By Arnine Weiss
Suzanne stuffed a twenty into the pocket of her bike shorts and grabbed her cell phone. She saw that she had a missed call from her daughter, but she looked from the phone to the window. She had to get her twenty-mile ride in while the skies were still blue. Her grandson had had the sniffles yesterday, but she decided she could return the call using her headphones once she got on the road. She shoved the phone into the other pocket, pulled her shoulder length blonde hair into a ponytail, and strapped on her helmet.
She slammed the front gate of her yard and jumped on her bike. She lived off of a lightly-traveled country road in rural Pennsylvania that was less than a mile from a large county park. The park was filled with a maze of paths, but Suzanne’s favorite was the wide, unpaved one that ran parallel with the reservoir on one side and was bordered by rocky hills on the other.
Her itinerary was ten miles up and ten miles back. She’d taken this trail hundreds of times and knew all the landmarks.
She loved the feel of the wind in her face and the sun on her back, although as she rode further, the skies became more overcast. She was vaguely aware that there were few walkers or cyclists on the path with her. She hit the ten-mile mark, making great time, and had turned around when she felt the first raindrops. They were light and fell sporadically so she thought if she’d step up the pace, she’d make it home before it rained in earnest.
She was about nine miles from home when it began to pour. The rain pummeled her helmet and stung her arms and legs. She wished she had little windshield wipers on her sunglasses, because she couldn’t see and had to take one hand off the handlebars to clear her vision. She kept going, feeling the temperature drop drastically, still thinking it was best to try to get home.
As she wiped her glasses for what felt like the thousandth time, the bike skidded off a slick rock and the wheels suddenly slid out from under her. She landed violently in the mud. Soaked and filthy, the rain hit her like icy needles. “Oh my God,” she said out loud as she was pelted with hail. There was no way she could outrun this weather; she needed to find shelter.
She righted her bike and limped at first as she started walking. But as she picked up the pace, her gait became more normal. She saw a familiar tree stump and remembered there was an overhang on the hilly side just up ahead.
Between the rain and her prescription dark glasses, she was having a difficult time seeing clearly, but she found the overhang and realized that it offered more protection than just a short overhead rock shelf. The area below had been cleared out and, as best as she could tell, extended back in several feet. And from the looks of things, she wasn’t the first visitor to grace this site. Others had been kind enough to bring in furniture: several milk crates in wood and plastic, a rickety lawn chair, and a well-used, makeshift fire pit. It looked almost homey.
She unstrapped her helmet, hung it on the handlebars, and wrung out her wet hair. She rubbed her hands together to ward off the chill and bent over to examine the damage to her right leg.
“Just want to let you know you’re not alone in here.”
She gasped and jumped up, hitting her head into her handlebars and knocking over the bike. “Who said that?” she said brusquely, taking off her glasses and squinting into the back.
She saw a man only a few feet away, seated toward the back of this little cave on one of the milk crates. In answer to her question, he had raised his right hand, but he was looking down at something in his left.
“No cell service,” he said, as he continued to push the buttons and stare into his palm.
Her mind raced. Was he homeless? Worse yet, was this his home? Did homeless people have cell phones? Was he dangerous? Should she run for it? She instinctively reached down and touched the cut on her right leg.
“It’s just a scratch. You’ll be fine,” he said, apparently able to see her more clearly than she could see him.
She tucked one temple of her glasses into the collar of her shirt and took a step closer to the back. Because he was sitting on the crate, she couldn’t tell how tall he was, but he was big; not fat, just big. He looked like he was in his mid-thirties and his head was shaved bald. He was wearing cut off jeans; a wet, white wife-beater; and black Converse sneakers. And then she saw his bicycle.
It was an old-fashioned, oversized, zero-gear machine that looked like DaVinci himself could have put it together. Maybe he was environmentally conscious and had rescued it from some bicycle graveyard where it was about to be sold for scrap. Or maybe this was all he could afford. As she studied the bike, she took in her first deep breath. This guy wasn’t out to hurt her. He’d gotten stuck in the rain, too.
He saw her staring at his bike and said, “My other one was stolen.”
“As long as it works,” she said with a shrug, righting her bike and moving it over to the side. She tried to wipe off the mud on her left leg with the side of her hand and wished that she had a few tissues instead of the twenty in her pocket.
“You’re probably wasting your time,” he said again, still looking down at his phone.
“The mud’s cold and disgusting. And it’s not like I’ve got so much else to do,” she said looking around the clearing. “You wouldn’t happen to have a tissue, would you?”
“Tissue?” he said with a laugh, but it was not unkind. “We’re roughing it. There’s a bunch of leaves right out front.”
“Yes, thanks for that advice,” she said looking out at the sheet of rain that continued to fall.
She wiped her hands on her fanny, the cleanest spot on her body, and pulled out her cell phone. No service. He looked at her and nodded as if to say, “I told you so,” and then went back to staring at his own phone.
“You expecting a call from the White House?” she asked.
“Yeah. Good one,” he said. “Just habit.”
She sat down on a plastic crate and said, “So, do you come here often?”
When he looked up, puzzled, she said, “I’m dating myself. I guess no one uses that line anymore.”
“It’s a cliché,” he said.
“People don’t use clichés any more?”
“Not that one.”
She rubbed her arms, shivered, and got up to examine the space. There were empty beer cans and soda bottles strewn around, and looking closely at the ground, she spotted a used condom. “Oh,” she said.
“Must have been some ‘he-in’ and ‘she-in’ going on,” he said. He’d obviously explored the place himself.
“Welcome to the Hilton. I guess not everyone expects satin sheets,” she said, pacing in the small space. She realized no one in the world knew where she was. She had tried to call her daughter back, but there’d been no answer, and she hadn’t bothered to leave a message. “I guess I should’ve checked the weather more carefully. I thought I’d get my ride in,” she said as she continued walking.
“Your ride in?”
“I’m training for the Century Ride.”
“Why are you doing that?” he asked, sounding curious.
“For the Leukemia Team in Training. I’m raising money for them.”
“Do you have any connection to leukemia?”
“Everyone knows someone who’s been hit by cancer,” she said, wringing her hands to stimulate the blood flow.
“I guess. And how do you raise money for them? The ‘Mister’ write them a check?” he said, standing now also.
“No,” she said emphatically. “There’s no Mister. I raised the money myself.”
“So you asked people to sponsor you? So much per mile?”
“No. I don’t ask people for money. Every time I wanted to buy something, I didn’t. I put the money into an account. After a year, I had saved enough.”
“That doesn’t look like too much of a hardship,” he said with a laugh, nodding at her titanium bike.
She looked at him and couldn’t tell if he was mocking her. “It’s important to give back.”
“I’m not sure how riding an expensive bicycle in designer bicycle clothes is ‘giving back.’”
She felt like she had been slapped, and she didn’t even know this man. After a moment of silence, she said huffily, “What’s your idea of giving back?”
Ignoring her question, he said, “I guess that’s what most people do. They write a check and feel they’ve made some great contribution.” He blew into his hands and rubbed them together.
“You’re pretty high and mighty. Don’t be so dismissive about writing a check. Who do you think pays for research? Or supports our great institutions?”
“There’s another one.”
“Another what?”
“Cliché’.”
She walked away from him and paced in small circles with her arms wrapped around her middle.
“I guess I’m old-fashioned. I think if you want to ‘give back’ as you say, you have to get your hands dirty,” he said.
“Aren’t you so superior?” she said from her side of the shelter.
“I’m not talking about me. But just look at you. The outfit, the bike… the hair… just the right shade of blonde to look natural. You’re right out of central casting.”
“How dare you judge me! Or even suppose to know anything about me. You think because I have a nice bicycle and I wear bike clothes you know who I am. You don’t know anything!” she said, seething.
“Hey, no need to get sore,” he said, putting his hands up in mock surrender.
“You must be pretty shallow if you decide who someone is after meeting the-m for 30 sec-onds,” she said, teeth chattering.
“So enlighten me.”
“No. You’re rude. And I don’t like you. And…”
“And, what?”
“For your information, I am… or was… a natural blonde,” she said, petulantly, but when she looked up and saw the dumbfounded expression on his face, she started to laugh.
“Touche’.”
“Cliché,” she said, as they paced the space trying to keep warm. “I’m free-zing,” she said, shivering.
“We’ve got to get you warm,” he said walking toward his bike. That’s when she noticed his backpack. He pulled out a large zip-up sweatshirt.
“And you were keeping this a secret?”
“I only have one. I thought it was selfish to put it on and let you freeze. But now things are desperate,” he said, unzipping the front.
“You’re giving it to me? But, you’re cold, too.”
“Nope, we’re going to share it. Like a blanket.” He draped the shirt around his neck like a towel while he put two crates next to each other. There was a supporting pole behind one crate. “Come. Sit down.”
They huddled next to each other, and she could feel the soft hair on his arms. They tried to cover themselves with the sweatshirt, but only half of her body derived any warmth. She was mostly covered by a sleeve, and her whole body was shivering.
“This isn’t going to work. Plan B. Sit on my lap,” he said casually.
“What?”
“Sit on my lap. That’s the only way we can share the shirt. Look at you. I don’t want you developing hypothermia. Plus, we’ll share our body’s warmth.” He stood up and stripped off his wet shirt.
She stared at him in horror. “I’m not taking my shirt off.”
“You won’t warm up if you keep it on. Plus I don’t want your cold, wet shirt against my chest,” he said, sitting down and wrapping the sweatshirt around himself. She looked at him all cozy and warm and said, “I won’t. I don’t even know you.”
“Sandor Benjamin, the third. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, sticking his hand out from under the shirt.
She looked at his bicycle and then at his face. “Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England,” she said, ignoring the proffered hand. She smacked at her sides and jumped up and down but couldn’t quell the shivering.
“Are you always this stubborn?” he said, watching her from his perch.
“Only when I’m in the company of a complete stranger,” she said, doing jumping jacks and then running in place. She was panting but still unable to control the shaking in her extremities.
“Suit yourself.”
“All right, but don’t look.” She pulled her shirt over her head quickly and dropped it on the second milk crate. She stood there in her black sports bra that showed off her full breasts.
“Nice,” he said as he lifted up the sweatshirt to let her in. She awkwardly sat on his lap like spoons and wrapped her arms around herself. He tucked the shirt around both of them and she gratefully accepted both his warmth and that from the shirt.
They sat quietly for a while, and after holding her head up stiffly, she leaned back against him.
“This is not exactly how I saw my day going when I got up this morning,” she said. He laughed and she could feel his chest move. “You know, in all the years I was married, I don’t think I ever sat on my husband’s lap.”
“He didn’t know what he was missing,” he said, giving her a squeeze.
“Now, his new wife is taller than he is. Maybe he sits in her lap,” she said with a giggle.
She felt him nod. “What happened?”
“After twenty-five years of marriage, he said he was leaving. There were no surprises anymore.”
“Was it his secretary?”
“Close. The drug rep.”
“He’s a doctor?”
“A dentist.”
“Do you hate him?”
“No. This is all ancient history. We have two children and four grandchildren. We keep a united front for them,” she said.
“And you? Married again?” he asked.
“No. One round of complete humiliation and degradation is enough for a lifetime.”
“That’s a pretty pessimistic view of marriage.”
“I’m not talking about the marriage. It’s what happens afterward that I couldn’t bear. And what about you?”
“Not married. No steady girlfriend.”
She sat up and asked, “Are you gay?’
He laughed so hard that she shook and he had to hold onto her so she didn’t fall off his lap. “No, not gay. But I might be developing a taste for older women with long, muscular legs.”
“I’m not even going to respond to that,” she said, leaning back and tucking the sweatshirt under her chin. They stayed quiet and peaceful for a while in a companionable silence. And then she heard some noise outside of their little cave. She jumped up and quickly put her shirt back on. Although the water dripped off the overhang, it looked like the rain had stopped and several bikers and runners were out again.
She said, “I guess it’s time to go.”
He didn’t bother with his wet Tshirt. He put the sweatshirt on the right way, zipped it up and slipped on his backpack.
“Thanks for sharing your sweatshirt,” she said, sticking out her hand.
He shook her hand, but then leaned in and gave her a hug. “It’s been real,” he said.
“Talk about clichés,” she said, rolling her eyes but smiling.
They both got on their bikes and headed in different directions. There was no cell service for a while so, as she rode, she thought about what she would tell her daughter. “What a day I had! I got stuck in the rain, fell off my bike, found a clearing, met a man, he was half my age.… We were half-naked under his sweatshirt….”
Her phone rang and shook her out of her reverie.
“Hi, sweetie,” she said, seeing the call was from her daughter. She adjusted her ear buds.
“Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all day. I need you. Evan’s cold is worse. I’ve got an appointment with his pediatrician tomorrow and I’m meeting with a client. I need you to take him to the doctor.”
It’s just as well, Suzanne thought. This is something I should keep to myself.
The next day with her two-year old grandson in tow, Suzanne arrived at the pediatrician’s office. After registering at the front desk, she held the cranky little boy in her arms and walked around the waiting room. A framed certificate from Doctors Without Borders caught her attention since she admired the organization. But she didn’t recognize the name of the recipient.
When her grandson’s name was called, they were ushered into a small room where a nurse took Evan’s vital signs. He fussed through the preliminaries, and Suzanne continued to hold him and coo to him as she patted his back. She was pointing to a colorful picture on the back wall when she heard the door open and a voice say, “Now what brings this big fellow in to see me?”
She turned around quickly, startling her grandson into quiet. “It’s you!” she said.
There, wearing a shirt and tie, and a teddy bear on his stethoscope, was the man she had met on the bike trail yesterday. “Hello,” he said to her, looking awkward or embarrassed, or maybe just surprised. “This is your…?”
“Grandson,” she answered, too shocked to pull out the litany of complaints her daughter had written out for her to report. Gathering her thoughts she said, “Where’s Dr. Lane? He’s Evan’s pediatrician.”
“I take the add-ons and the emergencies. It keeps the office running smoother. Please lay Evan on the table,” the doctor said, and then examined him. Whether it was his manner, or just his size, the boy was cooperative. After a complete physical, the doctor announced that the little man had a cold and recommended fluids and rest. As Suzanne picked him up, the doctor said, “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs…?”
“Bailey. Suzanne Bailey. And it’s nice to see you, Dr…?”
“Benjamin, Sandy.”
“Oh, you’re the one who got the certificate from Doctors Without Borders. Yes, you’re the one who likes to get your hands dirty,” she said, walking toward the door.
“I’ll walk you out,” he said. Suzanne could see the nurse raise her eyebrows.
They walked through the waiting room to the outer hallway.
“Your grandson’s going to be just fine. Don’t worry,” he said, rubbing the little boy’s cheek.
“Thanks for your time,” she said.
“Hey… is it possible… I’d like to see you… do you want to go biking some time?”
“Do you think you can keep up with me on that… that bike of yours?”
“Are you judging me?”
“No, I don’t do that,” she said, turning to leave, but just as quickly stopped. “Sure I’ll go biking… but… only if it’s raining,” she said with a wink, and proceeded to walk out the door.
Author Bio
Arnine Weiss is a retired sign language interpreter/ teacher of the Deaf. She is the author of four books of non-fiction and two novels. She is a graduate student in the WLP program.
