Kiss the Bricks

by Tammy Kaehler

  “So it’s been said.”

  “You do not agree?” PJ deflated again.

  “You’re right, I’ve seen it. This race is the most demanding test there is. But we keep coming back. Because every year, we get a glimpse of glory—of sport, achievement, success. Triumph.”

  PJ studied Diane, a trim female her own age. “You have been here many times?”

  “All my life. My father raced here.” Diane glanced at PJ. “He also died here, fourteen years ago.”

  PJ wrapped her arms around herself. “I am sorry. I should not ask.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  They sat in silence, then PJ asked, “Is your father why you study the bricks?”

  “He drove the 36.” Diane smiled and pointed. “My mother and I wrote his name on the brick that’s three rows in, six bricks down. I think of him every time I see it.”

  “Is it not difficult for you to be here?”

  “It’s hard. But it also honors him and what he loved. It’s what I know—and in my blood. Isn’t it the same for you?”

  PJ sucked in a breath. “This is true. It is what I know. All I know.”

  “If you couldn’t race, you don’t know what you’d do?”

  “If I do not race, I have nothing. I am nothing.” She spoke the words as if they were a vow.

  Diane opened her mouth, then closed it again.

  “You think I am obsessed.” PJ smiled. “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing, and I will succeed, eventually.”

  “We’re all obsessed.” Diane paused. “But I hope you have something else in your life—family, education, other interests. Because racing can be cruel.”

  “When the time comes to stop, I will be fine. But it is not yet time.”

  Diane glanced at her watch. “It is time to get to the garage.”

  PJ agreed and stood, looking more at peace than a few minutes before.

  “Speaking of family,” Diane said, “will yours be here for the race?”

  “My family.” PJ frowned as the breeze whipped her long, black hair. She pulled it into a ponytail and secured it with a band from her pocket. “My parents might be here for the race. I am not sure if I will allow them to come.”

  Diane tried to hide her surprise. “Are you more nervous with them here?”

  “My father complicates things. He is powerful. Sometimes a bully.”

  Diane suddenly remembered a taunt she’d heard aimed at PJ. A bystander—racing fan, media, or crew member, she didn’t know which—had shouted something about PJ’s father and drugs. And tainted money. Is he a Mexican drug lord? she wondered.

  PJ continued, “I love my father, but I do not agree with everything he does, and I do not wish him to tarnish what I do here. This is my world, not his.”

  “Family can be complicated, but they can also be a support.”

  PJ didn’t respond, and Diane didn’t press her.

  As they walked past the first of three garage buildings, Diane nodded at friends and acquaintances from other teams. She was surprised to be met with looks that ranged from blank to hostile, instead of the friendly greetings she usually received. She glanced at PJ and saw her looking straight ahead, ignoring everyone and everything, including a catcall.

  Diane turned to glare at the man responsible, a doughy white guy in a tee-shirt with the sleeves cut off to show prodigious underarm and back hair. Seeing her watching him, he licked his lips and rubbed his chest suggestively. She made a strangled sound and focused forward, as PJ did.

  “It is better to not respond at all.” PJ sounded almost amused.

  “I knew you had to deal with rudeness, but I didn’t expect it was so totally gross.”

  PJ giggled, a sound more fragile than joyous. “Most of it is totally gross. Gag me with a spoon, yes?”

  “‘Like, oh my God,’” Diane parroted.

  This time, PJ’s laughter rolled out, unrestrained. But even as she joined in, Diane knew she wasn’t imagining its hysterical edge.

  Chapter Seven

  Present Day

  I get her. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t race either. Obviously, I wouldn’t kill myself, I’d figure something out. Why didn’t PJ?

  I was still asking myself that question Wednesday morning, our third day of practice, when I discovered I had a serious identity problem. I’d gone to sleep as Kate Reilly and woken up as “The Next PJ.”

  My phone pinged nonstop with mentions on social media, linking to blog posts and articles. I was bombarded with additional requests for comment from new outlets picking up the story, as well as with texts from family and friends asking what was happening. Even my social-media-avoiding, FBI-agent boyfriend, Ryan Johnston, had gotten wind of it, texting me:

  WTH is going on? You OK? Miss you.

  As I clicked through the media mentions, my spirits sinking, I traced everything back to an article in a major, reputable motorsports publication. That article was fair, comparing me to PJ evenhandedly, and making clear our only similarities were our gender and posting the fastest time in the first practice session of our second attempt at the Indy 500. The reporter used the coincidence to draw attention to the relative lack of women in the Indy 500 in general—only eleven in the 200 years of racing—and included quotes from relevant parties, including the first, Janet Guthrie, and the eleventh, me.

  I appreciated that write-up—felt flattered. But the social media trolls added two and two and came up with nineteen, seeing my slower practice the day before as proof I was PJ reincarnated or PJ Junior. That sparked a firestorm of tweets telling anyone at IMS to #CallKatePJ. Then someone suggested ways I was exactly like PJ, with the search term #KateorPJ, and hundreds jumped on that bandwagon. I had a lot of supporters, both male and female, ranging from articulate and normal to hysterical, belligerent, or outright sexual—if I counted people calling me “hot” or offering to have sex with me as support. But the positive voices were lost in a tsunami of comparisons to PJ.

  I knew better than to let any yahoo with an opinion and a Twitter account bother me—I was used to shrugging off criticism of my driving, even when I got slammed for driving the same way as men who were praised. That was par for the course. But the comparison to PJ bothered me.

  First, because she was the butt of the joke. Even the reputable media outlet’s article described her as a no-hoper, there only because her father paid her way. And while that might be true, it was no more true for her than for five to ten male entrants every year in the Indy 500. But only PJ became the driver who didn’t deserve to be there and couldn’t make it. A couple trolls found insulting images of awkward, wimpy girls and posted them with the #KateorPJ tag. Someone posted a photo of a man doing a belly flop into a pool, referencing #KateorPJ, while others wondered if I’d jump if I didn’t make the race. Reading that made me taste bile in the back of my throat.

  For as much as I felt a connection to her, I still didn’t understand what had gone on in PJ’s head. What drove her to choose death over the racecar. I believed she’d had skill—certainly as much as hundreds of other Indy 500 entrants. And I hated that people made fun of her. It wasn’t right if she wasn’t here to defend herself.

  I also felt unsettled by my identity being subsumed in PJ’s. People were starting to expect me to perform poorly, because that’s what she’d done. They felt vindicated by my slow showing the day before, because she’d done the same. Whether it was a joke or not, they wondered in posts if I’d even make it to the race, since she hadn’t—ignoring that I’d finished seventeenth the year before.

  In the space of thirty-six hours, the racing public no longer saw Kate Reilly, but an amalgam of Kate and a woman who’d killed herself thirty years ago. I was being judged on her record, not mine, and it made me angry.

  Fortunately, I wasn’t alone. PJ’s family was also furious.

&nbs
p; A call from IndyCar officials got Holly and me to the track earlier than planned that day to take part in a special news conference. We entered the media center’s ground-floor room, where I’d met the press after the first day’s practice, to find a dozen chairs arranged in a rough circle and three people who stood at our approach. The IndyCar marketing guy I recognized. The strangers were PJ’s mother and brother.

  Elena Rodriguez was small—shorter than me—with thick, snow-white hair and an erect bearing, though I noticed she leaned carefully on a polished, black walking stick. She must have been nearly eighty, thin and wiry, and still sharp.

  She shook my hand with a firm grip. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Reilly.”

  “Kate. Please accept my condolences on the loss of your daughter.”

  “Thank you, and I am Elena.” She turned to the man beside her. “My son, Antonio.”

  “Tony.” In his late forties, he was tall, tan, and fit, ropey with muscle. Swap his dark hair—graying at the temples—for blond and he’d have been the picture of a California surfer.

  The IndyCar representative encouraged us all to sit again, saying he’d give us a few minutes and then round up the media representatives for the press conference. Holly sat down with us, but almost immediately received a call she had to take and ducked out.

  Elena spoke first. “Thank you for joining us. I know it’s a busy week.”

  “I’m glad to. I’m sorry I didn’t know about PJ sooner.”

  “Before you repeated her accomplishment,” Tony said.

  I nodded. “Hearing her story has affected me a lot.”

  “And you think you have heard her story?” Elena bit out.

  I straightened, taken aback, as Tony put a hand on hers. “Mamá, please.”

  She softened. “My apologies. You are kind to care. But I’d like to know from whom you have heard PJ’s story?”

  “People who knew her or observed her that year, mostly team members.” I paused. “I only know the basics of what happened. I’ve been trying to understand her thoughts or reasons, and so far, I can’t.”

  “That makes a few of us,” muttered Tony.

  Elena elaborated. “Nothing explains my daughter killing herself. She had great faith in God, and as a Catholic, would never have considered suicide. But more, she was a positive person, optimistic, focused on racing.”

  “Too focused?” Tony asked in a way that made me think it was a discussion they’d had before.

  Elena made an impatient gesture. “Kate knows a driver must be focused—even obsessive—to build a successful career. PJ knew what she wanted and went after it. As a woman you have to be even better, more focused, more funded to reach your goals, and thirty years ago in racing, this was especially true. To be only the second woman to make the Indy 500? Only ten years after women weren’t allowed in the garages or pits?” She stopped, her burst of energy gone. “Even some in our family thought PJ obsessed.”

  Tony shrugged. “What did I know? I was a dumb teenager.”

  “From the stories I’ve heard,” I began, “everything was falling apart. The car wasn’t good, she’d crashed, and maybe she was losing confidence in it or herself. Plus people around her were hateful. She had little support.”

  Elena raised her chin. “She had weathered those storms before. Many times.”

  “She dealt with rude fans and awful crew every race weekend,” Tony added.

  “What if she got tired of fighting it?” I struggled to put the part I did understand into words. “I’m not everyone’s favorite, either. I still get hassled about taking seats a man should have. But I can ignore it because the magic is still there when I get in the car. Because I’m good at what I do, and I can deliver for teams. But if that was gone? Or I thought I was losing it?” I could imagine that moment—imagine the terrifying chasm stretching out in front of me. I took a deep breath. “I’m not sure what I’d do.”

  “You would not do anything so foolish as kill yourself,” Elena announced, her voice laced with scorn. “As PJ did not.”

  I was comforted, then confused. “Then how do you explain what she did?”

  Tony sighed, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair.

  “Simple. She was murdered.” Elena held my gaze for a beat. “You’ve caught killers before, so I want you to prove it.”

  I felt my jaw drop, and I wasn’t sure how long I sat there, staring at her.

  “She’s serious,” Tony added, forestalling my first question.

  Elena leaned forward and took my hands. “Idiots in the public and some in the press are making a mockery of my daughter’s memory and of you. They make a cartoon figure of PJ, ignoring her individuality and accomplishments. Then they replace your identity with this figure of fun. There is no more PJ. No more Kate Reilly.”

  “I’m not sure it’s quite that bad,” I mumbled, still processing the idea PJ might have been murdered. Might not have given up.

  Tony raised an eyebrow. “Been on Twitter today?”

  Holly let herself back in the room and immediately picked up on the tension. “What’s going on?”

  Tony pulled a chair closer for her. “My mother is trying to impress on Kate the severity of the hatchet job the media—professional and social—is doing on her character. Eliminating her identity and replacing it with a caricature of poor, suicidal PJ, who can no longer defend herself. Kate isn’t sure it’s that bad.”

  Holly grimaced. “It’s probably worse.”

  I stared at her, my chest tight.

  This can’t be happening to me. My image destroyed by a woman who’s been dead for thirty years?

  “Every time I look, there’s more and more talk,” Holly said. “More stupid hashtags. More and more blog mentions.”

  I dropped my head into my hands.

  “But that’s what this meeting is about,” Holly added, “combating the stories.”

  “I have another, better solution,” Elena put in.

  “I’d like to hear it, sugar.” Holly sat forward.

  “I want Kate to prove PJ was not a suicide, but a murder victim.” Elena smiled. “Clear PJ’s name, clear Kate’s name. Everyone wins.”

  I straightened and saw the surprise on Holly’s face mirroring mine—though hers was tinged with humor I didn’t feel.

  Elena sighed. “I ask much, Kate. But for thirty years, my daughter has been falsely accused. Maligned. Patronized and pitied as unable to handle the pressure. Now they make her—and you and perhaps all female racers—a joke. Please, will you help restore my daughter’s dignity?”

  Tears glimmered in her eyes, and I couldn’t find it in myself to argue.

  Chapter Eight

  Present Day

  Once ten hand-picked journalists joined us, the IndyCar Series rep started the discussion. “As you all know, in nineteen eighty-seven, PJ Rodriguez, a Mexican-American female driver for Arvin Racing was making an attempt at the Indy 500 when she charted the fastest time in the first day of practice. This year, Kate Reilly, American driver for Beermeier Racing, repeated that achievement. Incidentally, the speeds were 210.772 for PJ and 223.165 for Kate. As you all know, PJ committed suicide before she could qualify for the race.”

  Or did she? Do I believe Elena? Do I really think PJ was murdered? Doesn’t that make more sense than PJ killing herself?

  My insides churned as much as my thoughts did.

  “We’re here,” the IndyCar rep continued, “so your outlets can get direct facts and information about the two drivers, as well as impressions and comments from PJ’s family—Elena and Tony Rodriguez, PJ’s mother and brother—and from Kate. We have not opened this up to a larger group as a courtesy to these three, though a transcript will be provided to the full media center. We trust you will treat them and events past and present with professionalism and respect.�
��

  An older reporter I’d seen around the paddock snorted. “Unlike some of our media brethren.”

  The others smiled, and I started to relax, helped by the fact that these journalists all sat back in their chairs, acting calm. They didn’t press forward, asking accusatory questions, like the media had done as I left the pits that first day.

  That’s why they’re the pros.

  They started with questions about PJ: her upbringing, racing background, and family support for pursuing the Indy 500.

  Elena handled most of the responses. “We were behind her completely. Miguel, her father, used his business contacts to secure the sponsorship she needed—in early years, he funded her racing, but as she got better, there was value for other companies.” She smiled. “We didn’t always attend the races, because PJ said we made her nervous.”

  “You were here that year,” said Lyla Thomas, a woman in her sixties who’d introduced herself to us before we started talking. I’d heard of her before, a career journalist who’d also been a racer, earning a first-place trophy at Sebring, a fourth-place showing at Le Mans, and the nickname “Lead-Foot” Lyla.

  “Miguel, Tony, and myself were here in eighty-seven,” Elena confirmed.

  “Where’s your husband now?” Lyla asked.

  Tony spoke for the first time. “He passed away fifteen years ago. A heart attack.”

  “Our condolences,” she said, as the others murmured agreement.

  “What did you think when you found out PJ had been fastest in the first practice session?” one of the other men asked. “And then that she was slowest the next few days, including crashing twice?”

  Elena smiled. “To start, I remember we were excited for her. PJ was flying high, happy. ‘I will show them, Mamá,’ she told me. Then she was upset the next few days, as she could not figure out the car. ‘It is a beast,’ she said, ‘but I will master it.’ She couldn’t understand why the car never improved, though she and her crew tried everything.”