by Chris Fabry
“Enjoy the rest of the race,” Tim said as they walked out.
“Good one,” Kellen said.
A TV showed the lap count—only 25 to go, and Dale had moved up to third. Kellen could hardly sit still beside Tim, but when his mom came into the room with the guard, he shrank into the seat.
“Sorry, Mrs. Maxwell,” Tim said. “Chad Devalon kind of jumped me, and there was nothing I could do.”
Mrs. Maxwell talked with the security guard and he released them. “What was it about?” she said.
“I guess he’s still sore about losing that race,” Tim said. “He thinks I did something to his car.”
The crowd stood on the south stands and gasped.
Tim put on his headset and listened. “It wasn’t Dale. It was a group in the middle of the pack.”
“Yellow flag’s out,” Kellen said. “That’ll eat up a few more laps for Dad.”
When the white flag came out, it was just Dale and another driver racing for the win. Dale tried to catch him in the last turn but came in second by less than half a second.
“And that second place finish catapults Dale Maxwell all the way to number 15 for the Chase.”
“That sounds like a long way out of number 12,” the commentator said, “but with four more races to go, I wouldn’t bet against him.”
Dale made his way to the group afterward and hugged his wife. Jamie compared notes and told him what she would have done on that final turn. Dale laughed and put an arm around her. Then a cloud came over his face when Butch Devalon walked up behind them.
“Keep that Carhardt kid away from me and my family, Maxwell,” Devalon said. “You hear me?”
“I heard you, Butch. You okay?”
“Don’t pretend you care about me or anybody but yourself. Just keep that menace out of the pits. I’ve filed a formal complaint against him. He’ll never get in here again.”
Chapter 38
News
OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, Tim spent lots of time in the Maxwell garage, watching and learning everything he could. He never dreamed he’d be this close to seeing the inner workings of a crew. When he traveled with his dad, he’d watched stuff happen from afar. Now he was right in the thick of it.
Though Tim had never been a math whiz, he tried to calculate Dale’s chances of making the top 12. It all depended on what the leaders did, of course, but if he finished in the top 10 in the next four races and the driver in the #12 spot faltered at all, Tim figured he still had a chance.
Butch Devalon’s filing had sealed Tim’s fate at races. He wasn’t allowed at any more during the year unless the officials changed their minds. He could tell Dale was disappointed with him, especially after he’d seen the video coverage. When Tim explained, Dale nodded but said, “You could have avoided all that by not trying to distract Devalon.”
“Yes, sir,” Tim had said.
The Wednesday evening before Michigan, the day before school started again, Kellen came to get Tim in his room. “Phone call for you. Some guy who sounds like he wears a suit to bed.”
It was the man from the bank. “Mr. Carhardt, have you received the box yet?”
“What box?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. We sent the contents of the safe-deposit box to Mr. Slade in Florida two weeks ago, at his request. He said he would send the items on to you. He told me he mailed them last week. You should be getting them any day.”
“Did he say what was in there?” Tim said.
“No, I’m sorry. I’m hoping this clears up any problems for you.”
The guy was being awfully nice to him, especially for somebody who told him never to call his bank again. “Okay. Thanks.”
The next day was the first day of the new school year. Tim rode with Jamie in her Mustang, and the engine sounded like a dream. Mrs. Maxwell had bought Tim several new outfits to wear to school, supplies like notebooks and pencils, and a new backpack that Tim couldn’t wait to try out.
“What’s it feel like to be a senior?” Tim said.
“It hasn’t really hit me yet that I’ll be done after this year,” Jamie said over the song on the radio.
“You going to college?”
“My parents want me to. I’d rather just race.”
“Maybe you can do both. Kellen said you were going to Denver with your dad.”
“Yeah, I’ve never been to Colorado. That new track out there is supposed to be something.”
“Drink a lot of water,” Tim said.
The day dragged by, and Tim wondered how he’d ever get through it. He rode the bus home because Jamie finished earlier than him. He stopped at the mailbox at the end of the driveway and found several clothes catalogs and junk mail, but there was one colorful postcardlike piece that had his name on it. He ran all the way to the house and showed Mrs. Maxwell.
“Do you know what this means?” Tim said.
“It must be the box from Tyson,” she said. “Looks like we owe some money on the package.”
“I’ll pay for it,” Tim said.
“Nonsense. How was your first day back?”
“Okay, I guess.” Tim fidgeted like a kid who had to go to the bathroom while Mrs. Maxwell called the post office.
She came back with a frown. “The carrier still has it with her, and she hasn’t made it back to the post office yet. They said I could pick it up tomorrow morning. I can do that and bring it by the school.”
“That’s okay,” Tim said. “I’ve waited this long. I can wait one more day.”
Chapter 39
Making Jamie Laugh
TIM DIDN’T SLEEP much that night, and when he did, he dreamed that Tyson was hovering over him, waiting to pounce on him for opening his mail.
The next morning as Jamie drove him to school, she said, “What do you think’s in that box?”
Tim shrugged. “Something I guess my dad wanted to protect. I still don’t know why he let Tyson have control over it, but he did.”
“He probably just wanted to make sure there was someone who could take care of you,” Jamie said.
Tim scooted down in his seat. “He couldn’t have picked a worse person.”
Jamie seemed a lot older than Tim, even though she was only 17. He wanted to say something to make her laugh, to make her like him, but he felt like a pimple on the nose of life. There was a dance at the school tomorrow night and he thought about asking her, even though he couldn’t imagine getting up the courage to do it.
Finally he blurted out, “You heard about the dance Saturday?”
“Yeah,” Jamie said. “I usually don’t go because of the racing, but you might have a good time. Mostly people just stand around and drink punch and listen to music. I’ll be in Colorado.”
“You just going to watch or to work?” Tim said.
“Our PR rep has a wedding she wants to attend. She’s dating Billy Reuters, the driver of the #72 car.”
“I know who he is. Little guy who’d bump his own grandmother out of the way.”
Jamie laughed and Tim felt like a million bucks.
“That’s pretty good. I think he’d probably spin his own grandmother out on the last lap of Daytona if he thought he could win.”
“So, you’re going to rep for your dad? That’s good. Maybe when she gets married, you’ll have a place on the team.”
“No offense, but that’s not my dream job. I want to be behind the wheel, not writing PR copy.”
“Yeah, I guess that’d be a step down for you.”
Tim had noticed a change in Jamie. She didn’t act as on edge and she seemed happier. At peace with herself. At first he thought it was getting the license, but it seemed deeper than that. Something had happened to change her perspective.
Jamie’s mouth dropped open, and she turned down the radio. “Hey, you know who would go with you? To the dance, I mean?”
“I didn’t say I wanted to go.”
“I know, but if you were thinking about it, I know someone who would go with you. Just
as a friend.”
His mind wound through the few people the two of them actually knew. “Who?” As soon as he asked, he thought of Cassie Strower. Of course. Jamie and Cassie were best friends. But Cassie was so spiritual she’d probably kiss him if he promised to become a Christian, then want to baptize him as soon as their lips separated.
“Cassie,” Jamie said. “She really likes being around you. She says you’re a breath of fresh air at the youth group, not like the rest of the people who just say stuff because they want the leader to like them or other people to think they’re spiritual. You should ask her.”
“I don’t think I’m in her league. Plus, I’m not a Christian, and she probably wouldn’t go to a dance with anybody who hasn’t memorized the whole Bible backward.”
Jamie laughed again, and Tim thought making Jamie laugh would be a good job. “I’m surprised she’d even go to a dance.”
“She doesn’t go unless there’s a reason,” Jamie said. “You know, she’s on some committee to set up the room or something. And I used to think the same thing about her—that she had some halo around her head and wouldn’t be interested in anything but praying and eating locusts like John the Baptist.”
It was Tim’s turn to laugh, but it was more of a chuckle and he automatically threw his hand up in front of his mouth so Jamie wouldn’t see the space between his front teeth.
“You have a great laugh,” Jamie said. “You ought to do it more often.”
Tim looked out the window and saw the school in the distance.
“I could talk to Cassie if you want and get back to you?” Jamie said as a question.
“No, but thanks,” Tim said.
Tim was in Spanish when a principal’s aide called for him to come to the office. He took his books because it was near the end of class and said adios to the teacher. She smiled and returned the farewell.
Mrs. Maxwell was waiting for him with a package under her arm. She had a way of smiling that made Tim feel like he actually mattered. Since his dad had died there were very few people he’d actually let inside his world, and he’d had a few late-night talks with her that he couldn’t imagine having with anyone else on the planet. He’d had a counselor in Florida, but he always felt weird paying for someone to listen to his troubles. It probably worked for other people, but he couldn’t get over the thought that he just wanted to say what the counselor wanted to hear so he could get out of there.
Mrs. Maxwell was different. He didn’t have to be anything but himself around her. He even let a few bad words slip, and he thought she’d want to wash his mouth out with soap or make him write “I shall not cuss” a billion times. But she hardly flinched. He guessed she’d been around NASCAR enough that she’d heard those words a few times. Still, sometimes he got so lost in the conversation that he forgot he was talking to a Christian woman and not his dad.
“I couldn’t help bringing this to you,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“No. I’ve been thinking about it all morning.” He took the package and shook it. It was light. “Maybe Tyson just sent an empty package.”
“You want to go get some lunch and open it?” she said.
He looked at the office staff. They pretended they were shuffling papers or expelling kids, but he knew they were watching. “Maybe I could just go for a walk?”
Mrs. Maxwell smiled. “Let’s go.”
She drove him to a park not far from the school, but it felt secluded. There were a bunch of tiny kids playing on playground in the distance with young moms pushing strollers and power walking around the paved track. Mrs. Maxwell left him there and went to get two subs from one of Tim’s favorite restaurants. She already knew the kind of sandwich and all the toppings he liked by heart.
Tim sat at a picnic table and stared at the box. This thing sure had caused him a lot of trouble. But though he should have felt happy—at least that’s what he thought he should feel like—he felt a little sad. He had discovered his father’s stuff in a storage place back in Florida. He had talked with one of his dad’s old friends (Charlie Hale, who drove the hauler), but this was the last link with his dad. Opening this would be the final piece of the puzzle—unless there was something else hidden out there.
He tore the paper around the box and immediately knew Tyson hadn’t put this together. Probably somebody at the post office or one of those stores that send boxes in the mail. How do those places stay in business? he thought.
Tim ripped the tape from one side, sighed, then opened it. A gust of wind blew the packing peanuts all over the finely manicured grass and past the sign that said Please Help Keep Our Park Clean. He slammed the lid and chased them down until he had both pockets full. After he dumped them in the trash can, he retrieved a couple of strays near the duck pond. He imagined a duck choking on a packing peanut and people from some animal rights group throwing him in jail for “duck slaughter.”
The package was waiting when he got back, and he opened only one end and stuck his hand inside. In the middle was something in bubble wrap. He pulled it out and found a picture frame. He undid the rubber bands and uncovered a wedding picture of his parents, both smiling. His mom was wearing a pretty dress—not one of those long, white ones you see in most weddings but just a flowery, blue dress. His dad had a suit on, and they were standing outside a brick building that looked more like a city office than a church.
He reached back inside and didn’t find anything at first. Then, when he did a second sweep, he found a small square box at the back and pulled it out. Inside was a gold ring, too small to be his dad’s. Plus a letter addressed to Alexandra Carhardt at a town in Florida he didn’t recognize.
Lexy,
I pray that I get to give your ring back to you someday, but if you’re reading this, that probably isn’t going to happen. I’ve tried my best to take care of Timmy. He’s such a good boy and I know he’s missed you, but we’ve had fun on the road together. It almost hurts when I look at him and see you. He’s the best of both of us that’s for sure.
More than anything, I wish you could see the two of us together. I’ve given up the bad stuff, and I’ve actually found God. I know that’s going to be hard for you to believe, but it’s true. And every night I pray for you and wonder what you’re doing and if you want to come back to us.
If you get this, know that I’m in a better place, not because I’ve made a lot of myself but because God’s given me a great gift. I hope you find that peace for your life.
Don’t blame yourself for anything. It’s my fault what happened between us. I’ve loved you from the moment I met you and I still do. I always will.
With all my heart,
Martin
Tim held up the ring. He could barely get it on his little finger. Then he turned the letter over and studied the address. There was something familiar about it, like he’d seen it before but couldn’t place it.
He opened the box again and looked for anything else in there. Nothing but those white peanuts.
He closed it, tossed it in the trash, and stuffed the ring and letter in his pocket and headed for the parking lot.
Mrs. Maxwell was there waiting with his sandwich. “You okay?”
Tim nodded. “Yeah. You can take me back to school.”
Chapter 40
Snake with a Stick
JAMIE FLEW TO COLORADO on Friday evening, and her dad met her at the sprawling Denver airport. There had been rain earlier that day that washed out qualifying and they’d moved it to Saturday, so she and her dad had a nice meal at the new hotel that had been built near the track.
The altitude of Colorado made this one of the most interesting places to race in the country. Because it was a superspeedway, cars ran with a modified restrictor plate. It was modified because of the altitude. The first year of the race, just about every car on the track had trouble with vapor lock, basically an air bubble in the gas. And the altitude affected the downforce of the car—its ability to hug the track. But the people wh
o built the Denver complex had done everything they could to make racing conditions for the cars and fans the best possible.
The track was a unique oval with severe banking and a track so wide that the cars could go four wide into the turns and never touch their brakes if they rode it correctly.
Denver had been one of Jamie’s favorite venues to race on the simulator back at the school. She’d turned in the fastest qualifying lap, even faster than Chad. There was just something about the mountains in the background and the cooler air that sent a chill down her spine when she looked at the track and the surroundings.
As they ate, they planned Jamie’s racing future. There were several venues where Jamie could still get her feet wet in the racing circle—though how she’d get a car was up in the air.
“A couple of our sponsors have approached me, saying they would be willing to put up some money,” her dad said. “Maybe start small with some of the races in the east, then move up.”
“Really?” Jamie said, dropping her fork. “That’s awesome. How much have they offered?”
He told her, and she nearly spewed her Diet Mountain Dew on him.
“Just settle down,” he said. “It’s exciting to hear about that kind of money, but the responsibility can weigh on you. I’m going to talk with some guys around the track in the next couple of days to see if they know of any cars we could buy.”
“I was talking with Tim today about going to college and racing at the same time. Do you think I could do that?”
He nodded. “I think that’s a great plan. Ease into this while you get an education. Keep your options open.”
“But I already know what I want to do,” she said.
“Yeah, I can see it in your eyes.”
She sighed and took a bite of her blackened chicken salad. “Your plan is better than Devalon’s. He just wanted to throw me out there on the track and see what happened.”
One of the TV commentators walked past and waved at them. Her dad offered a seat and the man sat down. “I’ll only stay a minute, but I have to say, Jamie, that I watched the video of what you did at the school. Pretty impressive racing.”