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I Wasn’t Mad at Him for Wrecking the Motorcycle
But I really could have been
I sat on the porch, waiting impatiently for Curtis to zip into the driveway on his motorcycle. He was late. Suddenly, my ringing phone abruptly broke the silence.
“You’re going to have to come pick me up from the hospital.”
Dread gripped my heart. Was my husband going to die?
Curtis bought the motorcycle a few weeks earlier and had spent all his free time driving out of the city and riding it. We were storing it at a friend’s house in Indiana until he was experienced enough to bring it home to downtown Chicago.
That morning, a bright June Saturday, he’d convinced me that he should take a ride. I reluctantly agreed. I didn’t really want him to, but I didn’t have a good reason to say no.
I also didn’t argue when he wanted to wear shorts and a t-shirt for the hour-long drive from Chicago to Indiana, where he was storing the bike at a friend’s house.
“But make sure you change when we get there,” I said. “I don’t want you riding your bike in shorts and a T-shirt. It’s not safe.”
When we got to our friend’s house, I talked to them while Curtis started his bike — and a few minutes later, pulled out of the driveway still wearing shorts and…
