“Hey,” I said to the pretty young redhead walking the corgi, “do you know whose bike this is?”
She nodded gravely. “Ursula Davenport’s.”
“Well,” I responded huffily, “Ursula should come and get it.”
It was leaning against a tree in the boulevard several blocks from the house I’d bought in Trevor City back in the spring after Henry died. The ugly thing hadn’t moved since I’d begun taking daily walks, once I’d settled in. The redhead flicked her gaze between me and the dog, poop bag at the ready.
“Ursula can’t. She’s dead.”
Damn. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied. “What happened to her?”
“She wrecked.” The woman pointed one long-nailed violet finger. “On that thing. Ursula was following some construction truck. It stopped. She didn’t.”
Now I saw that the front tire was barely attached to the frame. I could imagine it as if it were happening before my eyes. Screech, scream, crash. Silence.
“Head injury?”
She nodded.
“Was Ursula young?”
“No. More like your age.”
She didn’t bat a fake eyelash as she said it. I wondered how old she thought me to be. Since the cancer, I mostly didn’t recognize the woman in my mirror.
“Did you know her very—”
“Nope. She had a dog, mixed-breed, mostly Beagle, for a while, but she took it to the shelter when she couldn’t remember to walk or feed it.”
I nodded, wondering how Ms. Redhead knew all this. But it was a small town. Would my health issues soon be common knowledge, like Ursula’s declining memory? I imagined Ursula: a graying short haircut, a wool poncho in brilliant colors, sunken eyes, brave smile she’d used to get through six decades, depending on how old this child thought I was.
“Do you think,” I said, “anyone would mind if I took the bike and fixed it up?”
“I’d say go for it.”
Now the corgi was kicking dirt backward. While we weren’t looking, it had done the deed. Departure was imminent.
“I think I will. In fact—”
But after a fast, practiced scoop into her bag, Redhead strode away fast, as if old age might be contagious. I bent, feeling again the emptiness in my chest. How long before I no longer mourned what the surgeon had taken from me (both breasts just to be sure)?
The bike weighed no more than my small wheelbarrow. Now I imagined Ursula gardening before a modest blue clapboard house, planting bulbs for next season, which she never saw. I always planted annuals: lots of beauty NOW. Next year, if there’d be one, could take care of itself.
I steadied the broken thing. The frame looked solid, unbent. The bike had good bones; a new tire and it’d be good as—well, not new, never that again. The chain guard and fenders were rusty. I guided the contraption in the direction of my house as if it were made of glass, as if Ursula were clinging to my other arm, bleeding from her cut forehead, neither of us yet aware how serious her injury would prove to be.
Standing up straighter, I slowed, no longer caring who saw me guiding the dead woman’s bike toward my home, where my late husband’s tools would bring back to life this machine I’d ride toward my own death.
Ed Davis has immersed himself in writing since retiring from college teaching. Recently, he’s been publishing flash fiction at venues such as Flash Fiction Magazine, Sky Island Journal, Every Day Fiction and Literally Stories. He walks daily within the bucolic village of Yellow Springs, Ohio, where he lives.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Remember that we are here to support each other.