Chapter 5 The First Ride

Marge’s POV

Daddy stepped between us before Frank could answer.

“You won’t be going anywhere with him.”

I reached past him for the towel I’d left on the counter. The little boys at the window had stopped eating, and their mother was trying to get the younger one to turn around. Mrs. Bledsoe came out from behind the register, wiping her hands on a paper towel.

“Take a few minutes, Marge. I’ll watch the counter.”

Daddy pointed toward the door again. I put the towel away, untied my apron, and hung it beside my jacket. Frank was still standing where I’d left him. He hadn’t moved when Daddy stepped in front of him, and now my father had to turn sideways to let me through.

“One,” Frank said to me.

I nodded before Daddy could answer for either of us, then walked outside without waiting for him. The wind pushed my hair into my mouth. I pulled it free and went around the corner toward my car, away from the pharmacy windows.

Daddy followed, catching up before I reached the driver’s door.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Having the conversation you couldn’t wait until tonight to have.”

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“Then lower your voice. Everybody in there can hear you.”

He glanced back toward the corner. A motorcycle started out front, and I listened until the engine moved away down the street. Daddy waited until it faded before he spoke again.

“You have no idea what kind of man that is.”

“I made him a milkshake. I didn’t agree to marry him.”

“You agreed to get on the back of his motorcycle.”

“Yes.”

“Where is he taking you?”

“For a ride.”

“Where, Marjorie?”

I folded my arms against the cold. “Outside town. We haven’t worked out a goddamn itinerary.”

“You will not speak to me like that.”

“And you’re not going to come into my job and order me around in front of everybody.”

“You are my daughter wherever you happen to be.”

“Then act like you remember that when you talk to me.”

He stepped closer. I stayed beside the car, with the door handle pressing into the back of my hip. His good jacket was buttoned wrong. He’d missed the middle button when he put it on, and I kept looking at it because I couldn’t remember ever seeing him come out of the house like that.

“I saw the way you were looking at him.”

“So?”

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-two.”

He stared at me. “And you don’t see anything wrong with that?”

“I’m nineteen. He knows how old I am.”

“Of course he does.” Daddy looked toward the street where Frank had gone. “A man like that knows exactly what he’s looking at.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I know enough.”

“You know he wears a leather vest and doesn’t sit in your church on Sunday.”

“I know what goes on around those men.”

“Then why are you asking me questions if you’ve already decided everything?”

His hand closed around my elbow when I tried to move past him. I stopped and looked down at his fingers. He wasn’t hurting me, but he wasn’t letting me go, either.

“Look at yourself,” he said. “The hair. The clothes. Hanging around a man you’ve just met, making it plain what you’re offering him.”

I pulled my arm free.

“I haven’t offered him anything.”

“You think he invited you because he’s interested in your conversation?”

For a second, I couldn’t find a thing to say. Daddy had been angry with me plenty of times. He’d shouted over cigarettes and music and the hour I came home. But he was looking at me now as though he couldn’t stand being this close, and I had to tuck my hands under my arms to keep from reaching for my skirt.

“Maybe he likes me.”

Daddy gave a short, ugly laugh.

“He doesn’t know you.”

“Neither do you if that’s what you think I’m doing.”

“I know I raised you better than to throw yourself at the first man who pays attention to you.”

I turned toward the car and put my hand on the roof. There was dust beneath my palm. I rubbed it off on my tights, then faced him again.

“I came here to work. You followed me. You started this in front of my boss, and now you’re standing here telling me I’m too stupid to know whether a man wants to take me for a ride.”

“He wants to get under that skirt, Marjorie. And you’re doing everything you can to help him.”

“Stop it.”

“Is that why you cut it? Was that the idea?”

“I said stop.”

“You want to behave like a little whore, don’t expect me to stand by and watch.”

I could hear somebody unloading boxes behind the pharmacy. A truck door slammed, and a man called something I couldn’t make out. Daddy stood in front of me with his mouth still open, ready to keep going.

“I’m your daughter.”

“Then start behaving like it.”

I waited for him to look at my face. He kept pulling at the cuff of his sleeve instead, straightening it beneath his jacket as though we were finished and he had somewhere else to be.

“You don’t get to call me that.”

“I said if you behave like one.”

“I heard what you said.”

He started to answer, and I stepped away from the car.

“No. You wanted me out here, and now you’re going to listen. You can hate my hair. You can hate my skirt. You can hate every fucking thing I put on in the morning. But you’re not calling me that again.”

“Lower your voice.”

I laughed, and it came out badly. “Now you care who hears us?”

He looked toward the loading truck. I watched him do it, watched him check whether the man carrying a box could see around the corner.

“Go home, Daddy.”

“We are not finished.”

“I am. I have to work.”

He caught up when I started toward the front of the building, but this time he kept his hands to himself.

“If you get on that motorcycle, you and I are going to have a very different conversation tonight.”

I stopped beside the pharmacy door. Through the glass, I could see Mrs. Bledsoe collecting the boys’ empty napkins. She looked up, and I turned my back to the window before she could see my face.

“What else are you going to call me?”

Daddy’s jaw worked. He glanced past me into the shop, then leaned closer.

“Your mother deserves better than having people talk about her daughter.”

“Then don’t go home and tell her what you just said to me.”

“You watch yourself, Marjorie.”

He turned so sharply that his shoulder knocked mine, then strode toward his car. I stood with my hand on the pharmacy door while he got in and slammed his hard enough that the woman passing him on the sidewalk looked over. He pulled away from the curb without looking at me again.

I went back inside.

Mrs. Bledsoe held out my apron, but I shook my head and went past her toward the little bathroom behind the stockroom. I locked the door, turned on the tap, and stood over the sink until I could swallow without making a sound.

My lipstick had worn off in the middle. I could see the darker outline around my mouth in the mirror, and I wet a paper towel to wipe the rest away. Then I wiped under my eyes. The towel came away black.

“Shit.”

I tried again with a clean corner, making it worse before I got most of the smeared mascara off. My purse was still under the counter. I wasn’t walking through the shop to get it with my face like this, so I washed my hands and stayed there until somebody knocked.

“Marge?”

“I’m coming.”

“I have your bag.”

I opened the door a few inches. Mrs. Bledsoe passed it through without trying to come in.

“Take a minute. We’re all right out here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t come in shouting.”

She left before I could apologize again. I set my purse beside the sink and found my makeup, taking twice as much care with the mascara as I had that morning. When I finished, I put on the same lipstick Daddy had objected to at breakfast.

He wasn’t getting that, too.

By the time I came out, the boys and their mother were gone. Mrs. Bledsoe had cleared their table and moved my apron to the hook. I put it on, tied the strings behind my back, and picked up the order pad.

“Where do you need me?”

She pointed to a man at the far table. “Ham on wheat. No cheese. Coffee’s already poured.”

I made the sandwich, carried it over, and remembered to ask whether he needed anything else. He wanted another napkin. I brought him three, then went back to wash the dishes left in the sink.

For the next hour, I took orders and made change and kept catching myself listening whenever the bell above the door rang. Daddy didn’t come back. Frank didn’t, either, although there was no reason for him to be there yet. I was halfway through pouring a chocolate shake when I realized I’d started wondering whether he would come at all.

I filled the glass too close to the top and had to clean up the dribble down the side before I could serve it.

At noon, every stool was occupied. Mr. Bledsoe came out from the prescription counter to ring up purchases while his wife helped me with the food. Somebody wanted an egg salad sandwich despite my warning. A woman spilled coffee on her shopping list and asked me for a pencil so she could write it again. I made two malts, neither of them vanilla, and burned the edge of a grilled cheese because I was trying to find the pencil at the same time.

Mrs. Bledsoe took the sandwich off the grill and put two fresh slices of bread beside me.

“Do another. I’ll get the pencil.”

I scraped the blackened bread into the trash and started over.

At five minutes to one, I began refilling the napkin dispensers. I’d already wiped the counter and washed the mixing cups. My tips were folded in my apron pocket, and my jacket was hanging where I could see it every time I turned around.

“You can go,” Mrs. Bledsoe said.

“I haven’t finished these.”

“I can put napkins in a holder.”

I slid the stack toward her and untied my apron. My hands were dry from washing them all morning. There was a little crack beside one thumbnail that stung when I dragged it over the knot.

“Can I buy a pack of cigarettes before I leave?”

She went to the register while I put my jacket on. I paid with some of my tips, shoved the pack into my purse, and checked that my car keys were still in the bottom. They were. I could go home if he hadn’t come back. I could drive somewhere else for a while if I couldn’t stand going home yet.

“Thank you for this morning,” I said.

Mrs. Bledsoe handed me my change. “See you tomorrow afternoon.”

I opened the door before I could ask whether she’d seen a motorcycle outside.

Frank was sitting on it at the curb.

He had one boot planted in the road and a helmet resting on his thigh. His hair was pushed back from his forehead, and he’d put a jacket beneath his cut. When he saw me, he straightened and lifted the helmet.

“You ready?”

I stopped beside him, close enough to touch his knee.

“You came back.”

“Told you I would.”

He handed me the helmet. I took it with both hands and looked inside, running my thumb over the lining while I tried to remember what I’d been planning to say to him before Daddy arrived.

“I’ve never worn one of these.”

“Try it.”

I put my purse strap across my chest and pulled the helmet on. My hair caught beneath it. I tugged the strands free around my ears, then reached for the strap and found myself holding two ends that didn’t seem inclined to go together.

Frank leaned toward me.

“Here.”

He took the strap from my fingers and threaded it through the fastening. I stood beside the bike while he adjusted it beneath my chin, watching the little crease between his eyebrows instead of his hands. There was no grease on them now.

He gave the strap a small tug, then moved his fingers to the edge of the helmet.

“That hurting anywhere?”

“No.”

“Good.” He released it and glanced down at my skirt. “You going to manage getting on in that?”

“I’ll manage.”

I pulled the hem down, which accomplished nothing, then tucked my purse against my side and put a hand on his shoulder. He braced the motorcycle while I climbed onto the seat behind him. My skirt rode up my thighs, and I worked it back down over my tights as best I could before settling my boots on the passenger pegs.

“All right?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Yes.”

I had one hand on the seat and the other holding the back of his jacket. He turned far enough to see what I was doing, then reached back and caught my hands.

“Hold on to me.”

He drew my arms around his waist and brought my hands together against his stomach, inside the open edges of his jacket. My palms landed on his shirt. Beneath it, his abs were firm and tight, and when he shifted forward, I felt the muscles move under my fingers.

I forgot about fixing my skirt.

Frank covered my hands with one of his and pulled them more securely around him. It brought me forward until my thighs pressed along his and my chest rested against his back.

“Like that,” he said.

“I can do that.”

He glanced back, and I was glad the helmet hid most of my face. My fingers had spread across his stomach instead of clasping together. I joined them before he could say anything, although he didn’t seem in a hurry to move my hands away.

“Keep your feet up when we stop,” he said. “I’ve got the bike.”

“Okay.”

He took his own helmet from the handlebar and put it on, then checked the street and started the engine. The vibration came up through the seat and into my legs. I tightened my arms before we’d moved an inch.

He reached down and squeezed my hand once, then eased away from the curb.

I held my breath through the first turn. Frank took it slowly, and I followed the movement of his body instead of fighting it. When he straightened, I loosened my grip just enough to breathe and pressed my palms against his stomach again.

The pharmacy slipped behind us. My car stayed parked beside it with the keys in my purse, and I kept my head turned toward the road ahead while we passed the turn I would have taken to go home.

At the next stop, Frank put his boots down and waited for a pickup to cross in front of us. I kept mine on the pegs. He reached back to touch my knee, checking that I was settled, and I moved closer without being asked.

Then we were out past the last buildings, with the wind pulling at the ends of my hair and open ground stretching away on both sides of the road.

I’d driven this way before. I knew the fence with the bent gate and the empty shed farther out, but from behind a windshield I’d never noticed how much I could smell after leaving town. Dust, warm pavement, something green growing along the ditch. The air found the gap at my wrists and worked beneath my jacket. I tucked my hands farther around Frank, where he was warm.

He didn’t speed up to make me squeal or jerk the handlebars to see whether I’d cling harder. He rode through the bends without surprising me, and after a few miles I stopped checking the road over his shoulder every other second. I watched the land instead, then looked down at my hands resting against him.

I wanted to touch him without pretending I needed a better grip.

I moved one hand a little higher. His stomach tightened beneath my palm, and he tipped his helmet toward me before looking back at the road. I left my hand there.

Farther out, he slowed and pulled into a wide gravel turnout. I kept my feet on the pegs until he had both of his down. When he switched off the engine, I could hear the wind and the small ticking sounds from the motorcycle beneath us.

He looked back.

“How you doing?”

“My skirt’s somewhere around my ass.”

He laughed. I reached down with one hand to tug at it, keeping the other wrapped around his waist.

“You need to get off and fix it?”

“Probably. But then I’ll have to get back on.”

“Take your time.”

I stayed where I was. From here, I could see the road dropping away toward town. I couldn’t pick out the pharmacy or our house, and I didn’t try very hard. Frank rested his hand over mine while we sat there, his thumb moving once across my knuckles.

“Your dad leave?” he asked.

“Eventually.”

“He give you much trouble?”

I worked my thumb against the seam of his shirt. There were things Daddy had said that I didn’t want to hear in my own voice, especially with Frank sitting between my knees.

“He said a lot of shit.”

Frank waited, but I kept looking at the road.

“I don’t want to talk about him right now.”

“All right.”

He let go of my hand and reached toward the handlebars. I caught the edge of his jacket before he could straighten all the way.

“Are we going back?”

“You want to?”

“No.”

“Then we’ll ride some more.”

I slid both hands beneath the edges of his jacket and settled closer while he started the motorcycle. This time, when he looked back to check on me, my arms were already wrapped tight around him.