I say to my wife I want to buy a motorcycle because it makes me feel better knowing I have one.  Five years ago I sold mine to a teenager who handed me over three thousand dollars for it.  I told myself it was the responsible thing to do.

“We’ve been over this.  Even if we could afford it, you’d run into a tree and leave me alone to raise the kids.  You’re not twenty-five anymore.  And even when you were twenty-five you weren’t capable enough to do the things you did then.  You were lucky,” she says.

“You’d be fine.  You’re forgetting I have a five hundred thousand dollar life insurance policy.”

“That’s true,” she smiles.  And then she pauses and becomes fixated on the napkin holder as if maybe she’s contemplating arranging my death.

“I love you,” I say.

She regains her composure and resumes sorting through a stack of crumpled credit-card receipts spread out on the kitchen table.

I go over to our almond colored refrigerator and cut myself a slice of half frozen cheesecake that my neighbor, Mrs. Gunderson, gave me for cleaning out her rain gutters.  Tracy doesn’t like it when I accept payment in the form of baked goods, but I know the Gunderson’s can’t afford much else.

“Maybe this Friday we can go out on a date.”

“That’d be great, but we really need to start saving for the kids’ college funds.”

“We can afford thirty dollars.”

“That’s a lot of money for us right now.”

“The kids can make up that thirty dollars when they’re old enough to get jobs.  We have to live, too.”

“Do you only think of yourself?”

“I’m thinking of us.”

“Then stop eating that cheesecake.  You’re getting a stomach.”

I lace up my leather work boots in between bites, then open the French patio door and step outside into the warm summer air.

When I turn the key on my Simplicity lawn mower, I feel my posture sag.  As the engine struggles to maintain its momentum in the heavy grass, I’m taken back to memories of motorcycling.  I remember how Tracy would wrap her supple arms around my stomach and chest and hang on when I dropped down into fourth gear from fifth and cracked the throttle all the way open.  I didn’t have to warn her when I was about to pass.  She knew when it was coming.  I could feel her own excitement pulse through her fingers as she clung tight.  The vacationers with their clumsy motor homes, the businessman with his racy BMW, the old people in their Buicks all momentarily tried to keep up as we raced by them into the open air.  I thought we could live on that feeling of reckless freedom forever.

I take a break from mowing to stop and pick some daisies.  I bring them into the house, put them in a crystal vase and set them on the counter.  Tracy doesn’t notice as she concentrates on getting to the bottom of the receipts.  After I finish mowing, I decide to stay outside for the rest of the afternoon.  I trim the hedges and seal the concrete sidewalk.  I occasionally look for the storm door to open, for her to come and bring me a glass of ice water.  I know she’s busy inside.

Later in our bedroom, it’s quiet like before a sunrise.

“I miss the way you used to look at me,” I say.  I know we’re not rich like Mark and Kathy, but we’re good people.  I always thought that was enough for you.”

“I know.  But you were naïve to think that way.”

She grabs hold of her pillow and repositions her neck.  Her strawberry-blonde hair drapes across the pillow and smells faintly like coconut shampoo from her morning shower.  I touch her arm but her skin feels cold and indifferent.  She is wearing her pajamas and has her back turned to me.  We no longer sleep in the nude like we did before we had kids.

“There are so many places I want to travel to yet.  And I want our kids to be successful, and for them to be successful they need money.”

“You can’t say that we’re unsuccessful because we‘re not loaded,” I say.  “Some of the most miserable people have money.”

“I don’t see how that can be.”

“Neither can I, but they are.  Trust me.  Look at Bernard Madoff and that family.  It‘s the memories and laughs that matter.”

She removes my hand from her hip.

I get up and go out to the refrigerator to get another piece of cheesecake.  Sitting in the dark, I think that maybe Tracy’s right to judge me.  The biggest raise I’ve ever gotten as a beer deliveryman was five percent.

Our youngest daughter appears from the hallway wearing her favorite kitten pajamas.  She quietly takes a fork from the silverware drawer that contains a wide variety of mismatched collections.  She climbs up the stool next to me and begins stealing my fatty comfort from my plate.

“I’m hungry, Daddy,” she says.

“Me too sweetie.”

I tickle her tummy and she laughs playfully, the way that only an unburdened child can.

“Your teacher says kindergarten is going good for you.”

“I get to learn math and then I get to read.  Today I got to read for the class.  I’m a really good reader.”

“That’s good.”

“But not good like cheesecake.”

“Cheesecake only makes you fat,” I inform her, tickling her tummy again.

“Your tummy is bigger than mine,” she giggles.

She finishes the last bit of crumbs and a glass of milk that I’ve poured for her.  She wipes her milk mustache with a dishcloth, then scuttles back to bed.  I want to call her back and lead her out onto the patio so she can smell the fresh cut grass and hear the tree frogs singing.  Tracy would tell me I’m trying to turn her into a naturalist.  I could fall in love with the sounds and smells of the outdoors, but maybe that’s my problem.  Maybe I’m too much of a romantic.  I let Caitlyn go back to bed.

I open the door from the kitchen that leads into the garage and notice my red and blue Shoei motorcycle helmet covered with performance stickers and dust, sitting perched high up on a steel shelf.  I could never bring myself to sell it at a garage sale or on E-bay.  I keep hoping someday I’ll use it again.

I take the helmet down from the shelf and place it on the garbage can.  The thought of getting rid of it destroys me.

Later, in bed, I lie in silence knowing that Tracy is also awake.

“When I see our kids I don’t think we were wrong to come together.”

She rolls over and faces me with those beautiful blue eyes for the first time in months.”

“I’ll start taking college classes at night if it makes you feel better.  I‘ll try for a master‘s degree in accounting.”

“It may not be a bad idea,” she says. “How would we pay for it?”

“We’ll borrow money like everyone else does.  The money I’ll make when I’m finished should make it all worthwhile.”

She kisses me on the forehead then turns away and gets comfortable on her side of the bed.

“Thank you.”

“Goodnight.”

She falls asleep.

I get up to get another slice of cheesecake even though the chocolaty cream cheese doesn’t satisfy my craving.  I open the door to the garage and stare at my motorcycle helmet.  The urge to go for a ride consumes me, but too bad because unless I’m pedaling or driving the family van, I don’t have a ride.

“I’m an adult,” I say.  “Grow up and act like it.”

I pick the helmet up by its strap and open the lid on the garbage can.  I let the helmet fall as I drop and take a seat on the stairs.  Again, I find the courage to stand.

“There,” I say.  “It‘s about time you entered manhood.”

As I pass the refrigerator on my way back to bed, I can‘t resist stopping and looking.  I open the refrigerator door.  The light comes on.  I close the door to see at what point the light goes off, then open it again.  The sight and aroma of the rich cheesecake strikes me again.  My stomach growls even though I have no reason to be hungry.  I slam the refrigerator door and go back to the bedroom.

“Tracy?”  I say.  I get no response.

“I’m the luckiest man alive to have you,” I whisper.  I lean over and kiss her on the cheek.

I lie there for what seems like hours.  Memories of riding on the open highway fill my head.