The Leather Jacket

Shortly after noon, when the hardware store closed on Saturday, Ernie Watkins stood at the kitchen sink and ate an apple. He rented the first floor of a house on Sycamore Avenue. Still in his work clothes, a pale blue shirt and khaki pants, he was in a good mood. Mr. Shakewell had promoted him to head clerk. Until now Ernie considered hardware a job, not a career, but this marked a step forward. Was there more in his future?

As he chewed, Ernie stared out the window. Clouds like puffs of cotton floated high overhead in a sky as blue as the glaze on a bowl. Reach up and tap the rim of the horizon, and it would surely ring. Ernie flicked the core out the window and pulled down the sash. There was nothing for it but to jump in his pickup and drive through the bright landscape.

Getting clear of Hapsburg took only a minute. There was no traffic, and few people were out despite the fine weather. Deep shadow alternated with glare, like a black and white photograph. The road wound through hayfields and woods. In the high ground of the Valley of Virginia, the soil was too stony and thin to cultivate. At best, it could pasture sheep, goats, or a stalwart herd of dairy cows.

After an hour of aimless driving on gravel roads where he left a plume of dust, Ernie didn’t know where he was. You couldn’t say he was lost, because he grew up here, but you could say he was outside his comfort zone. Crossing a brook, the truck rattled the planks of a one-lane bridge. The road turned sharp and became the single street of a village. The place was deserted on this sun-struck afternoon. A sheet-metal sign, tilted and engulfed by weeds, bore the single word “Endeavor.”

Ernie parked, flung open the door of the cab, and hopped down to stretch his legs. The strip of asphalt met grass to either side, no curb or sidewalk. The ground was dry. The village was a huddle of small cottages and one-room shops, built of gray block and wood clapboard from which the paint had peeled. What had brought Endeavor into being? If it was a railroad stop, the tracks had disappeared. Maybe the brook once powered a mill, or maybe in the time of horse and foot travel, this was the natural gathering spot for surrounding farms.

Shop windows were dusty. Posters taped to the inner face of the glass were faded to shades of powder blue and pale yellow. They touted events that happened long ago. The street possessed a drugstore, a bank, a law office, and a beauty salon, all closed. A little frame church had its windows boarded up. Not a soul in sight.

At a shop labeled “Antiques” that was once the general store, Ernie paused to peer through grimy glass. He saw broken furniture, tattered books, chipped china plates, sentimental prints in crumbling frames, rusty farm tools. It was sad what some people left behind.

A bare light bulb shone inside. Was the shop open? It was a long shot, but they might have a toaster. Electrical appliances from a hundred years ago were wonderful and strange, though susceptible to short circuits. Ernie repaired them, cleaned them, and added them to his collection.

He tried the latch, and the door swung in. A bell jingled sharply overhead.

An old man sat beside the door. He looked up from a newspaper spread on a countertop. A threadbare shirt draped his wasted body. He had pale and mottled skin, sunken cheeks, and sparse gray hair. Gray eyes gleamed in the dimness. He uttered a low rumble which might be a greeting.

Ernie made his way to the back, glancing left and right. Shelves were piled helter-skelter, with a layer of dust over all. The shop was a mess, with nothing of value, in need of a good sweep. He saw a few kitchen wares, but none that called to him. Except for the man bent over his newspaper, the shop was as deserted as the street. Ernie ambled back to the front. A leather jacket draped the back of a chair. He must have walked right past it. Black and scuffed, the jacket had seen hard use. Casually thrown on the wooden chair rail, it looked like someone would soon return to claim it. In a place so forlorn, filled with things that nobody wanted, the leather jacket was strangely compelling.

Ernie searched for a sticker, a label, a price tag. A red patch sewn on the right shoulder bore the legend:

Town of Endeavor

Motor Patrol

“Go ahead, try it on for size.” The old man’s voice boomed from behind. “You’ll be the first, yes, sir! The reason you get first crack at it is that leather jacket just came in the shop. Who knows, this may be your lucky day!”

Ernie lifted the jacket from the chair, slipped his arms into the sleeves, and shrugged the weight across his back. He tried the zipper. It ran smoothly up and down. He sucked in his stomach and puffed out his chest. The jacket required a manly posture.

“A perfect fit,” the old man said. “Yes, sir, like it was custom-made for you. Over there’s a mirror on the wall, if you don’t believe me.”

Ernie found the mirror and gazed at his reflection. The battered jacket fit well. Stiff yet pliable, the leather was creased in the right ways.

“Broken in like an old shoe. The previous owner must have had the same upper body shape as you, my friend. A remarkable coincidence, if you ask me. Who would have thought? A highly personal article of clothing, you wander in here purely by chance, and it’s a match!”

Warmed by his body, the jacket released a perfume compounded of animal hide, tannin, leather polish, and motor oil. It went to Ernie’s head. His heart pounded.

“So . . .” Ernie struggled to find his voice. “You don’t know who brought it in?”

“No, sir.”

The old man was lying. Ernie flexed his arms and strutted a few paces.

“You don’t know anything about the owner?”

“Not a clue.”

“What about the shoulder patch?”

“Will you be arrested for impersonating an officer? Don’t worry about that, my friend. The town police department disbanded years ago when the county took over everything, schools, taxes, roads, courthouse, and jail. They wear a different uniform today with the county patch. Yes, sir, that leather jacket is a genuine collector’s item, one of a kind, an authentic relic of days gone by. They don’t make them like that anymore, quality cowhide. The police badge is missing. It went in the little reinforced hole in the front, over your heart.”

Ernie looked down at his chest. His hand rose, and a finger sought the hole, which had a metal rim, a grommet. The old man chuckled.

“It’s not a bullet hole, young man. You won’t find any bloodstains, either. I checked it out. There’s plenty of wear left in that jacket. It’ll keep you warm on the road and protect you in case of a spill. When you ride, that is. You have a motorcycle?”

“Just my pickup.”

“Maybe this will inspire you. Yes, sir, that jacket fits you like a glove!”

“How much do you want for it?” Ernie’s mouth was dry.

The old man’s face narrowed, and his garrulous warmth chilled. His pale eyes glittered in the shadowy interior.

“That depends on how much you want it.”

Ernie disliked haggling. In the hardware store, he always cut off a customer who tried. Mr. Shakewell set the prices. Builders kept a tab, and they got a standard discount. Apart from that, no bargains or specials. Now Ernie was on the other end of the deal. He had no idea of a fair price, but he was unable to take off the leather jacket. He picked a round number and hoped it was low.

“A hundred dollars.”

“Sold!” the old man shouted, as though awarding a bid at auction.

Ernie reached in his pocket, anxious to complete the transaction before he lost his nerve, or before the old man changed his mind. The patter resumed.

“Like I said, that leather jacket was meant for you. What are the odds that someone would walk in with exactly the right build and with an eye for police memorabilia?”

“So . . .” Ernie made one last try. “You don’t have any idea where it came from?”

“Sorry, my friend. Someone could have been cleaning out an attic, winding up an estate, getting a house ready to put on the market. These things happen, you know. We all have to go some day.”

“Sure enough.”

“Now that you got me on the subject, some other things came in with that leather jacket that might be of interest.”

The old man reached under the counter, produced a white helmet, and handed it to Ernie.

“It’s a regular police helmet, adjustable.”

Ernie lowered it over his head, with the visor tilted up.

“Practically new, I would say, the same type they wear today. How does it feel?”

“Okay,” Ernie said. He had never worn a helmet. A hardhat, but that was different. His ears buzzed from excitement. Covered by the white shell, they could barely hear the old man. His own voice sounded as if he were underwater. “How much is . . .”

“At no additional cost, special today only! And while you’re at it, check out these beauties.” Animated, the old man rummaged behind the counter. He brought up a pair of black leather riding boots, tall and slender, with a buckle to cinch them over the calf.

“Somewhat the worse for wear, but you can replace the heels and shine them up like new. Here, try them on. No charge! The boots go with the jacket, if they fit you.”

Ernie never rode a horse, and he had no experience with riding gear, but he suspected the pair of boots was worth more than the leather jacket. Hurriedly, he untied his shoes and kicked them aside. Folding the khaki cloth over his shin, he shoved one foot into the cylindrical shaft. It was tight, but he got in. He fiddled with the buckle. The second boot went on easier.

Ernie wiggled his toes. He rocked from side to side. He strode a few paces on the pine floor, which made a hollow, theatrical sound. Like the jacket, the boots felt as comfortable as if he had worn them for years. He caught his reflection in the mirror and saw a patrol officer, a member of an elite squad. He imagined himself on a speeding motorcycle.

“Do you want a bag?”

Abruptly, Ernie returned to the present. He was in a dusty junk shop in a deserted country village. He pulled off the helmet.

“No thanks. I’ll wear the jacket to go.”

“What about your shoes? Because if you’re going to wear the boots, which it looks like you fully intend to do, my friend, it might look a little awkward clutching your shoes, like a girl slipping away from a dance at midnight.”

Ernie stooped, scrabbled for his shoes amid the trash-strewn floor, and plunked them on the counter. The old man dropped them in a brown paper bag. He extended the bag with a wink. “Go in peace, officer. Come back to see us some day, when the spirit moves.”

Jacketed and booted, as though ready for duty on the motor patrol, Ernie exited the shop. He blinked in the dazzling sunlight. Poised over the Allegheny Mountains to the west, the sun would soon set. A slight chill crept into the air. With the helmet under one leather sleeve and the paper bag in hand, he made for his pickup. Instead of a normal walking gait, the riding boots forced a swagger. He threw things in the passenger seat.

Ernie paused for directions at the next inhabited place, a gas station. The sleepy-eyed attendant sat in a booth full of snacks, cough drops, lottery tickets, and packs of cigarettes. He barely looked away from his miniature screen. Without a word, he typed a few letters. He rotated the screen which displayed a map. Ernie paid for his fuel. Then he drove home through a slowly dimming countryside.

*

Ernie wore the leather jacket and boots off-hours. As promised, the thick black cowhide lined with quilted padding kept him warm. The thrill he felt when putting it on mellowed. Like a boy who grows into new clothes, he grew into his gear.

Toward the end of a season or a year, Hapsburgers followed an old German custom called reckoning, like spring cleaning. They settled accounts, swept the room clear, and got ready for the next new thing. In the spirit of reckoning, it occurred to Ernie to search the leather jacket. There were flaps and snaps and zippers galore. In a secret pocket inside the breast, he found a small photograph, black-and-white.

A man thirty to forty years old, of average height, upright and confident, stood beside a motorcycle. One arm extended to grasp the handlebar. He wore a leather jacket and riding boots, the same as Ernie’s. Instead of a helmet, the man wore a dark service cap with a bill and a raised crown. A silver star shone on his chest, where the hole declared it ought to be. The photograph bore no name or date. The place could be anywhere box bushes grew.

The officer wore a pair of riding breeches. Tailored snug at the calf to slip into boots, the breeches flared at the thigh as if inflated. It was a picturesque style that went out of fashion after World War II. Ernie recognized it from old photos and movies. The riding breeches were dark in color with areas of sheen. Were they made of black leather like the jacket? Ernie tossed the photograph in the top dresser drawer, a catchall for buttons, shoelaces, odd socks, ticket stubs, and keys to long-forgotten locks.

Who was this man? In physical aspect they were twins. Unlike most in the South, Ernie had grown up without a brother or a cousin his age. What did the man like to eat? Did he smoke and drink? Ernie did neither, other than a glass of beer now and then. Was the man married?

Ernie looked at motorcycles parked in the street. He read classified ads for used motorcycles. He noted the model year, make, and price. What kind of bike did his officer ride? By now he had learned to call it that. What would a small-town police department have? Something practical, not flashy, built for speed and maneuverability.

A motorcycle appeared in the yard next door with a sign taped to the handlebars: “For Sale.” The bike looked like the one in the photograph, a lightweight roadster. Wearing his leather jacket, Ernie knocked at the neighbor’s door that evening.

A young man answered with an open bottle of beer in his hand. He offered one to Ernie. To refuse would be impolite. They stood on the porch.

“I’m your neighbor, Ernie Watkins.”

“Brian Rhoades. I’m leaving town to take up a job out west in mineral extraction. I’m a geologist.”

In his twenties, with round cheeks and a bounce in his step, Brian Rhoades did not look as serious as a geologist should, though he did wear horn-rimmed glasses. Swigging from their bottles, the two men left the porch to gaze at the machine.

“It only has a few thousand miles,” Brian said. “I bought it new and never had much time to ride, what with travel for work and long hours at the office. There’s always a deadline.”

“What kind of bike would you call it?”

“This is a sport rider. Somewhere between a touring bike, which has a heavy frame and a big-ass seat, and a racer, which has a cut-down body and too much power to be safe.”

“That sounds good. I’m a middle-of-the-road kind of guy. Why are you selling?”

“Too expensive to move it across the country. And I can’t take a week off to ride it there. The new job starts right after I leave the old one. So here we are. Sorry to let the bike go, but you have to do what you have to do.” He patted the seat.

“I know zero about bikes and maintenance,” Ernie said. “I don’t even know how to ride one. Can you teach me?”

“Sure, no problem. One or two weekends, and you’ll be rolling. If you don’t mind getting dirty and greasy, you can maintain it. Or you can take it to the garage on Metzger Road.”

“I can go either way.”

“You have a jacket. Do you need any other gear? Boots, helmet?”

“I got those covered.”

“Take the helmet anyway. State law requires it, and if you want to take a passenger . . .”

“They might not have one.”

“You’re all set, Watson. Cash or direct transfer?”

“Cash is okay.”

They agreed on a price with little haggling, which made Ernie feel better. They arranged for a lesson before Brian left town. They clinked their bottles, drained them, and threw the empties in a recycling bin. Ernie pulled out a wad of bills and counted. Surprised to see that Ernie carried so much, Brian stuffed the money in his pocket and went back inside.

Ernie tore the sign from the handlebars and trundled his purchase home. The upstairs landlady Hazel Lampwick emerged on the front porch. Did she watch the transaction from inside? Ernie imagined her standing behind the door, peering around the edge of the lace curtain. Why have a glass door if you hang a curtain on it?

“Good evening, Ms. Lampwick.” Ernie paused proudly, holding the handlebars.

“Good evening, Mr. Watkins.” Hazel smiled, revealing a face that was capable of amusement, even mockery. Not that she was a sourpuss, but had Ernie weighed all the options? She ran the public library. A librarian was hard to read.

“Look what I just bought.”

“Indeed, Mr. Watkins. What are you going to do with it?”

“Can I park it behind the house?”

“I don’t see why not. The back yard is yours to command.”

“Thank you.” Ernie gazed up at Hazel on the porch. In the twilight, she looked slender and pretty, her hair backlit from the hall chandelier. She folded her arms over her apron, ready to confide a secret.

“You know,” she said, “I always wanted to hitch a ride on one of those things.”

“It’s never too late.”

“Do you think so?”

“If you can wait another week, I’ll know how to steer. Then you can hitch a ride with me.”

“That would be a pleasure, Mr. Watkins.” She giggled.

“Call me Ernie. We can’t stay strangers forever.”

“I suppose you’re right. A ridiculous pretense, when we live so close. If you like, you can call me Hazel.”

“Okay, Hazel.”

Each searched for a way to prolong the conversation, the first they had dared. Hazel shivered in the evening chill.

“Good night . . . Ernie.” She turned. Then over her shoulder like a Parthian shot, “Sweet Dreams.”

She was through the door before Ernie could react. Just as well, he reflected. I’m already in water over my head.

Brian Rhoades taught Ernie the basics of motorcycling and departed soon after. The summer brought little rain, and Ernie was able to get out on weekends. He wore his leather jacket, boots, and helmet. On the first cool day, his hands went numb. He bought a pair of black leather gloves with a high cuff from an online company that specialized in motorcycle gear. Gauntlets, like something a knight would fling in challenge.

Ernie watched for traffic, went slow to prevent skids, and got a feel for the throttle. He sat bolt upright on the bike. Then he discovered that a crouch, like a jockey on horseback, improved maneuverability. He leaned into a turn and out of it. Mindful of the accidents people described in gruesome detail, he was a cautious rider.

Motorcycle riders had a subculture, with their strange hair, tattoos, and muscles. They rode in gangs, drank beer in bars, and lifted weights at the gym. Ernie didn’t see how these activities were connected, and they held no appeal for him. He returned a salute from a fellow rider and motored on. Hambrick’s Lounge, a bar a few miles outside Hapsburg, had a reputation for lowlife, pickups, heavy drinkers, and scuffles. One afternoon, as Ernie passed Hambrick’s at moderate speed, a tattooed bruiser idling on a Harley-Davidson watched and muttered loudly.

“Candy ass.”

What did that mean? Ernie didn’t stop to ask. On the road, solitude wasn’t a problem. He got plenty of contact with people at the hardware store. Still, he wondered what it would be like to have a companion, someone to share the great outdoors with, a motorcyclist or a passenger. He had not forgotten Hazel Lampwick, far from it. The extra helmet Brian threw in with the bike would come in handy.

*

Ernie Watkins and Hazel Lampwick happened to leave the house at the same time one Friday morning. It was late September, and the mornings had turned crisp and cool. On impulse, Hazel invited Ernie to supper that night. It was not in his nature to register surprise. He accepted and for the rest of the day turned the novelty over in his mind, like a toaster newly acquired for his collection.

At the library, Hazel felt a pleasant anticipation until five o’clock, when panic set in. A rash thing to do, she thought as she hurried home. She had no time to shop for food and spend hours preparing it. The skills involved in cooking for one were useless in the current situation. The apartment lacked a dining room, let alone a proper table. No china and candles. They would eat in the kitchen, at the chrome-leg table with the crazy-pattern Formica top.

Hazel kept staples on hand, neatly stored, sealed and dated. If you open enough cans and boxes, make liberal use of the spice rack, and heat some rolls in the oven, nobody can tell the difference. She tied on her apron and got busy. Half an hour later, she felt a glow of pride. Then she walked into the living room.

Piled here and there were books she might get around to reading. Shriveled flowers stood in a hideous vase. How long had they been there, and who brought them? She drew a blank. A haze of cat hair clung to the sofa, where Ignatius sprawled in indolent abandon. She forgot to mention the cat. What if Ernie was allergic?

Too late! Footsteps clomped up the stair. A tentative knock. Hazel opened the door to find Ernie, wearing his leather jacket and a bashful smile. He thrust a bunch of carnations at her.

“For you,” he said.

“You didn’t have to wear a jacket to walk upstairs.”

“It felt right.”

“I must say, it does fit you.”

Ernie followed Hazel to the kitchen, where he slipped off the jacket and draped it over a chair.

“Could you do me a favor?” she said. “Go in the living room and fetch the vase. I’ll give it a quick wash and put these lovely flowers in it.”

Ernie did as Hazel asked. Ignatius made no impression. A minute later, the big ginger cat wandered into the kitchen. He sniffed the leather jacket. He rubbed against Ernie’s leg.

“I guess that means I can stay,” Ernie said.

Ignatius purred and lay on the floor at Ernie’s feet, as Hazel dished.

“We don’t get much company,” she said. “He’s curious.”

They sat at the kitchen table. The carnations wafted their peppery aroma. The vase did not look so bad.

Ernie ate without comment. At the library, Hazel hushed talkative people, broke up tête-à-têtes, answered questions as briefly as possible, and cut off book borrowers eager to tell her how much they enjoyed a previous title by the same author. Now she faced the opposite problem. As hostess, she had to draw out her guest, ask easy questions, keep the ball in the air. Ernie told her about the hardware store and his promotion. He told her about his toaster collection. Neither topic struck Hazel as likely to lead to a spirited conversation.

“What about your life during the past ten to twenty years?”

“After high school, I served on a navy aircraft carrier. It’s a floating military base, acres of steel plate and rivets. If you like the color gray, then that’s your place. We never saw combat, but we scrambled at all hours. That’s navy speak for drill. Then I was a carpenter’s helper, outside in all weather, cuts and scrapes on my hands. A building site sees more bloodshed than a ship on a cruise. Retail has dull spots, but the hardware store beats those by a mile.”

“Won’t you have more?” Hazel refilled Ernie’s plate.

“It’s nice to have some real home cooking.”

The dinner looked to be a success. Then the subject of politics reared its head, in the shape of the town council and the outspoken councilor Cecelia Gross. Without pausing to consider his  audience, Ernie said what he thought. 

“Mrs. Gross should stay home.”

“Your notions on women are a little out of date,” Hazel said. “Advances have taken place. We do not all behave the way your mother’s generation did.”

“My mother?” Ernie was confused.

“We are facing an educational challenge.”

“By which you mean me.”

“Not you, your attitude,” she said.

“Are you up to the challenge?” He sounded contrite.

Hazel reached across the table and took Ernie’s hand.

“Yes,” she said. “Are you?”

He gave her hand a squeeze. Their eyes misted.

“I’ll work on it,” he said.

What did that mean? Under the circumstances, Hazel reflected, a little ambiguity could go a long way.

“So will I,” she said.

“This was wonderful. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“I want to return the favor. Can I take you out on a date? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is Saturday.”

“We could dress up and go to a restaurant.”

“That would be delightful.”

“I’ll pick you up at six,” Ernie put on his jacket to leave.

“On your motorcycle?”

“Anything your heart desires.”

*

Saturday morning, Ernie worked at the hardware store. The afternoon was dry, fine fall weather, and the temperature stayed cool. In the back yard, he pulled the tarp off his motorcycle. He ran through a checklist in a rider’s manual he had found in a used book bin. He set off for a ride to nowhere in particular, in open country still green with a hint of yellow.

The road wound through fields and woods, and glare alternated with shadow. After an hour of narrow lanes and bare pastures, the road became oddly familiar. He rattled across a narrow plank bridge and made a sharp turn. Once again, he was in the lost village of Endeavor.

Ernie cruised down the middle of the street. He glanced right and left. Much was the same, but a few things had changed. The café boasted a new awning, a round table, and two wire chairs on a patio. People were inside. A chrome machine, an imported Italian espresso maker, gurgled and hissed like a bomb about to explode. The little frame church, its windows repaired, was freshly painted. It was now a shop for books and music, with a live performance space. Ernie reached the end of the pavement, halted, and braced himself with one leg. Where was the shop where he found the leather jacket?

He turned around and cruised in the opposite direction, slower this time. He still could not find the sign for “Antiques.” In the clean air and sunshine, the street was dead calm. The trees and fields that lay so near lent a sense of peace.

A steel-and-glass storefront, a combination art gallery and custom frame shop, was open for business. Ernie parked directly in front, pulled off his helmet, and hung it on the handlebar. He strode to the door and entered.

A young man with long black hair and a beard stood up. He had eyes as brown as chocolate drops, and the whitest teeth Ernie ever saw outside a toothpaste ad.

“How may I improve your day?”

“Just browsing, thanks.”

“My name is Jason. Let me know if I can help. All our artists are local residents. You can find biographies and information about them online. Just reference the URL on the label.” Jason went back to cutting a cardboard mat with a razor blade. Ernie moved through the gallery, clean and bright. The pine floor gleamed yellow. The walls were smooth plaster painted white. Paintings of dark blobs hung wide apart, abstract sculptures perched on pedestals, and handmade pottery alluded to objects like teapots and bowls. In a drawing, a nude woman lay beside a cactus. Music played from a hidden source: a mournful flute, a rattle, and a drum. If he were going to buy a gift for Hazel, which was unlikely at these prices, what would appeal to her? She might take one look at this place and laugh. Rich city folks with too much time on their hands, she would say. Ernie drifted back to the front and cleared his throat. Jason looked up from his task.

“I was here three months ago, early in July. There was a shop for old furniture, pictures, housewares, and such. An old man sold me this leather jacket. But it seems like the junk shop disappeared.”

Jason looked at Ernie from head to toe, then raised an index finger.

“Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Jason walked briskly to a storage room and returned with a large manila envelope. Scrawled on the front was the phrase: “For the man in the leather jacket when he returns.” Ernie studied the envelope.

“How do you know this is for me?”

“The shop you’re looking for was here, this space. I cleared the contents, which went to the county landfill. I renovated, sanded the floor, gave it a coat of polyurethane, plastered the walls, put in new wiring, lights, and so on. It was a lot of work.”

“I bet.”

“The previous tenant passed away, they said. He left the shop as you saw it. I never met him, a retired police officer, the last of the town’s motorcycle squad. When I took possession, that envelope was lying on a counter near the door. I kept it just in case.”

“What’s inside?”

“I have no idea.”

Ernie lifted the flap of the envelope. Something heavy and pliable slipped out, something made of black leather.

“It looks like a pair of pants,” Jason said.

“Or riding breeches.”

“Awesome! They match your jacket and boots. Do you want to try them on?”

“I don’t need to. They’re exactly my size.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw them in a picture. Trust me.”

“Okay.” The young man turned solemn. “They told me the old man died a year ago. How could you have met him here in July?”

Ernie shrugged, and the leather jacket creaked. He slid the breeches back in the envelope and tucked it under a thick, black sleeve.

“Thanks, kid. Good luck with the gallery.”

As Ernie exited, his boot heels knocked on the glossy pine boards. No detours, he would ride straight home. He had a date with Hazel.

*

The public library was open Saturday morning. Children and young parents arrived with armfuls of books to return. Some children were quiet, intent on finding a book to read. Others ran here and there and babbled excitedly, but Hazel did not have the heart to hush them. For that one day in the week, she relaxed the rule on noise, though she did ask the parents to rein in the more active runners. If a visit to the library produced such eager anticipation, who was she to damp it down? Still, Hazel found that by noon she was frazzled. A quiet lunch at home would restore her for an afternoon of household chores.

It was a brisk ten-minute walk from the center of town to Sycamore Avenue, the double decker house she had bought when she started work at the public library. How long ago was that? Hazel realized with a start it was more than ten years, closer to fifteen.

As a child growing up nearby, she had loved the library. She spent long hours reading at the oak tables and exploring the stacks. She left home for a degree in library science and a few years of experience in the big city. Many of her peers were reluctant to go to a small town, afraid they might stifle in the social atmosphere, but when the job opening appeared, Hazel saw it as the perfect opportunity. She would preserve the environment of literature for the next generation, and for adults who never lost their love of learning. She knew what she was getting into and returned with high expectations.

What Hazel returned to was not the library of her youth, however. Technology was taking over. Rows of encyclopedias were replaced by search engines on the internet. Display racks of magazines and boxes of back issues in the periodical stacks were reduced to a few popular magazines kept under watch near the circulation desk. If someone wanted to look up an article in an old magazine or newspaper, they had to do it online. People still read novels, but they also listened to recordings. Print was far from dead, but the public library served the public, and electronic media were in demand.

When she became the head librarian, Hazel faced budgets and personnel and building maintenance and a host of other problems to which she had never given a thought. They now consumed the greater part of her time and energy. She considered them a challenge, the work that had to be done so that people could use the library, find out what they needed to know, and find a refuge from the world of buying and selling in the world of the intellect. That world was still alive for her, though she visited it less frequently than she would like.

Then there was the world of daily life, of eating and drinking, of moving about and engaging in pleasures, the world D. H. Lawrence evangelized a hundred years ago. Man was an animal, not just a thinking brain. As Hazel ate her sandwich in the kitchen and drank her mug of tea, she remembered her date with Ernie, the man downstairs. This deplorable habit of acting on the spur of the moment! When she saw him with the motorcycle, she asked for a ride. Then, when she saw him yesterday morning, she invited him for dinner. What had gotten into her?

It was no mystery, really. D. H. Lawrence would wag a finger and allude in his quaint English manner to primeval forces. Hazel looked forward to the date, but she also dreaded it. She was out of practice. How would she behave? What would she wear? If she was to ride on the back of a motorcycle, the outfit would have to be roadworthy. Blue jeans and a thick sweater. Did she still have the denim jacket from years ago?

A search through closets and drawers turned into a general overhaul of her wardrobe. Clothes she had not seen for years turned up: outgrown, threadbare, and embarrassing to contemplate.

She made a pile of things to discard, and a pile to donate to the thrift shop. She found the denim jacket, which was in good condition, and a pair of blue jeans that fit. Her figure was still slim. As she looked at herself in the mirror, modeling the jacket and jeans, the woman of fifteen years ago had not entirely vanished. Her eyes were bright, and her hair was brown and full. She pulled it back in one hand, imagining how it would stream in the wind.

The wardrobe overhaul made Hazel cast a critical eye on her living quarters. The furniture was essentially what and where it had been since she moved in. Comfortable but dated, and in need of a thorough cleaning. Ignatius, the big ginger cat, had left his mark in the form of a furry haze and a stale odor. She banished him to the yard and embarked on a campaign of vacuuming, airing, wiping down, and straightening up. Curtains were taken down, shaken outside, and rehung. Windows were washed. Seat cushions were reversed.

Things long overlooked became visible, like a Toulouse-Lautrec poster of the Folies Bergère, a relic from her college days. She unpinned it from the wall, rolled it up, and added it to the donation pile. The glare of footlights, the high-kicking girls of Paris, the ruffled skirts and white stockings, whatever they had meant to her, they no longer did.

*

Ernie Watkins returned from Endeavor to Hapsburg in time to refuel, check the motorcycle, and clean himself up. The black leather riding breeches were a perfect fit, as he expected. The mysterious old man in the junk shop had never let him down. Whatever they told Jason was probably a tall tale, the way Virginians do. Once the breeches were on, there was no reason to take them off. Ernie slipped on the patrol boots, motorcycle jacket, and gauntlets. He straddled the bike, positioned himself in front of the house, and waited.

At six o’clock sharp, Hazel Lampwick came downstairs and paused on the front porch. What she saw was a modern-day knight clad head to toe in black leather, astride a gleaming hunk of chrome and steel. What Ernie saw was a slender young woman in indigo denim, jeans and jacket, with her hair pulled back in a pony tail. Which of them was more surprised and pleased?

“Are you ready to roll?” Ernie asked.

“Am I ever!” Hazel floated down to the ground and admired at close range. Two helmets hung from the handlebars.

“Virginia state law requires a helmet. This one is for you.”

“How sweet! How do I put it on?”

Ernie helped with the chin strap, moved the visor up and down, then put on his own helmet.

“Where should we go?” Ernie spoke louder than normal, ears muted by the helmet.

“We’re not exactly dressed for fine dining,” Hazel shouted.

“There’s no fine dining in Hapsburg, anyway.”

“How about Hambrick’s Lounge?”

“The roadside joint?”

“I’ve never been there.”

“It has a reputation for being rough,” Ernie warned.

“As in lowlife patrons and altercations?” Hazel was not at all dismayed.

“Brawls, fist fights, maybe some illegal substances.”

“What kind of food do they serve?”

“Burgers and beer, I suppose. Fries and chops.”

“It sounds delightful for a Saturday night date.”

“This bike doesn’t have a sissy bar. Climb on and wrap your arms around my chest.”

“Like this?” She followed instructions.

“Good. Now don’t fall off.” Ernie kicked the stand and rolled forward.

“It will only take a few minutes to get there.”

“Do you want a longer ride?”

“Let’s go around Robin Hood’s barn.”

“The scenic route. Hug me tight.”

Ernie accelerated, and Hazel complied.

Hambrick’s Lounge turned out to be less seedy than they expected, more like an old-style family restaurant. The décor consisted of wood paneling, a wood plank floor, and a wall of wooden booths. It had a bar to one side, a pool table in back, and a few round tables. A hostess met them at the door, a plump woman in her middle years, wearing a motherly apron and blue eye shadow. Gert seated them in a booth without batting an eye, as though bikers came through every day. The place was reasonably full, but not loud. If an altercation was in store, it would happen later in the evening.

To tell the truth, Ernie and Hazel were more interested in each other than their surroundings. Since both were born and grew up in Hapsburg, they already had much in common. In return for his autobiography the night before, she brought him up to date on her life. The educational difference was undeniable but irrelevant, since neither attached any social value to it. Both were careful to steer clear of politics, and each was amazed to find someone who wanted to know them as a human being. The topic of age came up. Hazel was a few years older, almost forty. In Ernie’s opinion, a few years were not enough to matter.

“We’ve both been around the block,” he said.

“We have.” Hazel was unsure what he meant.

“I mean we’re not kids, we’re adults.”

“Responsible wage earners and tax payers?”

“That too.”

“I always assumed I would work for a living,” Hazel said. “And I like my job. But I admit I haven’t thought deeply about raising a family. Is it too late?”

“It’s never too late to fall in love,” Ernie said quietly.

“Let’s deal with the matter at hand and figure out the rest later?”

“Good enough for me.”

“Me too.”

They shared French fries and licked ketchup from their fingers. On one beer apiece, they got a little silly. They lingered until Gert hovered near the booth in a meaningful way. Hazel took the hint and kicked Ernie’s boot under the table. Puzzled for a moment, he caught on at last and paid the tab. They emerged to a starry night sky and dew beginning to settle.

“Where to?” Ernie said. He handed Hazel her helmet and brushed off the saddle.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Hazel felt frivolous. “I don’t want this lovely evening to end. Look at those stars!”

“We could cruise, if you’re in the mood.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I had a busy day.”

“Maybe we should head home.”

“Maybe we should.”

“Hop on behind, then.”

Hazel did, and they sped through the night, through familiar territory made new by the machine under them and the embrace they shared. Arriving at Sycamore Avenue, they dismounted, took off their helmets, and exchanged a look of intense interest. Hazel broke the silence.

“Would you like to come upstairs? I would say for a nightcap, the way they do in a movie.”

“But we’re not in a movie, are we?”

“You tell me, Ernie.”

“I don’t drink before bed.”

“Then let’s skip the preliminary.”

“Yes, ma’am!”