Sullivan rubbed the back of his neck with a calloused hand as he watched the clerk process the packages. As usual, he screwed up and let the days slip away. Hell, he'd been so busy working the overtime to pay for all this, he completely lost track of the big Christmas shopping days countdown.
Sullivan wondered if, along with all that crap, she ever told the kids about the money he sent her every month, keeping the bills paid and the food on the table or how hard he tried to keep the family together after the factory closed down? Did she mention why he finally had to follow work south through Charlotte, then Atlanta, and finally to Daytona.
Sullivan shook his head. The kids ought to have presents from their old man under the tree on Christmas morning and he was beginning to have those crazy thoughts again. He looked out the window into the Florida sunshine. Cincinnati was a hard 1,000 mile ride into bad weather, but Jeannie was right about one thing, he was a biker. He made up his mind and reached across the counter, pulling back three of the smaller packages. “Ship the rest,” he told the clerk. “I'll deliver these myself.” He didn't wait for his change.
Sullivan left the van parked at the plant. A note taped to the steering wheel advised his boss that the tank was full and Sullivan was heading north to spend Christmas with his kids. Once home, he dug out his gear, packed and pre-tripped the bike, then grabbed a few hours of sleep.
At 2:00 A.M. he straddled his three-year-old Wide Glide and left the soft ocean breezes of north Florida behind. Except for the Red and Silver paint, the drag pipes, a set of real apes, and an S&S carb, the bike was a bone simple stocker set up for long miles. If he rode hard, just gassed and hauled ass, he could be in the “Queen City” hugging his kids and fighting with Jeannie by midnight. That thought kept him warm as the bike rumbled north toward the cold.
The big twin cam ran smooth and sweet, eating up the miles. By the time the sun came up over Sullivan's right shoulder, Florida had long ago faded into south Georgia. I-95 was deserted at this hour on the day before Christmas so he maintained a steady 80 mph, scanning front and back for the law.
Sullivan was into his heavy leathers by 8:00 A.M, riding through patches of light rain under a threatening sky. Two hours later he bought a cheap blaze-orange rain suit at a truck stop and rode across the Carolinas into freezing head winds that slammed down out of the North. A steady drizzle chilled him all the way through Virginia where a six car pile-up slowed traffic to a crawl costing him time he didn't have. As he thundered across the Blue Ridge through the gathering darkness toward Southern West Virginia, the snow began.
It didn't let up.
The speed limit on the West Virginia Turnpike section of I-77 had already been reduced to 35 mph by the time he made it through Princeton. Sullivan slowed down and began the 100 mile crawl toward Charleston. So far, he could still keep the scooter stable under him through the wet curves if he watched his speed and went easy on the brakes. The plows and salt trucks kept snow from piling up on the road and his tires cut through the slush. He hammered on, but the snow kept coming and as the sun fell, so did the temperature.
At a gas stop in Beckley, Sullivan choked down a large cup of scalding coffee. He duct taped the gaps where his face shield snapped to the helmet and tied a double bandana across his bearded face to cut the bitter wind. Minutes later back on the bike, he slipped and slid onto a deadly stretch of road as the snow thickened in his headlight beam. There was very little traffic. Most folks were either already home or had been scared off the roads by the growing intensity of the storm. The few vehicles that did pass kicked up rooster tails of wet, icy slush nearly blinding him. As the cold gnawed deeper into his bones, Sullivan tried to stay focused on clearing his face shield and keeping the rear wheel under his ass where it belonged.
The run home had quickly turned into a survival test. Sullivan hunkered down over the gas tank and gutted it out. Mile after white knuckle mile, he wallowed the big V Twin through a deepening Christmas Eve storm. The cold was crippling. No matter how well he layered on the bad weather gear, the chill and wet found a way in. His feet felt like ten pound blocks of ice even through the insulation of the waterproof work boots. Having a tough time keeping them from slipping off the pegs, he began to understand the concept of freezing your balls off.
A jackknifed tanker truck blocking an elevated section of the turnpike forced Sullivan and the rest of the traffic off the main highway onto a snow swept two lane detour at a place called Oak Hill. His headlight bored a hole through a wall of swirling snowflakes and he followed it deeper and deeper into the night. What few stores and gas stations he could see were dark, the clerks and customers gone home long ago. Only the houses were alive with light, appearing warm and inviting. He could imagine families and friends gathering in fire-lit houses, keeping close and safe in each other's company. As the cold ground deeper into him, Sullivan wondered if he'd made a mistake. He knew the kids would be glad to see him, but Jeannie was another story.
It was almost 10:00 P.M. when he spotted the cluster of emergency lights on the road ahead. Sullivan slowed his bike, braking carefully, letting the rpms fall away almost to nothing before down shifting. As he neared the lights he could just make out the prehistoric shape of a snowplow parked near the edge of the road. Just beyond it, a portable sign bearing the message “Road Closed” in orange reflectors materialized in his headlight. As he slithered the bike to a stop in the glow of the snowplow's emergency strobes, he could see the flashing blue lights of a West Virginia State Police car. The blue and gold cruiser blocked both lanes of the road fifty yards ahead.
A big trooper left the warmth of the car and walked toward him, pulling his Smokey hat down against the wind. Sullivan's warm breath steamed the plastic face shield making it hard to see in the harsh glare of the cops big flashlight. “What's the deal, officer?”
The trooper stared at Sullivan in disbelief. He had to shout to be heard above the howl of the wind and the 88's drag pipes. “Road's closed,” he yelled into Sullivan's helmet just about where his ear should be. “Damn snow plow's broken down and it'll be hours before we can get a replacement here from Beckley or Charleston.” He pointed a gloved finger at Sullivan's steaming Harley. “You gotta be crazy. How'd you get this far?”
Sullivan loosened the helmet strap and tried to wipe the visor clear. “Tryin' to get home to my kids for Christmas.”
The trooper's face softened. “Sorry, dude,” he said, “but the way the temperature's droppin' nothin's gonna move past here till we get another plow to push through ahead of a couple of salt trucks. Why don't you pull that thing off to the side of the road. You can sit in my cruiser and warm up a little while you wait.”
Sullivan started to argue but the trooper was already stepping around him to deal with an approaching mini-van. He watched the cop walk away into the snow swept spill of the oncoming headlights. “Merry Christmas!” he muttered and kicked the big bike down into first. Getting started again was the hard part. By the time he'd eased the rumbling Wide Glide between the snowplow and the cruiser, the trooper had forgotten him.
Sullivan hadn't made another three miles before he was wishing he'd listened to the cop. The road had gone bad fast, becoming a steady uphill grade covered in icy wet snow. His tires were still able to bite through to the pavement but the Harley was becoming more and more squirrelly beneath him. After almost going down on one bad patch of freezing slush, he eased the bike over to the shoulder of the road and shut down.
Sullivan couldn't remember ever being this cold. He was wet under the rain suit, and every broken bone he'd ever had was screaming. He shivered so hard his frozen foot couldn't find the kick stand. After four tries, he reached down with a gloved hand and pried it out from under the motor. Carefully, he eased the bike over making sure the stand was resting on asphalt and not snow covered mud. He leaned back against his pack and groaned. He pulled off a glove, fished out his smokes and pushed the helmet up just enough to get a Camel between his teeth. He lit it with shaking fingers.
Sullivan stared down the road into the darkness and cursed himself while he smoked. The trooper had been right. He was nuts to be out in this crap on a motorcycle. He'd pressed his luck before, but this time, he'd gotten himself into some real deep shit. Up to now, the temperature had stayed warm enough to keep the salt working on the roads and the big scooter's tires could still maintain traction as long as he kept it slow and watched himself on the hills and turns. But now it was getting even colder and the slush was re-freezing under new snow. If he tried to go much farther he'd likely dump the bike.
Sullivan finished the cigarette and tossed the butt. With his headlight off he could see light ahead, flickering through the swirling snow. He watched for a few minutes, thinking it might be a car, but it got no closer. Whatever it was, it was just sitting out there in the dark. He decided to chance it. “Anything beats waiting here, freezing my ass off,” he grumbled. He turned the key and hit the button to crank the 88 to life. The drags growled and snapped and he eased out on the clutch, giving the rear tire just enough power to ease the bike forward on the slick blacktop. The front wheel skittered, then caught pavement. Sullivan gritted his teeth, hung on and headed toward the light.
What he found was an old wood frame building that had been a bus depot before he was born. It sat in the center of a glowing halo from a huge street lamp that had no reason to be there. It was the only light Sullivan spotted for miles. He eased the bike in under a shed on the far side of the building between a some cars and a large stack of old wooden freight pallets. The cars hadn't been there long enough to collect much snow. Apparently, he wouldn't be spending the night alone. He gently leaned the bike onto the kick stand. His frozen fingers found the heavy chain and secured the scooter to one of the posts supporting the shed roof. Satisfied, he locked the ignition and the forks, pulled off his helmet and started for the door.
The joint was boarded up. A fine layer of dust had settled on every surface that wasn't covered with snow. He followed several sets of wet footprints up the steps and through the front door. Inside, the place was drafty and almost as cold as it was outside. It looked like it hadn't been used for anything but storage for a long time. The light from the street lamp filtered in between the planks that covered the dirty windows, allowing him to just make out a woman with a couple of kids, and two men sitting around a room that had once been the lobby. There was a row of wooden benches that reminded Sullivan of church pews along one wall facing what used to be the ticket window.
An ancient pot bellied stove stood in the middle of the room. He walked toward to it hoping for warmth but it was colder than his mother-in-law's heart. Apparently no one had thought about trying to get it going. Sullivan looked at the others but no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. He checked the box beside the stove for wood or coal and found only a few small pieces of kindling.
The others seemed satisfied to sit there and freeze to death. Sullivan was not. He stepped back outside into the snow and walked to the shed. Using his heavy boots, he started to work, kicking and smashing the wooden pallets until he had a double arm load of wood.
A few minutes later he had a fire going. The two men seemed pretty useless so he ignored them and spoke to the woman.
If your boy can give me a hand, we'll get some heat goin' here.” The woman was young and looked tired. She seemed uncertain. Sullivan tried to put her at ease. “I won't bite him, ma'am. Send him on over.” She whispered something to her son. He nodded and walked over to where Sullivan stood.
“This ain't hard, kid,” he said and pointed at the pile of wood by the stove. “Just keep adding these wood scraps one at a time. Let 'em catch good before you put another one on.” Sullivan started back outside. “And mind that stove door. It'll get hot.” The kid nodded and Sullivan disappeared into the snow.
The big stove warmed the room and by the time Sullivan laid in a supply of wood, they puffed icy breaths inside the station. The others even came alive. One of the men took over tending the stove from the kid. The boy was now curled up on one of the front pews with his mother and sister. They appeared to be about the same age as Sullivan's own children. It reminded him that he was going to be very late for Christmas morning.
Sullivan peeled off the rain suit and wet leathers and laid them near the stove to dry. Then he moved to one of the benches in the back of the room and stretched out. The growing warmth from the stove almost made him feel colder. Nearly twenty bone-chilling hours in the saddle had left him worn down. He was hungry, but he was just too tired to do anything about it. He drifted off thinking about the small stash of energy bars he had tossed into his pack.
He wasn't sure how long he slept. The sound of the little girl crying softly on the nearby bench brought him awake. It wasn't the sniveling of a spoiled brat but rather the heart tugging sobs of child whose world will never be the same again. Sullivan started to sit up but the woman's voice stopped him.
“It'll be all right, sweetheart,” She assured the child. “The trooper told us he'd send a truck for us. Then we can catch a bus to Grandma's.”
But why can't we just go in our car, Mommy?î
“The car broke down, sugar. We'll just have to wait for help to come.”
Sullivan heard one of the men speak up. “Ma'am, when the plow gets here, I'd be pleased to give yaÃll a lift to Charleston. You can get a bus there.”
Sullivan relaxed back onto the hard wood of the bench. He heard the woman thank the man and continue trying to sooth her children. He could barely see them above the back of their bench, silhouetted against the light from the street lamp as she snuggled them to her.
“Will Daddy be at Grandma's when we get there, Mommy?” he heard the little girl ask. She took a second to answer and her words chilled him all over again.
“We talked about this, honey,” he heard her say. “You know Daddy's in Heaven now.”
Sullivan heard the boy speak up then and he could hear anger beneath the tears. “Why did Daddy have to go fight in that war,” The boy asked. “I miss him real bad. Why did he have to go?” The mother's voice stayed steady almost all the way through her answer. She spoke softly, barely whispering to her children. Sullivan could just make out the words.
“I don't know why, Tommy,” Sullivan heard her say. “All I can tell you is what your Daddy told me before he left. He said he was a soldier and it was his duty to go fight so little kids in Iraq could have a decent life and grow up safe and free. And he said he had to make sure we would all stay safe and free. So no one could ever come here and hurt us again like on September 11. Your Daddy was a good man. They tell me he was a hero and got medals for what he was doing over there when it happened. Before he left, he said for me to be sure you guys never forgot how much he loved us. That's all I can tell you, honey.”
The little girl put her arms around her mother's shoulders and the boy tried to hug them both. Sullivan sat up when the girl asked how Santa Claus was going to find them, if they didn't have a house anymore. He heard the mother say that Santa would know that they had to leave their home on the post and move to grandpa's house now that Daddy was gone. He'd leave something for them there. Then the girl asked if Santa would find them here, tonight, and Sullivan thought his heart would break when the woman couldn't answer.
After a long while, the woman slept too, but not Sullivan. He couldn't stop thinking about the small boy who had helped him keep the fire going, the look of determination on his little face, the care with which he placed the scraps of wood into the stove and the sorrow in his voice when he asked why his dad had to die. He sat up quietly and moved to where he could see them. The woman slept propped against the back of the bench with a child pulled close on each side, her coat spread over them. In sleep she looked almost as young as her little girl. Sullivan took a deep breath that came out in a long sigh. Losing his job and being forced to leave home to find work made life hard on his wife and kids, but it could never be as bad as what this family endured.
He was about to lay back down when the lights from the snow plow lit up the inside of the station. In the distance, he could hear the diesel's grumble and the harsh scraping of the blade on frozen asphalt. The others slept on. Quietly, Sullivan moved to where he had piled his leathers and began to gather his gear. The salt trucks wouldn't be far behind. The last thing he wanted to do was go back out onto that cold highway, but he needed to be away from here. Needed to put miles between himself and the soldier's widow with her heartbroken children before the sun came up on an empty Christmas morning.
He slipped out onto the wooden platform and put on the damp leathers and the ugly rain suit. In the weird light from the street lamp the orange suit looked bright red. Sullivan snorted. Six feet tall, dressed in a red suit and black boots with a beard so blonde it might as well have been white. Hell, he thought as he walked toward the bike, If I was just fat, I could pass for Santa Claus.
Some snow had accumulated on the bike even under the shed and he set about brushing it off before rolling it out. He checked the pack to be sure the kid's presents weren't getting wet. One NYPD fire truck, a Barbie Doll with a bunch of clothes, and a pair of earrings he'd bought for Jeannie just in case she actually let him in the house. The packages were as dry as if Santa himself had carried them. He was just about to zip the pack shut when he heard the first of the salt trucks going by, the big tire chains jingling on the pavement like sleigh bells.
Sullivan watched the truck disappear listening to the tinkle of the chains. He looked down at his rain suit, turned red by the light, and thought about the two kids back inside. He pulled back the flap on his pack and removed the three packages. “Santa's gonna find you tonight after all, kid,” he thought, “right here and right now.” Last he heard, Santa didn't wrap the things he brought so he shucked off the wrapping paper and name tags, shoved the trash back in the pack and zipped it up. Grinning like a demented 200 pound elf, he started back inside.
Sullivan eased the door open as quietly as he could and moved across the wooden floor to where the woman slept with her kids. He put the fire truck beside the boy. The kid never moved but when he placed the doll near the little girl, she stirred restlessly and he thought for a second she was going to wake up. He froze, standing motionless in the dark room until he was satisfied she was sleeping. Then he carefully put the earrings where the woman would see them when she opened her eyes. Next to the earrings, he placed the few energy bars he had left in his pack. Then he tossed a few more pieces of wood into the stove and headed for the door. He heard the second truck approaching. The sound of the tire chains covered any noise he made as he slipped outside.
The big man stood on the platform listening to the jingling of the salt truck fade in the distance. He didn't notice the little face pressed against the dirty window behind him as he tied his bandana over his beard, pulled on the helmet and walked out into the light from the street lamp.
She watched him walk across the fresh white snow to the corner of the building toward what looked to her sleep filled eyes like a sleigh carrying a huge bag full of toys. She could even hear the sleigh bells jingling. Just then Santa turned and looked back over his shoulder. She was sure he'd seen her. She ran from the window and crawled back under her mother's coat. She whispered to her mother that Santa had come, that she had seen him, that he had left her a doll, but her mother only shushed her, told her she was dreaming and to go back to sleep. She hugged her doll and closed her eyes tightly, pretending to be sound asleep. It was no dream. She knew what she had seen was real, and when Momma and Tommy woke up to see their presents, they'd know it too. As she slipped back into sleep she thought she heard the far away sound of thunder outside in the snow.
Sullivan looked back at the doorway one last time, then unlocked the bike and pushed it out onto the road. The plows and trucks finished their work. The salt was eating away the remaining snow and ice. He rolled the bike as far away from the old building as he could before pulling out the choke and hitting the button to coax the frozen V-Twin to life. By the time the motor had warmed up to operating temperature, he was already freezing again. He eased out onto the wet road heading north following the trucks.
The snow stopped and the predawn countryside was dreamlike and pure white in his headlight. The cold miles passed as he thought about the woman and her kids. About what they would think when they woke to find that Santa Claus had found them. As he rode on toward the coming dawn he hoped it would be enough to ease the hurt a little. It was all he could do.
But, like they say, no good deed goes unpunished, and now it occurred to him that he had no presents to give his own kids when he finally reached them. Nothing to give Jeannie.
Nothing but himself, a father and a husband.
Sullivan could remember a time when that would have been enough for Jeanie and the kids. If they still loved him as much as the woman and her sad children loved their soldier, then it might still be enough. It was worth the bitter cold ride to find out.
The sky to the east began to glow a soft pink. Sullivan shivered, smiling suddenly behind the dirty face shield.
It was Christmas morning, he was in the wind, and rolling home.
