A Few Bicycles More, page 3
Sister Wanda launched into a lesson on the first ten amendments to the U.S. Constitution and why they were deemed the Bill of Rights. Bicycle had to admit she wasn’t learning much; she kept getting distracted by their stops to read historical markers, plus the Fortune’s loop of harp-and-ferry music.
The trail was a bit rocky and muddy in places, but all in all it was a nice ride. Lots of shade. Fall had barely arrived down in D.C., but the farther north they got, the more the trees committed to showing oranges and yellows.
In fact, mostly what they saw were trees. Also views of the canal, which was full of water in some places and dry in others. After their fifth stop to read a marker, Sister Wanda abandoned the civics lesson and instead wove historical facts into a spontaneous lesson on American modes of transportation in the early 1800s. Nothing they saw struck them as peculiar.
As they got closer and closer to the end of the day, Bicycle felt worse and worse for the Fortune. She felt especially bad when Sister Wanda told it with barely disguised exasperation, “I will personally clean and oil every link of your chain if you can play any other song ever written by any other musician, anywhere, at any time in the history of humanity.”
Five minutes later, the bike played the opening to Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues.”
“Ha!” Sister Wanda exhaled in surprise. “I didn’t think that would work. I’ll scrub your chain spick-and-span when we return home.”
“Good job, Fortune,” Bicycle told it.
It was not a good job. The music changed on its own without my control.
Bicycle listened to Johnny Cash’s mellow voice sing about a prisoner tortured by hearing a train rolling along outside his cell. She wondered if the Fortune was feeling tortured by this magnetic pull.
Sister Wanda slowed as they approached a metal staircase leading to a bridge. The bridge had room for pedestrians on one side and train tracks on the other. A blue-and-yellow freight train was clacking across the river. “That bridge leads to Harpers Ferry and West Virginia,” Sister Wanda told the Fortune, “so unless you have any suggestions, this is the end of our search for today.”
The train’s whistle blew, echoing over the water.
The Fortune blinked its display in rhythm with Johnny Cash’s voice telling everyone that when he heard that train whistle blowing, he’d hang his head and cry. Then it let out a long, triumphant boooop. I calculate that there is an 82.46% chance that I have solved the puzzle. One possible interpretation of the songs I have played by harpers and about ferries and country roads in West Virginia is that the magnetic force wanted to pull me to Harpers Ferry, West Virginia.
Sister Wanda smacked her forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“That’s pretty good interpreting,” said Bicycle. “But who or what sent you a music puzzle to bring you here?”
I believe there is only one way to find out. Turn right.
SEEING MORE THAN DOUBLE
The Fortune kept playing “Folsom Prison Blues” as they crossed the bridge and rode onto the main street of the small town of Harpers Ferry. It was a cheery-looking place, tucked in the shadow of some wooded hills, full of tidy eighteenth-century buildings, souvenir shops, and restaurants. Bicycle began to slow down when she saw an ice cream parlor, but the Fortune blinked, Keep going, please.
The road climbed and descended, and the historic stone and brick homes gave way to more industrial-looking structures. They saw a marker indicating they’d entered West Harpers Ferry. This town put on nowhere near as cheerful a face to the world. Gated driveways, smokestacks, and a lot of chain-link fences dominated the roadside of West Harpers Ferry.
After listening to the sixth mournful rendition of “Folsom Prison Blues,” Bicycle murmured nervously to the Fortune, “What does this new song mean? Are we going to a prison?”
The Fortune abruptly went silent. It blinked, The pull is gone.
Bicycle asked, “Like we’ve found its source?” There was nothing much around them.
No. It seemed to switch off like a light. Turn back.
Bicycle told Sister Wanda they needed to retrace their steps. They headed back the way they’d come, more slowly this time, checking both sides of the road for mysteries.
Stop. This is the place I last felt the pull.
“The place” was about the last place Bicycle would have hoped to stop. The chain-link fence here was topped with a layer of barbed wire. The business behind it was a hodgepodge of broken-down cars, rusted washers and dryers, pipes, old furniture, and heaps of metal that no longer resembled anything. Two heavy-duty cranes loomed over the heaps, one with a magnet and one with a hungry-looking claw attachment. A weathered plywood sign told them that this was WOLFF’S SCRAPYARD.
She gestured at Sister Wanda, and the two of them put on their brakes.
“What should we do here?” Bicycle asked the Fortune.
It answered with a question mark.
They pushed the gate open and headed for a trailer that looked to be the scrapyard’s office. A sign was mounted to the trailer’s roof that said SMILE! YOU’RE ON OUR VIDEO SECURITY CAMERAS! Another one had a picture of a German shepherd and the words I CAN MAKE IT TO THE FENCE IN 2.8 SECONDS. CAN YOU? Sister Wanda left her bike at the bottom of the trailer’s stairs. Bicycle carried the Fortune inside so it could hear what was said.
A man with a ponytail and bushy muttonchop whiskers knelt in front of a filing cabinet. “Hey, folks,” he said in a gravelly voice. He climbed to his feet and brushed at his grease-spotted coveralls. “Are you dropping that off for scrap? We’ll need to get it weighed first.”
“No!” Bicycle exclaimed, clasping the Fortune’s top tube to her chest. “This isn’t scrap!”
“Sorry. We had our bike event this week. I thought you might have been a latecomer.”
Sister Wanda asked, “What bike event was that, Mr. . . . ?”
“Mr. Wolff, madam.” He extended his hand to her. “We got in a shipment of old, broken-down bikes, some complete, some just frames. Don’t know much about bikes myself, but sometimes still-usable stuff shows up. Even collector’s items. So I decided to invite the public to come see if they’d like to purchase any before we processed them.”
“Processed them?” Bicycle asked.
“You know, recycled them. We do it all here—we got the shears, the crusher, the chopper, the shredder, the grinder, and the baler to bind it all together.” He nodded out the trailer’s window, where they could see another man operating the claw crane. The crane picked up one heap and dropped it into a gray compactor, which made a screechy grinding noise. A few sparks flew into the air. “We’ve got a crucible on order, too. That one’s for melting.”
Bicycle couldn’t tell if the shiver she felt was hers or the Fortune’s. “For melting?” she repeated. She’d have preferred living her whole life without knowing that some bikes ended up sheared, crushed, chopped, shredded, ground, baled, or melted.
Sister Wanda put a hand on Bicycle’s shoulder and squeezed. “Actually, we are here to look at the bikes and frames. We’ll take whatever wasn’t already sold.”
Bicycle looked at her guardian with gratitude. She could almost see the nun’s brain busily calculating how they’d afford such a thing, plus how they’d ship the bikes back to the monastery.
“Sorry, ma’am. Everything’s been processed. My son Chuck is baling the remains right now.” He looked at Bicycle’s stricken face. “Kid, the metal from those recycled bikes will get made into all kinds of new stuff. Heck, most of it probably ends up being used to make new bikes. Recycled cycles!” His rough chuckle rasped on Bicycle’s ears. The office phone rang. “If there’s nothing else I can do for you . . . ?” he asked, moving to pick up the call.
“No, nothing more, thank you, Mr. Wolff,” said Sister Wanda.
Outside, Bicycle asked the Fortune, “Do you think that was what was pulling you here? Did you have a sixth sense that a bunch of bikes needed to be rescued?”
I have many more than six senses. If that is what happened, I should have been smart enough to get here sooner.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Sister Wanda said. “Even the smartest among us isn’t perfect. Although this is an unfortunate end to our trip, let us try to remember that recycling is meant to give old items a new life. What seems like an end can be viewed as a new beginning.”
Bicycle closed her eyes and sent up a wish that most of the bikes had been bought, and that any recycled frames would have a speedy trip to a factory that would make them into new bikes for riders to buy and love. She opened her eyes and watched the crane operator pick up another load. “Can we get out of here?” she said.
“Indeed,” said Sister Wanda. “Time to head for the Nearly Silent Nunnery.”
Using the Fortune’s map, they found the nunnery on a side street back near the heart of Harpers Ferry. The nuns welcomed them with hushed hospitality. Bicycle tried to engage her bike in conversation before bed, but it put her off with one-word answers. It played no music, yawped no alarms. The Fortune was dead silent all night long.
In the morning, Sister Wanda offered to help the nunnery manager with a few things. She suggested Bicycle take her bike outside for some air. The day was overcast and gray, barely a ray of sunlight to be found.
Bicycle asked the Fortune, “Do you want to go for a spin around the neighborhood?”
No.
Bicycle found a bench. “Do you want to sit with me under this tree?”
No.
She plopped herself on the bench and leaned the bike next to her. “I want to help you feel better, but I don’t know how. What would cheer you up right now?”
I was not programmed to cheer up.
“I’ve seen you do a lot of things you weren’t programmed to do,” Bicycle said, impatience creeping into her voice. She took a deep breath. “I feel sad about what happened yesterday, too.”
The Fortune blinked, What would cheer you up right now?
Bicycle waggled her head back and forth, thinking about it. She noticed a convenience store on the corner. “A candy bar.” She’d had eggs and toast for breakfast, but some mornings are better faced with a chunk of chocolate.
I cannot eat candy bars. Could you eat one for me? If you cheer yourself up, it might cheer me up at the same time.
Bicycle liked this suggestion. She felt in her pocket to make sure she had some money on her. “How about this? I will bring the candy bar back here and describe every bite for you. Then you’ll have more data. That’s one of your favorite things.”
Yes, it is, the Fortune agreed.
Bicycle walked to the corner and crossed at the traffic light. The store’s array of candy choices turned out to be impressive. Bicycle surveyed the grand riches before her. Should she choose a treat that she knew she liked, or something she’d never heard of before? What was an Abba-Zabba? Or an Idaho Spud?
She reached for an intriguing candy bar called a Malty Melty from the display next to the checkout counter and the store clerk laughed.
“How long did it take you to eat the one you got over the weekend, less than a minute?” the clerk asked. “Maybe you’d better buy two this time.”
“Excuse me?” Bicycle said. “I didn’t buy one before. This is my first time here.”
“Oh, I see.” The clerk winked and nodded like she and Bicycle were sharing a secret. “Didn’t buy one before. Got it.”
Bicycle nodded back, because it seemed like the easiest thing to do. She plunked the Malty Melty bar on the counter along with some money.
The clerk counted out the change with agonizing slowness. She said, “You know, I bet I could learn to tell you apart because of what you buy. You, you’re the Melty.” She winked again. “See you some other time, I’m sure.”
Bicycle thanked the clerk, whose odd behavior had reminded her that wherever one traveled, there were interesting people. She hurried out the door. Traffic had picked up, and she had to wait for several buses to pass. The sides of the buses identified them as free parking shuttles. Bicycle had learned last night that a big chunk of the town of Harpers Ferry was the site of a national historic park. The area had become famous when John Brown, an abolitionist, had tried to seize weapons from the local armory before the Civil War in order to free slaves in the area. Brown’s revolt had failed, but his brave act inspired others who wanted slavery to end. Bicycle thought how some things were worth doing, no matter whether one succeeded or not.
Once she was back, she sat down and told the Fortune, “Okay, I’ve got one.” She held up the Malty Melty’s wrapper for her bike to scan. “I’ve never had this kind before, so this’ll be new for both of us.” She unpeeled it and chomped. She was unable to talk for a few chews and simply made mmming noises.
Would you say it is delicious? Scrumptious? Flavorsome? Delectable? Mouthwatering?
Bicycle swallowed. “It’s yummy. The outside is a milk chocolate shell, and inside is a whipped chocolate filling. There’s a different flavor in there, too.” She took another bite.
Malt powder is on the ingredient list; perhaps that is the flavor. Is your mouth now cheerful? Does that make the rest of you cheerful?
“My mouth is a little drooly and my tongue is tingling.” Bicycle kept munching and describing, trying not to talk with her mouth full, as Sister Wanda had taught her. Focusing on the sensations of eating made eating even more satisfying. She’d have to try eating some of her other favorite foods “for” the Fortune.
She realized she was down to the last bite and glanced toward the convenience store, considering going back for another one.
She left her mouth open midchew. If Sister Wanda had been there, she’d have asked Bicycle if she’d been born in a barn.
A girl. Seated on the bus stop bench across the street. Identical-looking to Bicycle, except she was wearing a pair of cargo shorts and a T-shirt covered in pockets. Identical hair, identical face, identical body shape. She also held a Malty Melty in her hand poised between one bite and the next.
They gaped at each other.
A moment later, Bicycle’s jaw dropped even lower. Sister Wanda would have had a conniption fit at the way she was showing her malted-goo-coated tongue to the whole world. Bicycle’s shock came from seeing another mirror image of her own familiar self strolling up behind her seated doppelgänger.
This new person also held a candy bar, but one with a blue-and-white wrapper. She stopped short and joined in the stare.
Bicycle’s mind started chattering unhelpfully, trying to remember the name of the candy bar this other girl was holding. It’s called Almond something. Almond Surprise? Almond Crunch? I bet the Fortune will know. I’ll ask it that after I ask it what the odds are that three people could look so similar.
Two more girls came out of the convenience store, playfully trying to steal each other’s candy bars. If Bicycle hadn’t known that neither of these girls was her, she wouldn’t have been able to tell. She thought her chin might drop to her chest and drizzle her shirt with chocolate.
Once the two clowning girls noticed the first two staring, they also turned to look at Bicycle. A thousand seconds passed.
One of them said, “That’s her, isn’t it?”
Another answered, “Who else could it be?”
Their voices carried distinctly across the morning air.
A woman with the thickest glasses Bicycle had ever seen emerged from the convenience store with a granola bar. She had unruly black hair barely held back from her face by a toothed clip. She noticed the frozen tableau of girls and squinted across the street, shading her eyes with one hand. She asked, “What’s everyone staring at?”
“Yoof!” the doppelgänger on the bench called out to Bicycle. She jumped up and began waving her candy bar. “It’s us!”
YOOF!
A bus pulled up to the bus stop and momentarily blocked Bicycle’s view of the girls and the woman. She thought she could hear excited yelling over the bus engine’s grumble. When it pulled away, the group ran across the street and pulled Bicycle off the bench into a giant jumping group hug.Bicycle felt the woman’s arms hugging the tightest. She heard five voices repeating, “It’s us!” and “It’s you!” and that mysterious syllable “Yoof!” over and over. She was too astonished to do anything more than let the hug happen.
The woman turned her head and yelled, “Alex? Where is your father? Alex!” After a minute, Bicycle heard a man’s voice ask what all the hugging was about.
“Count the girls, Alex!” the woman said, and started sobbing.
The man counted out loud, “One, two, three, four, . . . five? Yoof? Yoof! How? Really? Let me in there!” Two more arms joined in the hug clump.
Then a familiar voice cut through the babble and the yoofing. “Excuse me!” Sister Wanda had arrived. “Bicycle, are you in there somewhere? Please unhand my girl!” Bicycle managed to unwind herself and get behind the nun.
“Your girl? She’s ours. We’ve finally found her!” announced the woman. Wayward tendrils of her uptwisted hair were escaping everywhere, some sticking to her face.
“What are you . . . talking . . . abou . . . ?” Sister Wanda trailed off without even finishing the last word of her question. She’d gotten a good look at the four new girls who’d been part of the hugging scrum. Sister Wanda seemed to be caught up in her own born-in-a-barn gaping stare. Then her manners took over, and she managed to close her mouth. She began quietly repeating, “Oh my. My oh my oh my.”
“We’re her identical sisters,” said the girl with all the pockets. “Quintuplets, since there’s five of us altogether.”
Bicycle could see the half-eaten Malty Melty bar poking out of her cargo shorts.
The woman said, “We’ve been looking for her for years. Years! And here she is, right in front of us.” She wiped ineffectually at her hair-plastered cheeks and grabbed Bicycle again, crushing her in a hug that felt like it had indeed been years in coming.
Bicycle woofed out a short, heavy breath. Like anyone who’d inexplicably turned up without any explanation on some steps as a young child, she’d wondered if she’d ever find her birth family. Should she start sobbing, too, overjoyed at being found after so long? Instead, she felt sort of numb. And a bit squished.
