Inspired by our little field trip to Cardiff and no longer intimidated by British motorways, I re-applied myself to a project I had already started—fixing up Renfrew’s old motor bike. It wasn’t much of a motorcycle—a late 70s Suzuki GT 185 that hadn’t been ridden in years. Mice had shredded the vinyl seat and passed untold broods in the nest they made beneath it. But Renfrew told me that if I could get it to run, it was mine to use.
Until Harry stepped in to give me a hand after hours, I had made only dribs and drabs of progress. But Harry was a wizard with engines. And once he got involved in a project, his obsessive/compulsive nature kicked in. Throbbing ankle and all, he would be there in the garage with me till all hours of the night, dissected motor parts strewn across a sheet of canvas, while I was nodding off on my feet.
And he had no desire to even ride the thing. He just felt impelled to make it run. He was that way with everything—computers, watches, electric mixers.
It was a revelation the day we finally got that engine cranking in a cloud of blue smoke. I took it for a test run, to find it had no brakes. I was forced to stop by plowing into one of the overgrown yew hedges in front of the milking barn.
That just made Renfrew’s day. He came out of that barn guffawing like he might cough up his liver.
When I wheeled it back into the garage, Harry was already at the bench, ready to pounce on it with a screwdriver. Jessica came by after a spell, with some beers.
“Dinner’ll be ready in a few.”
“What’s on for grub tonight?” said Harry.
“Renfrew’s favorite,” said Jessica.
“Shepherd’s pie, again?”
“Thanks for the bitters, Jess,” I said.
“Cheers!” said Harry. We clinked our bottles.
“Quite a show that was, guys. I bet Renfrew’d pay money to see it again.”
“He’s too easily amused,” I said, threading a new brake wire through its protective sheath.
“How’s your ankle doing, Harry?” said Jessica.
“Itches like a bugger. Can’t wait to get the bloody cast off.”
“How long will you need to keep it on?”
“Two more weeks, God willing.”
“You think God really cares about your ankle?” I said, tightening a cable on the brake drum.
“Say what?” said Jessica.
“I just think, if there’s a God, She’s probably got bigger things to worry about than Harry’s ankle.”
“Why would you say such a thing? Are you an atheist?”
“No,” I said. “I happen to know for sure that there are higher powers in this universe. I just don’t think they’ve got time to micromanage us humans. And I’m not so sure they’re benevolent.”
“Oh? You’re saying the devil’s in charge, then?”
“I’m just saying there’s not much separation between good and evil.”
Jessica cocked her head and squinted at me. “You haven’t known true love, then, have you?”
“Love? And which category is that, then? Good … or evil?”
She expelled a burst of breath and shook her head. “What a cynical, hopeless thing to say.”
Harry squeezed the brakes. “Feels kind of stiff, like it’s hanging up somewhere.”
