“Why didn’t you ever ask before?” I said. “I just thought you knew.”
“Well…” He hesitated. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to know.”
I just waited, and he went on.
“When I was little, when we were off at school, I liked to pretend I had a mother back home, like everyone else.”
“Sure.”
“If I didn’t know anything, I could still pretend whatever I wanted to.”
“Are you okay with going today?”
He nodded. “I want her to be real now.”
“Here’s a new rule, um, Number 90. Don’t ever be afraid to talk to me about anything.”
“Unless you’re mad.”
“The spaghetti was a special case. I said I was sorry.”
“And you skipped Number 89.”
“I’m sure we’ll get to it soon.”
Eric had opened a closet, and he took down a bright green helmet. He held it out to me. “Here you go.”
I would maybe wear a helmet when he was driving, but that was not what he meant. This was a motorcycle helmet.
“Uh… okay,” I said. Bright Kool-Aid green. Couldn’t it at least be any other color?
“And here.” It was the matching jacket. “It’s cold. Do you want the pants?”
I was supposed to be Motorcycle Man? Eric waited for me to not decide.
“You want the pants. And the boots. Why be cold when you can be cool instead? And if I drop you, it won’t hurt as much.”
Eric In Charge was a new experience for both of us. I submitted to his directions, and there we were, Evel and Knievel, tromping through the garage past my perfectly comfortable car, past all his perfectly comfortable cars, to the Boyercycle Zone.
He selected the largest horse in the stable, a two-seat Honda Goldwing. He put on his helmet, and so did I. All systems go, Houston. Ready for countdown.
Eric stuck his hand under my chin and moved a switch.
“Can you hear me?” he said inside my head. The helmets had speakers.
“Yes.”
“Cool. I’ve never had anybody to talk to before.”
Not that we would much, but I wouldn’t have to pound on him to get his attention.
“Don’t kill me, Eric,” I said.
“Is that Rule 89?”
The astronauts climbed into the space shuttle, Commander Eric first, Navigator Jason second. Five, four, three. The engine roared to life. Two, one. A jerk (the motion, not the passenger). Blast off.
We made a wide left sweep toward the exit, then right, faster and tighter, into the road.
“Lean into it, Jason. Don’t fight the turns.”
The rocket sped down the quaint and historic road. “Have you ever had a rider before?”
“No. It’s different.” Right turn. I leaned into it. “That’s better,” he said, then gunned the engine. “Hold on.”
I held.
He twisted the handle grip and the motorcycle accelerated hard.
But not too hard. Lots of people drive these things, so they couldn’t be too difficult. I could feel his skill, though, and his confidence, and his exultation. He wasn’t going to drop me.
Lean right into the entrance ramp. Around the circle, the concrete twelve inches from my shoulder, moving very rapidly. Onto the highway, back to straight ahead, back to vertical, back to fast. Increase to real fast.
“You still there?”
“Right behind you.”
He gunned the engine. “Get ready.”
I couldn’t judge the speed. We passed cars and no cars passed us.
But he knew how to do this; he’d never had a ticket.
“How do you like it?”
“It’s real sweet, Eric.”
He did this about every day. Just following the roads, every paved mile in New England, two wheels or four wheels, whatever he felt like.
We crossed into Massachusetts. “Where are we going?”
“You know where Laconia is?”
“Yeah.”
No map. He knew the way. This was his life, or his escape from life.
How were he and I alike? The boat and the bike were both speed and power, but sailing was a contest, me against the sea and wind. He was master of this machine and the road under it, no contest.
This was his world to be in charge of. He’d never been in charge of his life-always shuffled from school to school, told what to do, never certain of what would be permanent. I was his only permanence.
And I was always in charge, of him and everything else. I hated anyone telling me to do anything, so they didn’t. Maybe I got along with the wind because I had to respect it. There isn’t much else in my life I have to.
This was the same wind we were cutting through. My brother didn’t respect it, he reveled in it. He was the wind. He was a Boyer as much as I was.
What a wonderful bright day we were in, and there were mountains around us. I’d missed the New Hampshire border.
What about the Rove side? I just had memories of her, and Eric had nothing. How much of our mother did either of us have?
No clouds, just blue, blue sky. The sky and the bike were the only things not moving. The mountains moved slowly.
“There’s a place up here if you want lunch.”
“You’re driving,” I said.
Off the highway, lean way over to the right. Country road.
“Up here” meant “way over there.” All the curves they’d taken out of the highway they’d put on this road. Lean left, lean right, slow behind a car, fast around it, up a hill, down a hill, fork right, hard left. This was more of a contest.
Slow down, we were stopped. It was a diner built off a white house with a gravel parking lot, a picket fence, and some flowers. Suddenly it was easy to breathe, and quiet. The ground was solid and unmoving.
I took a few steps and pulled off the helmet. Eric was still sitting, his helmet off, grinning and watching me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. It just takes a minute to get my balance.”
He swung himself out of the saddle and unzipped his jacket. I was hot and I took mine off.
We went up the steps and in the door. The inside was the same as the outside, nice, plain, a little worn. The floor was tile. One table had people.
The woman behind the counter had been there a long time, thirty years maybe. She glanced up from the cash register.
“Eric. You brought a friend.” She stared at me. “Looks like he’s your brother.”
Eric smiled real big. “Yeah, he is. I’ve told you about him? This is Jason.”
“I’ll be with you in a minute. What do you want to drink?” she asked me.
“Just water.”
She was already filling a cup with lemonade. She brought the two drinks to the table.
“Hamburger, mushroom and Swiss,” she said, writing, without asking him.
“Two of them,” he said. “It’s great,” he said to me.
“Okay.”
“Anything else?”
“Onion rings,” I said.
“Me too,” little brother said. “Thanks, Hazel.”
Hazel was friendly but not talkative, and someone else came in for her to attend to.
“So you come here often.”
Eric nodded. “It’s one of my places.” Hazel’s lingering aura left just the right mood.
“So, what do you remember about our mother?” I didn’t even really know what to call her.
“Wow. Um, I don’t know. All the pictures make me think I remember her. I wouldn’t though, would I?”
“You were two,” I said. “I don’t think so.”
“What do you remember?”
“I remember…” It’s hard to put in words what you experienced before you knew the words. “I remember her in bed, or sitting. She sang lullabies to us. I remember thinking she was different from other people because she didn’t move. She just sat in her chair or in her bed.” Only to Eric could I say this. “I remember feeling loved. I loved her. I wish you could remember.”
We ate the food, which was passable, and we dealt with our tragedy. It was the first time we had.
Melvin was thirty-two and she was twenty-one. His father had died, and he was already rich and getting richer. His mother introduced them at a Christmas party. The Roves were a respectable old New Hampshire family, and she was very pretty. He swept her off her feet. They honeymooned in Paris and Rome and Athens. She was shy but brave, and he was bold, and together they were dashing. They had those two free and golden years together, then three more as happy parents. He had become very busy by then.