Indian Summer

The thunderstorm ahead looked menacing, and the fuel warning light was beginning to wink on and off, so what with discretion being the better part of valor and all, he decided to pull off the interstate and gas up at the next exit. A gust of wind whipped across the prairie, and he rode it out by shifting his weight a little, leaning into the wind a bit. He flipped on the cruise control and lifted his hand from the throttle, flexed his wrist a few times, then slipped his helmet's visor open a few inches and let some fresh, ozone-laden air wash across his face. The smell of an approaching storm had always intrigued him, and had since he was a little boy, but with age came a deeper appreciation of the dangers that rode on these storm-borne winds -- and today he definitely felt danger in the air. He scanned the clouds again, saw a curtain of greenish cloud drop from the deep slate blue wall that lined the northern horizon, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle with electric anticipation.

He felt more than heard the rifle shot of lightning that arced into the scorched Utah landscape somewhere off to his left, but the thunder that followed a microsecond later crashed into him with urgent ferocity. He felt an icy grip on his heart for a moment before big, fat raindrops hammered onto his visor -- just as he slammed it shut, and within that heartbeat his body was assaulted by heavy, pummeling rain; visibility dropped to less than a hundred yards as sudden blinding, whiteness defined his universe, so he cut the cruise control to let his speed bleed off slowly. He saw that the few cars ahead had already pulled off the road, but there wasn't any shelter out on this barren moonscape for anyone on two wheels -- and as it was only a few more miles to the gas station he plowed on through the driving rain.

And the rain was surprisingly cold, too, he realized, and that set off alarm bells in his head. 'With icy rain, get ready for pain'? Wasn't that one of the old motorcyclists' sayings his father had passed along, once upon a time? Now, wouldn't a nice pelting of icy hail be peachy-keen? He swept the road ahead, looking for any sign of hailstones bouncing on the concrete -- then he saw the loom of gas stations not far ahead. He fought the urge to hammer the throttle and race for safety, but he simply felt ecstatic when he made out the red and gold Shell sign through the swirling mist, and he slowed as the exit approached. He pulled off the highway and over to the covered fueling area with a sigh of relief, then he slipped the kickstand down and crawled off the bike, stretching all the kinked muscles he could in the process.

"Pretty ugly out there," he heard a voice say, and he turned towards the voice, saw an ancient man standing by the pump behind his, filling up a battered old pickup truck.

"It is that," he said. "Rain's getting cold too."

"Probably be snow up there tonight," the old guy said, pointing toward the Wasatch mountains off to the east.

"What about hail? Get much around here?"

"In October? No...usually too cold now for much of that, unless you hear thunder..." And this received wisdom was accompanied moments later by another bolt of lightning and the shattering crash of thunder, then a pea-sized barrage of hail. The old guy smiled knowingly as he finished fueling his truck, then he climbed into his truck. "Keep your eyes open," the old man said. "Never know what you'll run into around these parts."

"Got that right," the man said. "Have a good one."

"You too." The old man waved, then rolled up his window and drove off into the storm.

He lifted his bike onto the center-stand and opened the fuel cap, then fed his debit card into the pump and put almost five gallons into the tank, all the while casting a wary eye toward the horizon, looking for signs the storm was receding or moving closer. The sky was almost black now, though it was not quite noon, and he thought the air was quite cool for October. When he finished fueling the Beemer, he rode the bike over to a diner across the parking area and went inside for a cup of coffee, and as he walked to the door he saw a woman standing by the side of the building, staring off into the ether -- oblivious to the rain. He shook his head and went inside, ordered coffee and a club sandwich from the grumpy waitress behind the counter and sat there, waiting, hoping she would turn off the air conditioning before hypothermia set in. He cleaned his sunglasses while he waited for the coffee, then checked his email, hoping for a note from his son. As was almost always the case, there was nothing.

He looked at his watch: just a little past noon, plenty of time to make it past Salt Lake City, maybe all the way to Pocatello if the storm let up a little. He finished his coffee, pushed aside the soggy sandwich and paid the bill, then when a burst of sunshine came along he went back out to the bike. The woman was still out there, still almost rigid, only now she was staring at him, and while he couldn't decide what flavor of crazy she was, something about her seemed to call out to him, and without really knowing why he walked over to her.

"You alright?" he asked as he looked her over, trying to decide if she was dangerous or not.

"Yup. Nice rain. Been a long, hot summer." The woman's gaze remained fixed in his direction, but seemed focused somewhere behind him, almost beyond infinity.

"I hope I'm not sticking my nose into your business, but are you waiting for someone?"

And at that, she tuned her eyes to face his directly. "Yes, I suppose you could say that."

"Do you live around here?"

"No. Not anymore."

"Listen, I'm not trying to be nosy, but are you okay?"

"Okay? I'm not sure I understand the question."

"Uh...well...is there anyone I could call for you?"

"Call? Oh, no, there's no one."

"Somewhere I could take you? Is your home around here?"

She looked at him quizzically now, then smiled. "Sorry. No home, either."

He nodded his head, perplexed, because there was something about this woman he simply couldn't ignore. Maybe it was her eyes, as honest and at peace as any he'd ever encountered, but something about her was drawing him inward, and suddenly, he remembered the lightning. He pulled back from his memory of the light, looked at her, took her in: late fifties maybe, close-cropped salt and pepper hair, clear skin, rail thin and almost his height. Worn-out khakis, denim shirt, ragged blue wind-breaker, old work boots and a navy blue ball cap. All very clean, but soaking wet now, and he noticed she was shivering slightly.

"Have you eaten anything today?"

She shook her head.

"Are you hungry?"

"A little, yes."

"Could I buy you lunch?"

"That would be nice."

He led her into the diner and they took a booth by the windows that looked out on the parking lot. The waitress, Miss America 1956, came by and dropped off two menus, and he noticed the waitress's scowl when she looked at the woman.

"You want somethin' to drink, honey?" Miss America asked.

"A Coke, maybe?"

"We got Pepsi."

"Oh," the woman said, "that's fine."

"Make it two," the man said.

"Right." The waitress waddled away, leaving them in silence.

"The club sandwich is dreadful," he whispered.

She shrugged. "Would you order for me?"

He seemed taken aback. "What...do you like?"

"Something simple. A salad, maybe."

"Are you a vegetarian?"

"No. Listen, I don't want to put you out. It's nice of you to do this, but I don't want to impose."

"Oh. Okay."

Miss America returned with the Pepsis, and asked if they were ready to order.

"Two t-bone steaks, medium. Each with loaded baked potato, salads with Thousand Island."

"We got broccoli."

"Then I guess we're having broccoli."

"Cheese sauce?"

"Don't suppose you have Hollandaise?"

"Sure do. On both?"

"Reckon so."

"Okay. Hope you're not in a hurry." The waitress disappeared again.

"What's your name?" the woman asked him.

"Tom. Yours?"

"Mary."

"Of course."

"Excuse me? Why do you say that?"

"Mary. That was my wife's name."

"Oh. How long has she been gone?"

"Ten years." He looked at her closely again. "How did you know?"

"The ring on your finger, the sorrow in your voice."

"Ah." He looked at her left hand, saw the ring on her third finger. "You too?"

"I was married to Jesus Christ. I quit. A few days ago."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm, I was, a nun."

"Until three days ago?"

"Yup."

"I take it the parting wasn't exactly amicable?"

"You could say that." She smiled, though there was something beyond pain in her eyes.

"And you're heading where?"

She shrugged her shoulders through the pain of her smile.

"How long have you been here? I mean, standing out there?"

"Yesterday. I walked down from the mountain. Got here late in the day."

"And you slept where?"

She pointed across the parking lot. "Under that tree."

"Uh-huh."

"Could I ask you something?" Mary said.

"Sure."

"What were you running from?"

"Maybe if I knew you better, Mary, but let's not go there, okay?"

"Okay." She looked at him anew, measured his words. "Where are you headed, Tom?"

"The Tetons."

"Never been there. Heard it's nice up there, though."

"Leaves should be turning about now."

Miss America returned with two salads and two ladles full of dressing, then puttered off back to the kitchen, and he set about fixing his salad.

"Would you do mine too?"

"You bet."

They ate in silence for a moment, until the quality of the dressing hit home. "Damn, this is home made!" he said loudly, so they'd hear him in the kitchen.

"You bet your sweet ass it is!" he heard the waitress say from the kitchen. "We make our own mayonnaise, too!"

"Holy cow! This is really, really good!"

"It is good, isn't it?" Mary said softly, as if she was remembering something far away and long ago. "So, why the Tetons?"

"Well, why not? They're nice to look at, and with the leaves turning? Thought I'd take a few pictures, just laze away a few days."

"You're a photographer?"

"No, but I like to spend money on cameras. Makes me feel important."

"Really?"

He grinned. "I should warn you. I've been accused of being a world class sarcastic son of a bitch more than once."

"I see. So, what do you do for a living?"

"Nothing."

"Sarcasm again? And so soon, too."

"Sorry. I'm retired."

"Why the bike? I mean, you seem a little old for 'middle-aged crazy'."

"Gee, thanks. I think."

"So?"

"Something I've been wanting to do. For a long time."

"No time like the present, or so the saying goes."

"Exactly."

"So, after the Tetons? Where to?"

"Were you, like, an interrogator for the CIA in your last life?"

She laughed, a small, well-controlled little laugh, and he noticed for the first time that she was a fairly pretty woman...or maybe he was just getting attuned to her features. "Sorry, no. I was just wondering all night long when you were going to show up."

"Uh, sorry. You lost me."

"Well, it's just that I never figured the universe was just going to spit me out under that tree and leave me there. I knew that someone, someone good was going to come and talk to me."

"You did, huh."

Miss America delivered plates heaped with steaks and potatoes, and a moment later she returned with a small platter heaped with broccoli Hollandaise. "We put lemon butter on the steaks. Try 'em before you use salt and pepper."

He tore into his and pronounced it perfect, and Miss America beamed. "I'll tell Dave."

"Damn, this is really good grub. Best steak I've had in ages."

"This place has a reputation," Mary said absent-mindedly.

"Man alive! You're just not kidding, are you?"

"It is good, isn't it?" she said as she cut into her steak. "What did you call that sauce on the vegetables?"

"Hollandaise? You've never had it before?"

"No, but it's really good."

"Eggs, butter and lemon. The best I've had in a long time, too."

"The owner retired from New York , some big city banker; he has a ranch somewhere around here. They use their own beef, too, if I recall. I think he's a pedophile. Not that that matters much these days."

"What?"

"Oh, you know how it is. People talk. So, anyway, after the Tetons? Where will you go?"

"Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, wherever the wind blows, really. Then back home, maybe. Why do you ask?"

"I was wondering. Is there room for two on that bike?"

His eyebrows arched. "Did you, indeed?"

"It must be like flying. Or riding a horse across the prairie," she said, spreading her arms wide, "before all this was built."

"I suppose so."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I know I'm intruding, but I was just wondering what it feels like. Daydreaming, really."

"What happened?"

"You mean, why did I leave the Church?"

"I guess. Kind of hard to pick up the thread of your story, if you know what I mean."

She laughed again, yet her eyes were never evasive. "My story, huh? Well, it's simple enough. I was an orphan, raised at a Catholic facility in central Montana. Went to a Catholic college in Great Falls, then into an order, I guess you'd say, as a nurse, but eventually I sort of fell into social work."

"Did you always want to be a nurse, or a nun?"

"Yes, to both."

"Ever have a boyfriend, anything like that?"

She smiled again. "No, I am truly a virgin Mary!"

Now it was his turn to laugh. "I guess I deserved that one."

"Yup, you sure did."

"So, you quit. Why?"

"Same reason anyone quits. Politics. Burned out..."

"Lose your faith?"

"In the Church, perhaps," she smiled, "but not in God."

"Politics? Did you lose a fight?"

"That's probably as good a description as could be. But it's the constant need to fight that hurts in the end. I guess the story never changes though."

"Sisyphus?"

"No, Diogenes."

"Ah. The lantern?"

"None so blind as though who will not see."

"Yes," he sighed, "that seems to be the fate of our species."

"Hence the motorcycle? Pirsig? Zen?"

"Good book, but no, I'm getting old, and like a lot of people find that I'm becoming afraid of the night."

"Never went in for the church thing, I take it?"

"Atheist, through and through."

"Well, that's the only way. There's not much point in 'sort of' believing, is there?"

He smiled again. "No, I suppose not."

"So, since you won't tell me, let me guess. You were a physician?"

He tried to keep smiling, but was a little surprised nonetheless.

"It's your hands. They're a dead give away."

He looked down at his hands, and sighed at his one vanity.

"You were a surgeon?"

"Pediatric cardiovascular, yes."

She closed her eyes suddenly, took his hand in hers and rubbed his fingers for a moment, then she pulled away quickly. When she opened her eyes again they were full of tears.

"I'm so sorry," she said at last. "I shouldn't have."

"Shouldn't have what?"

"So, either of you two want dessert?" the waitress said, suddenly by the table. "We have fresh pecan pie, and a homemade pumpkin cheesecake."

"Cheesecake sounds good," he said. "How 'bout you?"

"Sure," Mary said, wiping a tear from her cheek.

"Okay," the waitress said warily before sliding back to the safety of her kitchen.

"What shouldn't you have done?"

"You're sick," she said. "Cancer."

"Okay. And you know this how?"

She was staring at his chest, then lower, at his gut; she placed her right hand over his chest and moved it across his body several times.

"It's in your right lobe, and in the liver." She paused, took a deep breath, then moved her hand lower -- but he stopped her, moved her hand away.

"How do you know that?"

"It's why I'm no longer with the church. I see things, things other people can't."

"You see illness?"

"Yes. Among other things."

"And this was seen as a threat to them?"

"Yes."

"Were you persecuted?"

"Yes."

"So. You want to go on a little motorcycle ride. Is that about it?"

She nodded her head. "Yes."

"Was our meeting a coincidence?"

"There are no coincidences, Tom."

"I kind of thought you might say that."

"Yes, I saw you asking me that question last night."

He nodded his head, not knowing if this woman had escaped from a mental institution or whether he needed to find one -- fast -- and check himself in.

The cheesecake turned out to be homemade as well. The best he'd ever had.

+++++

They slipped into Salt Lake City and and stopped at a BMW dealer; he bought her a helmet and a riding suit, some gloves as well, then they stopped off at a Target and bought some clothing for her, as well as a few necessaries, and when all this new stuff was stowed he got his R1200GS back onto northbound Interstate 15, heading for the Idaho border.

He'd been tossing around the idea of camping that night, but thought better of it, thinking the woman might need a hot shower and some clean sheets after a night in the rough, and at a rest stop just inside Idaho he made a reservation on his iPhone at the Lava Hot Springs Inn, an ancient place in one of the strangest, most wonderfully out of the way places imaginable. They pulled into the tiny town just as the sun slipped behind the mountains, and he got their stuff up to the room before setting off on foot into the small town. They found the hot pools, as well as a few decent looking places to eat, then began walking back to the Inn.

They'd not had the opportunity to talk much since lunch, but now, walking in the late twilight he found her extraordinarily easy to talk to, almost like they were old friends, and he found himself wanting this walk to last a long time...

And then, out of the blue, she took his hand in hers.

"This is nice, Tom."

"It is, isn't it? Kind of unexpected."

She looked at him and smiled.

"Oh, I forgot. No coincidences."

"I don't think this is a coincidence," she said.

"What else have you 'seen'?"

"Sex."

He gulped. "I've never had sex, Mary, but I have made love to a woman a couple of times."

"There's a difference?"

"Yes. A huge difference, I think."

"How so?"

"I think sex by itself is a primitive, barely restrained explosion of lust. Making love is what two people who are deeply in love enjoy together."

"And never the twain shall mix, is that it?"

"I think so."

"I saw sex. Wild, uninhibited sex. You and me. Tonight."

"You saw it?"

"Like an echo. What we're about to do will echo through time, forward in time, as well as back. I felt that."

"I wish I could believe that, let alone understand..."

"You have a small scar, about three inches long, on the inside of your right thigh, just above the knee."

He stopped dead in his tracks. "How the devil do you know that!"

"I saw it, Tom."

"You saw something that hasn't happened yet?"

"Yes, because it has."

He shook his head. "Uh-huh."

"It's like memory, Tom. Everything that's going to happen already has, just not in a way that's easy to find. Your brain isn't wired that way."

"And yours is?"

She smiled. Look, not all memory is flooding into your mind all the time, if it was you'd go out of your mind. You have to have the ability to select the events you want to remember, and you can because that's the way your brain is wired. Well, the future is kind of like that too, it's out there, in a way, and for whatever reason, right now I can see it."

"You can see the future?"

"Yes, but I'm not the first. I know that makes you uncomfortable, but dreams are like that too, you know?"

"Dreams?"

"Yes, in our sleep, we find our way to these echoes, for some reason all of you can. That's why they can be so unimaginable, so bizarre. Yet so knowable. Why they sometimes feel so familiar."

"Knowable? Dreams?"

"Yes. And not just to ourselves, but to others as well."