by Will Allison
“If we’ve got a plan,” Wylie said, “what are we waiting for?”
It was Thursday afternoon, Maddy’s day off, and they were in the four-poster bed paid for by her fiancé, Dale—a big bed for the big house Dale planned to buy once they were married. Maddy still hadn’t told Dale they were through, and Wylie was starting to think she never would. He nudged her hip with his.
“Well?”
“You tell me,” Maddy said.
This was what came after the sex, the two of them saying the same things they’d been saying to each other for months. It was a conversation that went around and around, like a slow, frustrating race, only there was no finish line in sight. He wanted her to leave Dale, she wanted him to leave Sheila, but no matter how many threats or pleas or ultimatums were spoken, neither had the nerve to make the first move.
Now they had an hour before they had to be at the track, back in the real world, and they might have wasted the rest of the afternoon arguing if someone hadn’t rung the doorbell. For a second Maddy stared at Wylie as if she didn’t quite believe what she’d heard, then she flew out of bed and started throwing on her clothes. Wylie’s first impulse was to hide in the closet, which he wasn’t too proud to do, but he was too proud to get caught there, so he concentrated on not losing his cool. It made his heart pound to think about the world of shit he was in for if Sheila found out how he spent his Thursday afternoons. There would be tears and shouting, maybe flying bottles. She’d want to know who else knew, why he hadn’t told her the truth, when he’d quit loving her, what she’d done to make him hate her enough to make such a fool of her. She’d want to know about the sex, too— how many times they’d done it, what was so great about it, so great about Maddy. Then she’d probably want to do it, which he’d probably feel obliged to do, and the whole time she’d be crying and asking him why, and he wouldn’t have a single thing to say for himself.
“Sheila’s at work,” he said, pulling on his jeans. “Dale’s at work. It’s probably somebody selling something.”
Maddy was feeling under the bed for her bra. “Of course it’s not Dale. Dale has a key.”
Wylie didn’t let himself think too hard about the fact that he didn’t have a key. He peered between the curtains and found himself staring down at the orange crew cut of Bobby Taggert, one of the other mechanics from the Ford dealership they all worked at. That morning, after replacing the transmission in a Galaxie, Wylie’d told Tag he was off to deliver a fuel pump to a speed shop out in Lexington. Over in parts, Maddy had had the pump waiting. Now it was on the seat of Wylie’s truck just around the corner, still in its box, and for all Wylie knew, Tag had seen it and figured out the score.
Tag rang the doorbell again. His race car, a dented 1959 Fairlane, was hitched to the back of his Jeep at the curb. It was the same model as Maddy’s, only three years older and worse for wear. “Maddy? Wylie? Anybody home?”
Maddy covered her mouth when she recognized the voice. “Oh my God,” she said. “Why’s he calling you?”
All Wylie could do was shrug. Between work and the track, Tag saw them together more than anybody else. The three of them used to spend weekends in Maddy’s driveway, tinkering with the Fairlanes while Sheila and Dale drank beer and tossed horseshoes in the yard. But Maddy hadn’t been on speaking terms with Tag since he knocked her out of last week’s race. She didn’t believe for a second it had been an accident. “Those boys put him up to it,” she’d told Wylie as her car was towed off the track. “I guarantee you, they took up a collection, drew straws or something to see who’d be the lucky guy.”
Wylie’d thought she was wrong about Tag—all week the poor guy had been apologizing for the wreck—but now, gazing down at Tag’s sunburned forehead, he wasn’t so sure. It was no secret the other drivers wanted Maddy gone, and with the cold shoulder she’d been giving Tag, it was only a matter of time before he started feeling the same. So maybe he was here to yank their chain a little; maybe he was even thinking there was some money to be made. Or maybe it was nothing like that at all. Maybe he just figured Maddy would be out for revenge—a pretty safe bet—and he was here to patch things up.
“You should go see what he wants,” Wylie said.
Maddy looked like he’d asked her to jump out the window. “I’m not going down there.”
“Never mind,” Wylie said. “He’s leaving.”
But he wasn’t. He was heading around back, where Maddy’s Fairlane was parked in front of the garage. She and Wylie tiptoed across the hall and watched from the bathroom as Tag climbed into her car, gripped the wheel, and spat tobacco juice into the gravel. Get your freckly ass out of my car, Wylie thought. True, Dale was the Fairlane’s actual owner, but Wylie was the one who kept it running. Wylie was the one who’d used up a week’s vacation turning it into a race car, five days he was supposed to spend at Garden City with Sheila, five days he was still catching hell for.
“That son of a bitch,” Maddy said, squinting between the blinds.
“He’s not doing anything. He’s just sitting there.”
“What if he starts poking around under the hood?” She was worried about the roller-tappet cam, the milled cylinder heads, all of the stuff she hadn’t wanted done to the car but that Wylie had insisted on doing, telling her they had to bend a rule here and there because all the other drivers did, too.
“He won’t find anything,” Wylie said. “He’d have to take the whole engine apart.”
Maddy was threatening to call the police by the time Tag finally hoisted himself from the car. For a moment he stared at the house, as if waiting for Maddy to show herself, then he shrugged, walked into the garage, and came out carrying Wylie’s socket kit. Wylie put his arm around Maddy. “See? He’s just borrowing tools.”
“You mean stealing.” Maddy ducked away and headed back to the bedroom. From behind the curtain, they watched Tag stash the socket kit in the Jeep and pull away. Before he made the turn onto Rosewood, he stuck his arm out the window. A turn signal? A wave? A taunt? Maddy sat on the bed with her hands between her knees. It was ninety degrees out, but she was shivering. “I can’t believe this,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re so calm. He’s spying on us.”
“Who’s calm?” Wylie said, but she was right—he felt almost peaceful. Watching Tag drive off, he’d begun to think maybe this wasn’t such a bad turn of events. If Tag did know about them, and if that led to Dale finding out, then Maddy would have to make a decision. Really, it would be for her own good. She wasn’t meant to be with Dale, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave him. “How can I do that to him?” she’d say. “We’re supposed to get married and have kids and spend summers at Hilton Head.” Dale owned Holman’s, the downtown men’s shop he’d taken over from his father. He was a nice guy who could provide a nice life for Maddy. But it seemed that what Wylie and Maddy had was true love, and it seemed, too, a lot of the time, that Maddy wouldn’t be able to live without it. Still, there were other times when it seemed like Maddy had her eyes on the prize, the fat life with Dale, and Wylie was just a way to pass the time.
“Maybe this is a sign,” he said. “Maybe we should tell Sheila and Dale before Tag does.”
Maddy glared at him. “A sign?” she said. “There aren’t any signs, Wylie.” She picked up his shirt and shoes and shoved them against his stomach.
“But won’t it be worse if they hear it from someone else?”
“Out,” she said, steering him into the hall and closing the door. Wylie stood in the hallway with his forehead against the door, listening to Maddy bang drawers shut. In trying to force her hand, he had crossed a line. Normally, that was Dale’s department—Dale who was so sure he knew what was best for Maddy, that she should quit racing, leave parts, take some classes, or come work at Holman’s. When it was quiet again, Wylie went in. She was lying on her side, facing the wall. Her uniform—gray coveralls with red stripes stitched down the sides—was draped over the footboard. Wylie sat next to her and gathered u
p the damp hair at the back of her neck, blowing a little breeze there.
“My life is one big mistake,” she said.
“No, it’s not,” he said. “It’s a series of small mistakes.”
She smiled a little, and he apologized and said of course they shouldn’t tell Dale and Sheila, not unless it was what they both wanted, and before long he had her across the hall and in the shower. “What for?” she said. “I’m just going to get filthy at the track,” but she let him soap up her back and shampoo her hair. He told her to relax, focus on the race. When he’d finished rinsing her off, he patted her down with a towel. They were back at the window looking out at the Fairlane. Wylie couldn’t afford an Ethan Allen bed, so this had been his birthday present to her—a gleaming silver paint job worthy of a Grand National car, her number eleven in black on each door, and, along the fenders, trails of flame the color of her hair. The first time she saw it, she looked like she wanted to cry. “It’s so pretty,” she’d said. “And it’ll just get banged to shit.”
The track was in West Columbia, out past Piggie Park Bar-BQ on 321 South. As they approached the gate, Wylie told Maddy he wanted to touch up the Ford on Saturday. That, and he’d like a key to her apartment. She leaned over, kissed him, and slipped him a key. “Keep it somewhere safe,” she said, as if she’d been planning to give him one all along. At the gate, she flashed her NASCAR license, and the sleepy attendant waved them across the track and into the infield. The grandstand was already starting to fill up. This was 1970, before they paved the track and people stopped coming. Wylie drove past the shiny late-models on pit row and headed for the cusp of infield grass that served as a makeshift pit area for the hobby cars. Guys in T-shirts and grease-smeared jeans were tuning battered Fords and Chevys. All of the cars were old, and all of them were American; those were the rules in the hobby division. A couple of guys nodded hello to Wylie, but nobody came over, which was how it had been ever since he hooked up with Maddy. Columbia Speedway was one of the few tracks around that allowed women on pit row, but there were no women owners, no women mechanics, and certainly no other women drivers, not unless you counted powder-puff derbies, and Maddy didn’t.
As Wylie was getting her car unhooked from the pickup, he spotted Tag towing his own Ford across the track. Wylie waved.
“What are you doing?” Maddy said.
“Acting normal. Till he gives me a reason not to.”
“Like wrecking me? Or snooping around my house?”
She started for the pit office to pay her entry fee, cutting between parked cars so she wouldn’t have to cross paths with Tag. He pulled up behind Wylie’s pickup, revving his engine for a joke, as if his old Jeep were some hot rod. “Borrow your eyes for a minute?”
“Sure.” Wylie followed the Jeep down the row until Tag found a place to park, then guided him as he backed in. Tag was holding Wylie’s socket kit when he got out.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I stopped by Maddy’s, but nobody was home.”
Wylie expected a knowing look, a wise-ass smile, but Tag was already digging around behind his seat, pulling out a box of spark plugs, explaining that he’d never have taken the tools without asking, but he was in a pinch because he’d cut out of work early to tune up his car, but like a damn moron he’d forgotten to bring his toolbox home. “Mind if I quick throw these in?”
“Take your time.”
Tag kept up a steady chatter as he worked. He said he was glad to see Maddy’s car back in one piece, and then he apologized for the umpteenth time about the wreck. Wylie told him it was no big deal, just some dents and a flat tire, but Tag wouldn’t let it drop. “Track didn’t have much bite, did it?” he said. “Not that that’s any excuse.” He was just putting in the last spark plug when he glanced up and saw Maddy. She was carrying a cardboard tray with two Cokes and a bag of chips, giving them a wide berth on her way back to the pickup.
“Hey there, Maddy,” he hollered. “I was just telling Wylie how bad I feel about last week.”
Maddy slowed down, and for a second Wylie thought she might forgive and forget. “Gosh, Tag,” she said. “That’s so white of you.”
“Jesus.” Tag turned to Wylie. “See how she talks to me?”
Maddy was already walking off. Wylie knew she didn’t want him apologizing for her, but he couldn’t help himself. “Forget it,” he said. “You know how she gets before a race.”
Tag scratched at his ear. “If you say so.”
On the way back to the pickup, Wylie scanned the top row of the grandstand, where Sheila and Dale always sat. It was almost time for the practice laps to start, and usually they were at the track by now, settling in with foamy cups of beer. Sometimes, if there was a good song on the PA, Sheila would be up on the bleachers, dancing with little kids. Dale was usually making bets on the feature with whoever was sitting nearby, passing out sticks of licorice-flavored chewing gum.
“You seen Dale and Sheila?”
Maddy shook her head. She was on the tailgate, sipping her Coke and staring at the Ford. She didn’t look happy. Through the windshield, Wylie saw a jockstrap draped over the steering wheel. Last week it had been a French tickler, and the week before that, a ratty pair of men’s briefs. Now the whole pit was watching Maddy, hoping to see her lose it. Instead, she just strolled over to the car, tucked the jockstrap into her pocket, and came back to the tailgate. You’d have had to be standing as close as Wylie was to see the tremor in her hands. Now the other drivers were grinning and elbowing each other. Wylie sat down beside Maddy, eyeing them until they looked away.
“You okay?” he said.
“Fine.” She tore open the chips. She’d have preferred peanuts, but they were considered bad luck on pit row— even on the half-assed hobby pit row.
“Someday you’ll be running at Daytona,” Wylie said, “and all these clowns’ll still be right here.”
Maddy wasn’t in the mood for a pep talk. “So what did Tag say?”
Wylie told her Tag’s story, said he didn’t think Tag knew a thing.
“But that doesn’t explain why he was calling your name,” she said.
“I could have stopped by to pick you up.”
“Or why he didn’t just wait until he got here to borrow the tools.”
“Maybe we should forget about Tag, concentrate on the race.”
“I hope the little prick gets drafted,” Maddy said.
They were still working on their Cokes and sizing up the competition when Wylie spotted Sheila and Dale coming across the infield with a cooler between them. He scooted away from Maddy, then wished he hadn’t, because of course it only made him look like he had something to hide.
“Surprise!” Sheila called out. She was wearing what passed for a uniform at the record store where she worked— low-slung jeans, a flowery little blouse, no bra. As usual, Dale looked like he belonged at a country club. He had on a yellow golf shirt, loafers, the plaid slacks he sold at his store. By now the hobby crowd was used to his clothes, but the drivers still didn’t see how any man could love a girl who drove a race car. “Poor guy,” they’d say. “You think he ever gets to be on top?”
As soon as Sheila set down her end of the cooler, she gave Wylie a long, complicated kiss, the kind that turns heads. He could feel Maddy standing there like a storm cloud, watching, and he thought about what she always said, that Sheila acted this way because she was trying to hold on. He kissed Sheila like he meant it.
“Aren’t you going to lose your seats?” Maddy said.
Dale shrugged, slapped dust from the flared leg of his slacks. Normally he and Sheila didn’t come down until after the races, when the four of them headed across the highway for drinks at the Checkered Flag. “We got tired of being racing widows. Thought we might watch down here.”
“Don’t worry,” Sheila said. “We’ll stay out of the way.”
Wylie forced a smile. “Who’s worried?”
After Maddy took her practice laps, the four of them sp
ent the next hour kicked back in lawn chairs, watching the heats and waiting for the hobby race. Dale kept a hand on Maddy’s knee like he owned it—like he didn’t even have to think about owning it. Twice Wylie caught himself staring, thinking how he’d like to bend Dale’s fingers back to his fancy gold watch, and twice he told himself that when all was said and done, he’d be the one sitting next to Maddy. And dependable Dale, bless his heart, he was paving the way. Dale had never been able to watch Maddy race. Every week, he left Sheila in the bleachers and paced behind the grandstand, chewing his Black Jack and chain-smoking until the race was over. Last week at the Flag, after a couple pitchers, he’d turned to Wylie, genuinely baffled. “You’re her friend. How can you let her go out there?” The question had caught Wylie off guard. If he wasn’t as protective of Maddy as Dale was, did that mean he loved her less?
Maddy interrupted. “Nobody ‘lets’ me go out there,” she said. “Anyhow, you bought the car.”
Dale reached for the pitcher and allowed that yes, he’d bought the car, and maybe he’d sell it, too. “I just wanted you to get it out of your system.” She kissed him on the cheek and told him she was working on it, which was a lie. The only reason she let Dale think otherwise was because she wanted to keep her options open.
Now Wylie shifted his chair so he wouldn’t have to look at the two of them. Sheila was trolling the cooler again. She’d been throwing back beers, but Wylie hadn’t said a word, because she drank like that only when she had a reason, and he didn’t want to know what it was. As she cracked open another one, she noticed Wylie eyeing her and made a show of pooling herself like honey into his lap. Later, of course, Maddy would accuse him of enjoying it—never mind the way she’d been cozying up to Dale.
Every chance Sheila got, she flagged down whoever happened to be walking by and invited them over for a beer. Most of the other drivers knew her. She’d been voted track queen two years running, and even Dale had trouble keeping his eyes off her. Pretty soon there was a small group at the back of the pickup. The few drivers who bothered saying hey to Maddy didn’t say much more. They were too busy falling all over themselves being sweet to Sheila. Maddy looked like she was at a funeral. When Tag strolled over to join the party, she slipped away and stood alone by the track, watching the last late-model heat, no doubt feeling sorry for herself. Wylie almost went after her, but then he looked at Dale and thought, screw it—it was Maddy’s turn to feel bad. Maybe if she felt bad enough long enough, she’d get off the fence. He rested his chin on Sheila’s shoulder, whispered that he loved her. He didn’t mean it—not the way he used to— but it felt good to say it. It felt like he had options, too.