Chapter 20: The Road Ahead
One year later, on a warm Saturday in late summer, the road outside Maggie Holloway's farmhouse began to shake again.
Maggie heard it first, a low rumble on the horizon, like thunder rolling across the prairie. She set down her coffee, picked up Biscuit's leash, and walked to the front yard. She was wearing her vest. She had worn it every year since the day the club gave it to her, and it fit her now the way a good friendship fits, comfortable and true. She stood at the edge of the lawn, squinting into the sunlight, and she waited.
They came the way they had come before, a river of chrome and leather flowing down the road, only this time there was no fear in it. This time, it was a celebration. The Iron Prairie had made it an annual ride, the Mama Maggie Run, and every year riders came from all over the country to ride past her house and wave. There were more of them this year than last. There were riders from Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, and Iowa, and a whole chapter from Des Moines that Lily had helped organize. There were old riders and young riders, men and women, veterans and teachers and mechanics and nurses. Maggie counted the rows as they passed, losing track after fifty, and laughed at herself for trying. There were children riding in sidecars, waving small flags. The road shook with engines, and it shook with joy.
At the head of the ride was Big Jim Callahan, and beside him rode Tom Reyes, and Sam Whitfield, and Earl Boone, and Danny O'Connell, the four men Maggie had saved. They slowed as they passed the farmhouse and raised their hands in salute. Maggie raised her hand back. She was not crying. She had promised herself she would not cry. But her eyes were wet, and her smile was wide, and Biscuit barked happily at the noise.
The riders did not stop at the farmhouse. That was the tradition. They rode on to Millbrook, where the town had set up the long table down Main Street again, and where the feast would be held, just as it had been held the year before. But this year, there was something new. The feast would raise money for the library's reading program, the one Maggie had started, the one that helped children in Millbrook learn to read. The club had donated the money for the books. The town had donated the food. The library's shelves would soon hold new books, bought with the ride's donations, and Maggie had already chosen the first titles. And Maggie, who had once taught three generations of Millbrook children, would cut the first slice of pie.
Sheriff Carl Benson arrived at the farmhouse in his patrol car, just as the last of the riders passed. He got out, tipped his hat, and stood beside Maggie on the lawn.
"Quite a sight," he said.
"It is," Maggie said. "I never get tired of it."
"Do you ever miss the quiet?" the sheriff asked.
Maggie thought about that. She thought about the years after Frank died, when the farmhouse had been so quiet she could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. She thought about the mornings she had walked Biscuit alone down the empty road. She thought about the loneliness, and the grief, and the long road back. And then she thought about the feast, and the vest, and the ledger, and the granddaughter who visited every month, and the hundred riders who called her Mama Maggie.
"I don't miss it," she said. "The quiet was never really quiet. It was just lonely. This is better. This is life."
They stood together for a moment, watching the dust settle on the road. Then the sheriff drove off toward town, and Maggie went inside to get the pies. She had baked six, just as she had the year before. Two apple, two peach, one cherry, one pecan. She loaded them into the station wagon, and Biscuit jumped into the passenger seat, and they drove down the road to Millbrook, following the line of motorcycles that had gone before. Biscuit rode with his head out the window, ears flapping in the wind.
At the feast, Maggie sat at the head of the long table, in the place of honor, with Lily on one side and Tom Reyes on the other. The riders told stories. The town ate pie. The children ran with sparklers. Danny O'Connell played his harmonica. And when the evening came, and the lights glowed warm between the lampposts, Big Jim Callahan stood up and raised his glass.
"To Mama Maggie," he said. "Who taught us that courage isn't about not being afraid. It's about helping anyway."
The whole street raised their glasses. Maggie raised hers, too. She looked around at the faces, at the town, the riders, the granddaughter, and the sheriff, and she thought about the road ahead. It stretched out in front of her, long and open, full of possibilities she had never imagined. She did not know what it would bring. Nobody ever did. But she knew she would not walk it alone. She had a family. She had a town. She had a thousand engines behind her, and a heart full of courage, and a dog named Biscuit who had been with her through it all.
She drove home that night under the stars, the station wagon smelling of pie and summer air. At the farmhouse, she hung her vest by the door, and she sat at the kitchen table, and she thought about the year that had passed. A year ago, she had walked into a barn and said four words that had changed everything. Don't be afraid. I'll save you. She had kept that promise. And in keeping it, she had saved herself, too.
The road outside was quiet now. The engines had faded. The stars were bright over the prairie. Maggie Holloway, seventy-seven years old, retired teacher, widow, Mama Maggie, sat in her kitchen and smiled. Tomorrow would bring whatever it brought. She was ready for it. She had always been ready. She just hadn't known it until the road began to shake.