This Angel Wore Chains

An Angel in Chains

Becky, our 4/2-year-old daughter, cheeks flushed with excitement, climbed over the fence of the corral where I was bottle-Feeding an orphan calf, and squealed, “Mama! Mama! You have to come see! Angels wear chains!"

I was about to ask, "Becky, what on earth do you mean?" when my heart plunged to the pit of my stomach. Outside the wooden gate amid the cacti and mesquite bushes towered a stranger, his skin gleaming like oiled mahogany in the blistering Arizona sun. Nearly 8 feet tall in giant-size motorcycle boots, he wore a red sweatband that failed to control the hair leaping wildly from his head. In the early morning breeze he seemed to sway like a genie uncorked from desert sand. Heavily muscled arms stained with purple tattoos burst from a leather vest. A deep scar crimped his left cheek and a small silver dagger swung from one ear. But it was the chains on his boots, chains on his belt and chains cascading down his massive chest that made me wonder, Why does Becky think he's an angel? Then I spied the Harley-Davidson beside the water pump at the end of our long dirt road. On the far side of the barbed-wire fence, a gang of wind-whipped, grease-streaked bikersshrouded in smoke milled around, "HELL'S ANGELS" glinting across the shoulders of more than one black jacket. This was 1974. I'd read about the Hell's Angels terror-riddled tales of large groups of men on motorcycles who adhered to no boundaries of human decency, infamous for murder, theft, guns and drugs. My husband was at a bull sale in Casa Grande for a few days. The children and I were alone. Why was this group here on our ranch a hundred miles from Tucson? "His name's Rip because his muscles ripple," Becky piped, as she ducked beneath the fence this time and took the stranger by the hand. "His motorcycle broke." She tugged him toward me, and although he seemed bigger with each step, I noticed he looked down at my little girl as though seeking reassurance. Finally, he bowed his head and his uneasy, hooded eyes met mine. "Rip Balou, missus. I know it's gettin' late, but two of my buddies took off for the city to get me a new clutch. They 'I don't like ugly, dark colors,' he told her. 'Anyone can make pictures like that. Honey, the most important thing to remember is you gotta stay inside the lines.' won't get back until morning and I wondered if we could camp near the gate for the night. We won't bother you none and... all we need is water.' Dared I say no? It was a chance I had to take, yet something beyond Rip Balou's frightening appearance and the Hell's Angels' reputation made it seem safe to say, "Sure." I glanced at the group by the gate. " But please," I said, "don't smoke. Fire danger is at a peak right now."

Don't smoke? I was the boss when Bill was away. Wouldn't he have said the same thing? Maybe not so gently.

"Don't you worry yourself none about no fire," Rip said. The thought seemed to humble him. "Those warning signs are posted all the way from New Mexico." He thanked me before walking back toward his friends.

"But, Mama, what about supper?" Becky asked. "They don't have any food."

"How many are there?"

An Angel in Chains

"Eleven... no, nine. Zack and Ty went to Tucson... and Rip makes 10," she answered so quickly.

"Zack?... Ty?... Rip? I wondered how long she'd been down by the gate. Long enough to count to know their names and to make a friend! Such a natural thing for a child to do, especially one with-out playmates. I vowed to keep a closer eye on her, but at that moment, my thoughts were on food. I fed everyone else who stopped by ranchers, cowboys and Mexican mehados hoping for work. What harm could possibly come from feeding a band of... Angels?

Later, back at the house, 10 men sat at the picnic table under the cottonwood tree drinking iced tea from Styrofoam cups while Becky held them spellbound with a Barbiedoll fashion show. As they wolfed down tacos and beans, I asked questions. "Where are you going?" Los Angeles, and they had been on the road for two years, ever since they had met at the Harley-Davidson rally in Sturgis, South Dakota. Before that time, some had come from major cities across the country. Chicago. New Orleans. Boston. New York. "And home and family?" I asked. Few responded, and Rip, the obvious leader, muttered, "Baltimore, 2,647 miles away."

The following morning, Rip's huge frame darkened the kitchen doorway. He didn't look happy. "Zack's back. They had to order the clutch from Phoenix," he said. "It'll take a coupla days. Could we stay? We could rake clean stalls... do somethin' to help out."

"Okay. I guess you can't get very far without a clutch." I thought I was being funny. He didn't.

"And, missus, there's 12 of us now." I knew he was referring to meals.

Soon, more hands than I would ever need, or find again, unloaded a double semi-trailer load of hay, repaired fences and rode back and forth to Tucson to buy food that I hadn't even asked for. I noticed they laughed and talked a lot among themselves. Why not? I thought. No responsibilities. No family ties.

Strangely, it was big Rip Balou who not only worked the hardest but continued to be drawn to Becky and she to him. She let him help bottle-feed the orphan calf and collect eggs in a little basket from the chicken coop, where the ceiling was so low he couldn't stand up straight. Then, when she placed a day-old chick in his enormous hands, his mouth opened like a child who'd just touched Santa.

Three meals a day at the picnic table left time to share more than her Barbie doll. Although not yet in school, Becky could read, and I watched a remarkable friendship tighten between her and the giant man as they hovered over a book together.

Rip's tough big-shot countenance seemed to soften, and the face of a once-small boy emerged. In his eyes I saw a whole life flash by as Becky ran a tiny finger beneath magic words that introduced an Angel to Beauty and the Beast. Rip watched. He listened. I wondered... could he read?

What did it matter? It was Becky's crayons and coloring books that caused those haunted eyes to brighten. "Red and blue are my favorite colors," she told him, "but we can share. Can't we?"

It wasn't long before the crayons in his pie-size hands created magic of their own. Rip banished another Angel to Tucson to "buy more." During the two days that followed, he taught Becky how to coax pastels from primary colors and fill empty skies with sunrises, sunsets and rainbows. Gradually, every page in the coloring books became a Mickey Mouse or Pluto masterpiece.

"I don't like ugly, dark colors," he told her. "Anyone can make pictures like that." Then as he covered her small white hand with his huge dark one, I heard him say again and again, "Honey, the most important thing to remember is you gotta stay inside the lines."

It was after supper on Day Three that Becky popped the question: "Do you have a mommy and a daddy?" Rip didn't answer. Instead, he flexed his muscles so the ship on one arm seemed to roll in a storm and the dragon on the other coiled to strike. But he'd shown her those wonders before. Now there was something else on her mind. She asked him again.

Reluctantly, Rip unhooked a leather pouch from the chain around his waist and pulled out a photograph of a gray-haired woman with glasses. Her hand rested gently on the shoulder of a little girl. "That's my mama," he said, "and that's Jasmine, my baby. She'd be just about your age now." "I wish she could come play with me," Becky said.

Rip stared at the picture for a long time. "Mama's raisin' her," he said, "but she's got the glaucoma. She can't see so good no more."

Becky fixed her eyes on Rip, and asked, "If your mama can't see so good, who's going to teach Jasmine to stay inside the lines?"

Rip shook his head. "I... don't...