Old Rusty

When she was young, a day lasted a year, a year lasted forever. But now, the years seemed to vanish in the blink of an eye. It felt like yesterday when she accepted John's invitation to the prom.

That night had sparked a relationship to last a lifetime, not that her mother approved. When John was leaving for college, he persuaded her to come with him. Her parents lost their minds! That last night was branded in her memory, forever. Her Dad stomped around the kitchen while her mother stood at her bedroom door, screaming. She closed her ears as best she could, as she threw clothes into a bag.

"He's going to ruin your life. You're giving up the chance of going to college yourself, for what? A teenage crush? You're a fool, Becky, and that boy knows it!" her mother screamed, spit flying from her lips. The words stung because she'd worried about the same things herself. But her Mothers’ scorn only steeled her resolve. She stuffed the last of her belongings in her case and ripped the zipper closed. She ran downstairs with tears in her eyes, slamming the front door behind her. John was waiting in an antiquated Dodge Charger, which had bald tyres and a rattling muffler.

"Are you alright, babe?" he asked, as she hurled herself inside.

"Let’s get out of here," she sniffled, feeling very sorry for herself. What had she done to deserve a mother like that? The powerful car leapt forward into a new life.

The first months in Boston were a whirlwind of parties, romantic nights in, and trendy student clubs. When John's first round of exams arrived, all that changed. He barely managed a passing grade and realised that doing well in college was going to take a lot more work. That and the fact their money was running out put a halt to their gallop. They nearly packed it all in but pride kept them going. She got a job in a dinner and John hit the books. Despite her Mother’s misgivings, he was not taking her for a fool. He kept his end of the bargain and studied hard. At the end of four years, he qualified as an actuary.

His first year out of college was a year dominated by turmoil, surprises, and life-changing decisions. The biggest was all three rolled into one. Becky was pregnant. John was stunned at first, reassuring in the hours after that, quiet for a week, and finally delighted. In her darkest moments, she imagined him running from her as quick as he could, but it never happened. He stayed true, and the day he slipped a wedding ring on her finger, her mother had to swallow her words.

That was years ago, twenty to be exactly, and today was their anniversary. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror, twirling slowly, admiring the way the black dress lay on her. Not bad, for forty-five years on the planet and better considering she’d provided two of its inhabitants.

"MOM!"

Speak of the devil she thought. "Yes, Josh," she yelled.

"Mom, where's my blue shirt?" he yelled, up the stairs.

"It's in the laundry hamper," she said, twirling once more. She heard Josh walk away from the bottom of the stairs only to start shouting again a few seconds later.

"Jes, Mom, it's not washed!"

"Wear a different one," she said.

"I want that one, not another one!"

"That's just tough, Josh. You'll have to make do. I'm going out with your father," she said, spraying a mist of perfume in the air, and walking through it.

"It's not fair, Goddamn it!"

"Mind your language, young man!" The only answer she got was a slamming door. She loved her kids, but some days she'd gladly strangle them. At least Josh talked, she was lucky if she got a grunt out of Samantha. Sam, was content to stare into nothingness, with unblinking eyes, caked in pounds of jet-black mascara. It was frankly, unnerving.

She picked up a pair of six-inch stilettos by the straps, and padded her way down the stairs, before mixing a vodka and tonic and settling on the couch. She'd nearly finished her second drink when the front door opened.

"Sorry I'm late Becks, give me five minutes," he said, dashing up the stairs. She heard the shower start and considered topping up her drink. In the corner of the room, a door creaked open, and a black-ringed eye regarded her through the crack.

"Hi, Sam. What’s the dealieo, kido?" she asked. In the crack, the eye blinked, and a second later, the door squeaked closed. "Nice catting," she said, throwing back the last of her drink and laying aside the heavy bottomed tumbler. She was looking at the bottle of Nordic Ice Vodka, with weakening will, when John came down the stairs.

"Ready to go, babe?" he said, grabbing his sports coat from the rack behind the door. Becky picked her wrap from the couch when he said, "You’re looking fantastic, Babe. We'd better get going or we'll lose our table."

She didn't have to turn around to know he’d said the words without looking in her direction. She felt a twinge of something, a feeling she couldn't quiet put her finger on. It passed in an instant and she followed him out, pulling the front door closed behind her.

***

Dinner was fine, the whole evening was fine, it went exactly as she’d expected it to go. They ate at Gino's, their special restaurant, even stretching to a bottle of bubbly to mark the day. When they got home, all the lights were out and the kids were asleep. She showered and took off her makeup, while John put out the trash. She felt him slip into bed and cuddle into her. She wanted to ask him if he would do it all again, now that they'd been together for twenty years, but before she could, he began to snore.

She couldn't sleep, just lay there, worrying about nothing in particular, just worrying. What had she to worry about? Her kids were healthy, she had money; life was fine. The thing that bothered her was the last word…fine. Is fine enough? Eventually, tiredness got the better of her brain and sleep came.

When she woke, she'd forgotten completely about the word…fine. She threw back the covers and got on with her day. She prepared breakfast, woke the kids, having to call Josh three times before he got out of bed. She loaded the washing machine, picked up the newspaper then finally got herself a coffee. John was the first to the table. He flipped open the paper and munched French toast. She poured him a coffee, strong, just the way he like it. Sam slinked into the kitchen, followed by a bedraggled Josh. The kids devoured all in front of them and vanished as quickly as they arrived. John finished his coffee, folded the paper under his arm, and kissed Becky on the head as he stood to go. He stopped by the breakfast counter and fished a dry-cleaning ticket from his pocket.

"Could you pick this up for me Becks?"

"Sure," she said, taking the ticket from his fingers.

"Thanks sweetheart, see you tonight," he said, and with that, she was alone.

The house was quiet. She looked at the dirty dishes and sipped her coffee. If she wanted, she could go back to bed and stay in it all day. Who would know?  She guessed she would know, and feel guilty, so she didn't. Instead, she scrapped the dishes, put them in the dish washer, wiped down the table, swept the floor, all before taking a shower. In the afternoon, she endured day-time TV while doing the ironing but it was total rubbish. She needed to get out of the house, to meet some real people. She jotted down a quick grocery list, and grabbed John's dry-cleaning stub, then left.

She was about ten minutes from the mall when she realised something was wrong with the car. It felt heavy and was making a terrible racket. As if by design, a ragged looking used car lot appeared, so she pulled in. She got out and walked around the car. The back wheel was as flat as a pancake.

"Great! That's all I need," she said. The lot was deserted but she could hear a radio playing in the depths of a corrugated iron shed. She followed the music and found a set of legs sticking out from under an old silver BMW.

"Hello," she said, and the legs gave a little jerk of surprise. A tall man, in his fifties, wiggled out from under the car. He looked annoyed at being disturbed.

"Are you okay, lady?" he asked, wiping his filthy hands on equally filthy overalls.

"No, I'm not okay. My car broke down and I need someone to look at it, please," she said, pointing towards her nearly new Ford. It was by far the youngest car standing on the forecourt.

"Alright, let’s take a look," he mumbled and walked towards the car. He went to release the hood but Becky stopped him.

"It's the tyre," she said, pointing toward the back of the car. His eyebrows marched high across his forehead until they nearly vanished into his mop of unruly hair.

"Lady, are you saying you got a flat?"

"Yes exactly," she said, beginning to wonder if this guy was a mechanic at all. His expression was stalled someplace between disbelief and amusement.

"Then change it, Lady," he said.

"I can't change a tyre," she said, placing her hand on her hips in frustration at the stupidity of the man.

"Why not? You disabled or something?" he asked. Now he was being down-right insulting. She was sure you’re not allowed to use the word, disabled, any more. Shouldn't it be physically challenged or some-such. This guy was getting on her wick but she needed him to fix the car.

"I don't know how. Can't you do it. I'll pay you," she said, trying to hide her annoyance, and failing.

"That shit really grinds my gears. If you can't look after your car, you shouldn't be driving," he said, turning to walk away.

"Please," Becky said to his back, and the man stopped. He seemed to think for a moment and then turned back to the car.

"I'll tell you what, lady. I'll show you what to do, but you're going to change the tyre yourself."

"I won't be able to," she said, aghast.

"Sure you will. Pop the trunk and let’s get started." He showed her where the spare was kept, the nut iron and the jack. Then he showed her how to pop off the hubcap, how to loosen the nuts, where to put up the jack, how to make sure the car was in gear and safe. Before she knew it, she was winding the jack and watching the tyre lift off the ground. She was actually having the time of her life. She was really doing it; she was changing a tyre. Stan, that was his name, offered to lift the spare but she waved him away. She was going to change the Goddamn tyre if it killed her. She hauled the spare, got it on the hub, tightened the nuts, lowered the jack and the job was done. She stood back and looked at her car, sitting on four perfect tyres, and she’d done it all by herself.

"Told you, you could do it," said Stan, smiling and walking back towards the shed. Inside, Becky was glowing, it was stupid, but she couldn't help herself. How could changing a flat have made her feel so good? She rummaged in her purse and found a twenty, then followed Stan inside. She tapped him on the shoulder and when he turned around, she pressed the bill into his hand.

"Thanks Stan, you're great."

He looked at the bill and quickly tried to pass it back. "There is no need, Lady."

"The name’s, Becky, and a good teacher deserves his wage. Would you have somewhere I can wash up," she asked holding up her black hands. The twenty vanished into his overalls and Stan smiled his first genuine smile since she’d met him. He pointed to a door and winked.

"Staff facilities are that-a way."

Becky skipped toward the door and noticed something lurking in the gloom. It was like a huge dull eye, peeking out from under a tarpaulin.  She moved closer and soon realised it was a large headlight. She pushed back the tarp and revealed a very unloved motorbike, but there was something about it that was beautiful. Perhaps it was the lines, or the way time had taken its toll, or the way the huge single light seemed to look at her. Whatever it was, desire washed over her. It was like being baptised in a font of yearning. She tore herself away long enough to wash her hands but couldn’t help looking enchantedly at the rusting motorbike. She said her good-bye's to Stan and went about her business.

She was still on a high from her personal triumph when she called John, and the kids, down for dinner that evening. She was bursting to tell them her news, but every time she thought the moment was right, the conversation took a different turn. By the time ice cream was on the table, she couldn't wait any longer. "I got a flat tyre today and I changed it myself."

Once the words were out, they seemed a little childish in her ears. John looked at her and said, "Why didn't you call the service, they'd have done it?"

"That would have taken ages, and as it happened, I broke down right outside a garage."

"So, you mean the garage fixed it?" he said, shovelling ice cream into his face. The kids had lost all interest and left the table.

"No. I fixed it; the garage guy just showed me what to do."

"You mean he helped you," he said, sounding like he was getting the truth out of a five-year-old.

"NO! I said, I did it!" she said angrily.

"Okay, okay. Keep your hair on," he said, getting up from the table. He dropped his dish on the worktop, above the dish washer, then went into the sitting room. She looked at the dish and wondered, would it have killed him to stack it in the dish washer?

***

The next day started just like every other. She fed John and the kids, got them all they needed for their days, and once they were gone, she started the ironing. She flicked on the TV, to fill the silence, and worked the stack down from a mountain to a pile. It was a sunny morning, and this seemed such a waste. She unplugged the iron, grabbed her keys, and headed out. She backed out onto the street, on the tyre she had changed, and took off toward the city.

This time, when she pulled into the weed-strewn car lot, Stan was sitting on a totalled Mustang, smoking."

"Hay, lady. What you busted now?" he asked, taking a drag before flicking the butt away.

"I wanted to ask you about that bike you got."

"I sell cars, lady, not bikes," he said, shaking his head as if talking to a toddler.

"What about the bike in the back," she said pointing to the back of the garage. Stan looked confused but realisation washed over his face.

"Oh, the old Shovel-Head, what about it."

"Want to sell it?"

He folded his arms over his chest and regarded Becky as if he was missing the punchline to the joke. "Why would you want a pile of junk like that?"

"Why would you?" she countered.

"Actually, I was going to do it up, just never got the time," he said, leaning back on the Mustang and lighting another butt.

"So how much do you want for it?"

He scratched his head and looked at Becky like she was mad, "Fully restored, she might make eight, even ten thousand, but like it is…she's worthless."

"Stan, you're the worst salesman in the world. What would you say to a thousand dollars?"

"I'd say the old rust bucket is yours."

"Old, Rust Bucket, I like it. It's a deal, but I have two conditions," she said, holding out her hand.

Stan kept his hands to himself, "Conditions?"

"I want to restore the bike and I want to do it here. That is condition one. Condition two is that I want to hire you to show me what to do." Becky waited patiently as Stan mulled over what she’d said.

"It will take time, and money," he said, eventually.

  

"I have plenty of both. Do we have a deal?" she asked, still holding her hand out.

Stan got to his feet and looked at her hand, but didn’t take it.  "I'll tell you what to do, but you do the work?"

"I'd have it no other way," she said.

"Deal," he said, shaking her hand and giving her a smile.

As Stan pumped her hand, she asked, "Why do you call it a Shovel Head?"

"It's to do with the engine. Ah, you wouldn't understand," he said, joshing with her.

"You really piss me off, Stan. Anyone ever tell you that?" she asked.

"Yes, actually. More than one," he said, laughing and walking into the dark interior of the garage.

That night, while she was preparing dinner, thought about telling John what she’d done except she knew he would say she was stupid for spending a thousand dollars on rubbish. She decided the this should be her project and hers alone. It was a strange feeling, having something just for her, for once.

***

She stripped the 1969 Shovel Head, back to the bare bones in the months that followed. The engine was goosed so she ordered a new one and sanded the frame down to bare metal. Every step of the process was overseen by Stan, but all the work was done by her.

By Christmas, the filled and primed frame was sitting in a power coating jig, waiting to be cooked on the same night she kept a careful eye on the turkey cooking in her own oven.

When the fourteenth of February arrived, she was in the midst of rewiring, Old Rusty, as she’d christened it. John was becoming increasingly aware of the changes in her behaviour and had been asking a lot of questions. She had thought of telling him what she was doing, but no; it was her secret, not his. On Valentines, he'd booked a table at Gino's, but this time he was the one left waiting on the couch. She lost track of time at the garage and it was only when Stan said he was locking up did she realise how late she was running.

She rushed in the front door, saying, “Sorry, give me five minutes.”

He bounced up from the couch, and asked, "Where have you been?"

"Five minutes," she said again, and raced up the stairs, pretending she hadn’t seen the half angry, half worried look on his face.

It took her a bit longer than five minutes to get ready, but not a whole lot longer. She came back down a stylish blouse, jeans and brown leather boots. John looked at her, and asked, "Are you wearing that?"

Becky looked down in confusion, then back at her husband, "Why, what's wrong with it?"

"It's Valentines!"

"So?" she said.

“Are you not dressing up?”

“No, actually, I’m not. I like what I’m wearing and its comfortable.”

“But everyone dresses for Valentines?”

“Well, bully for them,” she said taking the keys out of his hand. “Come on, let’s go or we'll miss our table. I'll drive." She walked out, leaving John to lock up the house.

***

By April, she was ready to fit the new engine. At the same time, things at home were changing. More often, John was finding that he was making his own coffee in the morning. Josh only got one call, and if he didn't get up, he was late. Sam was the first to suggest to her face that something was going-on. One Saturday, she was sitting alone with Becky when she said something. At first Becky thought she was hearing things so she asked, “What was that?”

“You’re not you anymore,” she said quietly.

“How do you mean?” asked Becky, but she knew what Sam was talking about. She didn’t feel like her anymore either. She was Becky2.0; new and improved.

“You’re more…sparky. It’s like you’re…” Sam drifted off into silence.

“Like I’m what?” Sam wouldn’t answered, she simply drew deeper inside her shell, which worried Becky. She thought about telling her about Old Rusty, but she wasn’t ready to share him yet, not with anyone.

***

June saw a new tank go on, and custom rims. Day by day, she needed less of Stan's help and grew more confident of her own skills. The road she was on was her road, not their road. With all the heavy work done, she packed Old Rusty off to the paint shop, and waited. When it came back, she cried, truly cried, at the beauty she’d made. The day she poured gas in the tank, and stomped on the starter, was right up there with the first cries of her children.

***

Sam was hanging out in the mall with her friends when her mobile beeped. It was a text from her Mother.

'Sam, come to the main entrance, I need you for a minute. Mom.' 

She rolled her eyes and showed her friends the screen. Not one of them suggested ignoring the message, after all, they might be rebels, but they still needed a lift home later. The small group of pale, over-made-up girls, trudged toward the main doors. Once outside, Sam searched for her Mother’s car but there was no sign of her. Then, a gleaming motorbike, rumbled up to the kerb, causing everyone to take a second look.

Sam was about to go back inside when she heard her Mother’s voice calling over the thunderous rumble of the biker’s engine. She turned but there was still no sign of her Mom. The biker kicked out the stand and leaned the still running bike to one side. When the helmet came off, the biker shook out a long mane of golden hair. That was when Sam recognised Becky.

“Mom?” It was half a question, half an expression of astonishment.

“The one and only,” she teased while sitting back on the rumbling machine she had built.

“Where did you get that?” she said, pointing at the Harley.

“You like him?”

“Hell yea!! Shit, sorry…yea,” she corrected herself and her mother actually laughed at her.

“This bike is a hell yea kind of bike, and don’t you ever forget it!” she laughed.

“Who are you and what have you done with my Mother?” Sam joked back, and for once she didn’t feel stifled by the woman who had brought her into the world. She looked at that leather clad, happy woman, and wanted to be her. In her mind she asked the question again; Who are you?

"Want to go for a ride?" Becky said, tossing a helmet to her. She grabbed it and looked at her friends. Envy radiated off them all, even through pounds of foundation.

“See yea!” said Sam, as she jogged over to the bike and slipped on the helmet. As they roared away, Sam wrapped her arms around her Mother;s waist and never felt so safe.

***

Later that evening, John arrived home to find the house very quiet. Josh was playing video games in the living room.

"Where's your Mom?" he asked.

"Don't know."

"Sam?"

"Don't know," repeated Josh, not looking up from his video game. John frowned and walked to the kitchen. The oven was cold and empty. Then he looked in the fridge. No hints there either. That was when he noticed a small envelope sitting on the table. He ripped it open and pulled out the note.

Gone to Burning Man, with Sam. Don't wait up!

X x x – Becky.

PS,              I still love you.

PPS,            Feed the other one!