She hobbled over to the staircase. "I won't accuse you of molesting me. Can you...?"

I walked over to the staircase and stood beside her, offering my arm. "It's a little awkward, an old married geezer like me escorting a beautiful young woman up to the shower."

She took my arm. About halfway up she eyed me up and down and said, "You're not that old; certainly not in the geezer class." When we got to the top, she pointed to a chair in the guest room. "You can wait in there."

"What am I waiting for?"

"In case I have trouble getting in or out of the shower."

Her phone rang. "Yes, Mom, I'm home. Mr. Davies drove me home and he's waiting till I get out of the shower... Probably closer to your age... No, he didn't want to come in... Okay, I'll call you when he leaves. It shouldn't take long."

I knew what her mother was saying. I'd say the same thing to my kid. Janet wasn't mine, but I said it anyway. "It's not really appropriate for me—"

"I'm not planning to invite you into the shower with me. You've been a real gentleman so far. I trust you, and I appreciate all the help and time you've given me. Just ten minutes more, please. Just in case. If you want, you can make yourself a coffee downstairs."

I sighed. "I'll have the coffee. Leave the bathroom door ajar, and yell if you need me."

There was a Keurig, so making the coffee was easy. I was tipping back the last of it when I heard her come out of the bathroom. I went to the bottom of the stairs and watched her limp her way down. Her terrycloth robe kept her mostly concealed, but there was enough for me to enjoy the view.

"I'm going call my mother back now and go to bed. Thank you, Phil. You're really a sweet man. I hope I didn't cause you any problems at work by keeping you so long."

"Well, I've enjoyed being a kept by a beautiful young lady like you. Don't worry about my work."

"Listen, my mother is coming over later today, and she's going to drive me to work in the evening. Why don't you and your wife join us for supper, at, I don't know, six o'clock? I'd like to show my appreciation."

My eyes drifting downward informed Janet that her robe was starting to loosen. She re-fastened the belt, and I focused again on her face. "It's not possible."

"Oh. How about tomorrow, Tuesday evening?"

I sighed. "I can come this evening, but my wife can't. She's in Florida."

"Oh. For how long?"

"Another few weeks; I'm not sure. But I'll be happy to come by myself, if I'm welcome. All the meals alone are getting to me. See you at six?" It would mean skipping my evening swim, but having pleasant company was more attractive to me at the moment.

Janet reached up plant a kiss on my cheek by way of response. I tried to avoid looking, as I was sure that movement would open her robe a little too much. I had obligations to my wife, whether she was with me or vacationing in Florida.

Going out to the car reminded me of another issue: I had her bike in the back of my SUV. I pulled out my phone, searched for a bike shop, and within half an hour had a promise to have the rims straightened, the derailleurs cleaned and the brakes adjusted by Thursday, all for a reasonable price.

Janet's mother Andrea greeted me at her front door when I returned for supper. The resemblance to her daughter was there if you looked: similar build, similar chins and eyes. Andrea was a brunette and slightly shorter. The main difference though was in demeanor. Whereas Janet had quickly relaxed in my presence, having me wait while she took a shower, Andrea was more reserved.

Janet brought the chicken casserole to the table while her mother made conversation. "Is your wife working in Florida, Mr. Davies?"

"She's on vacation. She spends a few months with friends. Been doing it for... this is the second year."

"If she's on vacation, that implies she works. But a couple of months vacation means it must be some special kind—"

"Mom, we hardly know Phil. Don't interrogate him."

I chuckled. "No, no, that's fine. Millie stopped working about three years ago. She got tired of concentrating on all her tasks. Her vacation is from the weather, more from the routine."

There was an unasked question in both ladies' eyes.

"I don't mind. I enjoy my work, and I'm somewhat of an introvert. We understand each other. I'm fine being on my own for three months. Millie can enjoy herself there and I'm okay here." I spooned some food onto my plate. "This casserole is delicious. Do you have anything to drink?"

Janet looked at her mother before turning to me. "You mean like wine or whiskey?"

I shook my head. "How about a beer or soft drink?" She put a few cans on the table and sat down. I told her what I did with her bike and offered to pick it up when it was ready.

"Mr. Davies, you're being very kind to my daughter. If you don't mind my saying so, it's a little unusual. You're probably twice her age. What do you have in mind?"

"Mrs. Marx, one of my first thoughts was that Janet is probably younger than my son. But that thought came after the realization 'person in trouble, needs help.' Janet's a beautiful young lady, but I have no interest in seducing her." I winked and then continued. "If I wasn't happily married, I might pursue her gorgeous mother though. Unless there's a Mr. Marx in the picture, of course."

Andrea put down her fork, put down her drink and looked at the tabletop. "My husband died from a heart attack close to ten years ago. He was young and seemed healthy. He was the last man to pursue me. I've never gotten over losing him, and I don't want to be pursued."

"I'm sorry."

Andrea looked up, lifted her eyebrows and asked "Tell us about your wife. You must be a very devoted husband to let her go for three months. Do you have an open, you know... an open kind of relationship?"

"Ma!" Janet mouthed the word "sorry" to me.

"No offence, Mr. Davies. It's just that I've seen so many different kinds of relationships. Where is your wife staying?"

"It's a retirement time-share village, Century Sands."

Janet lit up. "Isn't that where Uncle Carl lives? I bet he knows her."

"It's a huge project. There are probably a thousand people at a time."

"My brother is a big gossip. If I called and asked him, he would tell me what she's up to. If he doesn't know her yet, he'd know her within a day or two." Andrea pulled out her phone, pressed a button, and within seconds was chatting. She looked up at me. "She's Millie Davies?"

I nodded.

"What section is she in?"

"The Kingston buildings," I said. "She's a guest of Faith and Andrew Brody."

Andrea relayed the information and glanced at me again. "What does she look like?"

"Neck-length straight blond hair, very curvaceous, about five-five. Blue eyes. Gorgeous. A bit absent-minded."

Andrea chatted with her brother another couple of minutes and then hung up. "He doesn't know her, but he'll check her out tomorrow."

"Uh-Oh. I don't like the sound of that. Sounds like he's going to make a play for her."

"No," Andrea scowled. "He'll inquire about her, get to meet her. He's completely gay, came out of the closet before it was fashionable."

"Was he ever in the closet?" Janet asked. The two women laughed.

The rest of dinner passed with innocuous chit-chat, tea and apple pie. We wrapped it up with my offer to drive Janet to and from work for the next couple of days, after which her bike would be repaired. Andrea objected, but quickly realized the only alternative was Uber or taxi, which would be expensive.

I turned down the offer of Tuesday and Wednesday dinners because I didn't want it to seem like I was helping out for the sake of a reward. Truth is, I was doing it in large part for the sake of the companionship. I enjoyed being with Janet; even with Andrea, despite her apparent hostility. Though I didn't pine for my vacationing wife, the silence at home sometimes got to me. Millie and I didn't call each other often. What was there to say? One day at work was like another; one day at the pool was like another. There was no emotional gap we had to fill by hearing each other's voice.