Tilly's Voice

On a warm summery day in August, the ferry delivered Tilly's motorcycle and most of the village turned out to see.

It came on a platform truck, fitted between sheets of sturdy wood and chained in place. The sun glistened on the windshield and shiny metal, the leather smelled new and sharp, everything about it said danger! and rebel! and watching from the breakwater, Tilly was in heaven. Unable to wait, she ran down the slip, knee deep in salt water, and jumped to the scow, causing Cap to clutch his chest and yell fierce curses at her. She barely heard him as she scaled the sides of the container and scrambled inside, running her hands over the monster of a machine from one end to the other. She was in love and no amount of threats from Cap would keep her from this magnificent mass of steel and leather. She climbed through the chains and mounted it in a quick motion, throwing her hands to the sky and smiling hugely. Cap docked the ferry and emerged shaking his fists and muttering but Tilly refused to budge and with a schedule to meet and a crowd watching, he finally gave in and the motorcycle was uncrated where it stood. It started with a deafening roar and Tilly nearly flew off before she drove it up the slip, onto the breakwater, and then in a cloud of dust and smoke, down the road toward The Point. The sound of the engine in full throttle overwhelmed all other noise and could be heard long after Tilly was out of sight and racing toward the opposite end of the island in a blur of exhaust, wind, and flashing lights. Mark my words, Cap said darkly, that girl's bitten off more'n she can chew.

Tilly has just turned thirty that summer and the motorcycle was her dream come true. She had saved for it since her tenth birthday, putting away her factory wages and her tips from the Canteen, her baby sitting earnings and the spare change she collected from redeeming deposit bottles and every other cent she could scare up. She kept this precious money in old cigar boxes that she buried in her stepdaddy's pasture and had never once dipped into it for anything else. After having seen a picture of a dressed out Harley in a magazine she had found in a trash can, she'd become steadfast and obsessive about it and despite warnings and admonitions had never wavered. She would have her motorcycle and all the trimmings and she was prepared to save and wait her whole life. She rode it everywhere, causing terrified livestock to flee at the sound and disturbing the sleep of the old folks and newborns.
Each night she put it to bed in an empty stall, covering it lovingly and often bedding down beside it. She kept it polished and conditioned and it shone like a shiny new dime. By summer's end she had tamed it and would give the children rides around the cove and back again - it was freedom and independence and it was glorious - especially sweet because Tilly had been born a mute and had never spoken a single word in all her thirty years - until the arrival of the motorcycle when she found her voice.