From the bus window, he looked down on the snails’ procession of Fords and Chevys, and even a few non-Detroit models driven by those who did not put their money where their hearts were. Becalmed in this tide of spectators, Harley was surprised by the cold hollow in his chest that told him he cared more than he realized about his fall from glory. It had taken all his life to break into that charmed circle of famous drivers, but only a season or two to be eased out again. It had happened so fast that he’d hardly realized it. Out in a heartbeat. But he was wiser now. He had grown up a lot in these lean years: he was going to find a way back in, and when he did, the only way they’d get him out again would be under the blue tarp.
It was a sweltering, cloudless mid-morning in east Tennessee. Race time was set for 7:30 P.M., but-knowing that the county’s roads were not equal to a one-day influx of 160,000 people all heading for the same place-the crowd had already begun to arrive. The roads to the Speedway were jammed with a succession of cars and pick-up trucks, whose back windows and bumpers proclaimed allegiance to a chosen driver. Some of the more alert Number Three Pilgrims pressed their noses to the bus windows to enjoy the first moments of the spectacle. Terence Palmer, his Winged Three cap pulled over his eyes, was making up for the sleep he’d lost on the red-eye flight from LaGuardia, while beside him, Sarah Nash read his rumpled New York Times.
“Look! A mixed marriage!” Justine called out, pointing to an old white Bonneville with two circular decals at opposite corners of the back windshield. The driver’s side of the window sported a white number 8 in a red circle, offset on the opposite side by a yellow 24.
“So the family favors two different drivers?” asked Bill Knight, leaning over Matthew to see the car in question.
“That’s not it,” said Justine. “It means the couple doesn’t agree on who to root for. See, that 8 on the driver’s side means he’s a Dale Earnhardt, Jr. fan, while over on the passenger side, she likes cute little Jeff Gordon, number 24, who looks like he ought to be on Dawson’s Creek instead of driving a stock car.”
“Ah, factions.” Knight nodded, reaching for his notebook. “The Romans would have felt right at home here. In ancient times, the chariot races in the Circus Maximus were divided into teams: The Reds. Green. White. Blue. And their followers wore flowers or scarves sporting the colors of the faction. Some people based their whole identity on their team affiliation. Even had it carved on their tombstones: ‘Marcus Flavius, beloved father and lifelong supporter of the Greens.’”
“Did they paint their faces?” asked Cayle.
“No,” said Bekasu, looking up from her magazine. “That would be the other supporters of the Green: Packers fans.”
“You should see the camping area.” The older man, whose companion was decked out in the Earnhardt fabric vest, leaned forward to join in the discussion. His name tag said “Jim.” “Arlene and I used to camp there back when we were going regularly to the races. It’s like a big party down there in the Earhart Campground.”
Matthew perked up. “Earnhardt had a campground?”
“Not Earnhardt, son. Earhart. Like Amelia. It’s the name of the family that owns the land.”
“I’ll bet they’re sick of explaining that,” said Cayle.
“That campground,” said Jim with a reminiscent smile. “Oh, my, that’s where it’s really happening. People bring kegs and guitars and tape players. Some folks set up tables and sell the racing-related crafts they spend the winter making. You can buy tee shirts, bumper stickers. Homemade CDs. Keychains. Lots cheaper than the official stuff, too, but just as good. ’Course the track might frown on that, ’cause they don’t make anything off it. And the drivers don’t get their cut, either, but I reckon they’re rich enough.”
“Some are,” said Harley, thinking about Bill Elliott’s helicopter. “Some are.”
“Well, Arlene and me, we loved it at the campground. It’s just one big festival from camper to camper. So many nice people. All the picnics and the things to buy.”
“Who looks after their belongings when they go over to the Speedway for the race?” asked Bekasu, who saw a lot of burglary cases in her court room.
The old man smiled. “Well, the fact is, don’t half of ’em even go to the race. Can’t afford to. Tickets are around eighty-five bucks apiece these days, if you can even get one.”
Bill Knight shook his head. “You mean, people drive all the way here in RVs and then don’t even attend the race?”
“Oh, well, sure they watch it,” said Jim. “A lot of folks bring televisions hooked up with big old extension cords and set them out on picnic tables outside the campers. Then a whole crowd can bring their own lawn chairs, gather around the TV, and watch the race for nothing. From the campground, you can hear the crowd cheering and the roar of the engines from the race track over the way, so it just makes it much more exciting than sitting home in your den watching it.”
“I bet you get a better view off the television than you would in the grandstands,” said Justine. “Close-ups and replays and all.”
Jim nodded happily. “It’s the best of both worlds. Living room reception and lots of folks to celebrate with.”
Arlene turned back from the window with a vacant smile. “Jim, that looks like Bristol out there!” she said.
Her husband patted her hand. “Sure is, baby,” he said. To the others he added, “This trip is our forty-seventh anniversary celebration.”
“Forty-seventh?” said Cayle. Then she looked again at Arlene’s blank eyes and her tentative smile. “Why, I think that’s wonderful,” she said.
“Well, Arlene thought the world of old Dale.”
“Dale!” Arlene brightened at the sound of the name. “Is Dale racing today?”
Jim smiled and patted her hand again, but no one else seemed to have heard her.
Ratty Laine maneuvered the bus into the designated parking area in the shadow of the towering coliseum that was the Bristol Motor Speedway, with the word “Bristol” spelled out in giant red letters on a vertical stack of blocks down the side of the grandstand supports. The bus turned into the Speedway road and into the parking lot adjoining the grandstand, where a billboard-size visage of Dale Earnhardt scowled down at them from the wall near the entrance. The boldly colored silhouette painted on the upper wall of the massive structure proclaimed the location of the “Earnhardt Tower,” the newly constructed upper tier of seating built to accompany the existing grandstand sections named in honor of other legendary drivers: the Allisons, David Pearson, Darrell Waltrip, Junior Johnson, Cale Yarborough, Richard Petty, and Alan Kulwicki. The Earnhardt image was a familiar one: the black cap, wire-rimmed sunglasses, the bushy moustache, and the steely stare that made you want to step aside even if he wasn’t headed in your direction.
Harley stared up at the image, sure that he could detect a smirk on those painted features. Lost your ride, boy, the Earnhardt totem seemed to sneer at him. He pointed out the windshield toward the scowling face. “There he is, folks,” he said into the microphone. “The one and only Dale Earnhardt, haunting the place in death just the way he did in life.”
“I’ll bet he’d be right pleased to be remembered,” said Jim.
“I’ll bet he’s pissed that Darrell Waltrip’s section is bigger than his,” said Harley.
Ratty Laine pulled the bus into one of the grassy parking areas behind the Speedway. “Are y’all going to lay the wreath now?” he asked.
Harley was already on his way out the door of the bus when the question caught him in mid stride. “Say what?”
“The wreath. Mr. Bailey at the travel company told me that the folks on this tour were going to lay a wreath at every Speedway we stopped at. In memory of Mr. Earnhardt. I got ’em all stacked in cardboard boxes in the luggage hold, but I put the one for today up in the overhead luggage rack.” He nodded at a white box above Harley’s seat. “You all gonna do that now?”
The phrase “might as well get it over with” was hovering on Harley�
��s lips, but then he remembered the stern face of Harry Bailey, so he composed his features into an expression of earnest solemnity. “Certainly,” he said. “It’s only fitting that we should pay our respects to Dale first.” He went back up the steps and pulled down the box from the luggage rack. “We’re going to lay this tribute wreath now,” he called out to the Number Three Pilgrims. “Photo opportunity. Bring ’em if you got ’em.” To Ratty Laine he murmured, “Where the heck are we supposed to put this thing?”
The pilgrims stood on the pavement beside the bus in a respectful silence while Harley slit open the box. The wreath of silk flowers mixed white carnations and red rose buds in a design shaped to resemble a wheel. The black ribbon stretched across the face of it bore the message: “Dale Earnhardt: Victory Lane in Heaven.”
“Oh, dear,” murmured Bekasu.
Bill Knight gave her an understanding nod. “Grief does strange things to people,” he said. “You see it at funerals. Whatever we say we believe in times of sweet reason, grief strips all that away and the pain reveals what we really do feel, deep down. Many people think of heaven as a place where they can do what made them happiest.” He thought of tombstones. In recent years, the angels and lambs of Victorian times had given way to an almost Ancient Egyptian preoccupation with the survival of the self. He had seen tombstones depicting skiers in midjump; leaping bass adorning the monument to a fisherman; and more than one set of checkered flags, signaling the arrival of a racing fan into the Hereafter. Nothing surprised him anymore.
“They’re every one of ’em different,” Ratty Laine announced to no one in particular. “I peeked in all the boxes.”
“I think we ought to take turns carrying the wreath,” said Cayle. “ A different person at each Speedway. That is, if you don’t mind, Harley?”
He blinked at her in astonishment. Surely they didn’t expect him to parade through the Bristol Motor Speedway crowds carrying a gaudy funeral wreath in memory of Dale Earnhardt, did they? He looked at their solemn faces. Apparently, they did. Harley summoned a wan smile. “Why, I couldn’t deprive you folks of this chance to pay your respects,” he said. “Anyhow, I believe Dale would rather have a pretty lady bringing him flowers than a beat-up old racer. You notice they never have guys handing out the trophies after a race.” He presented the wreath to Cayle Warrenby.
She held the tribute out straight-armed, and looked back at her fellow travelers. “But where shall I put it?”
How about on the top of Kevin Harvick’s car? thought Harley. They took care not to publicize the fact, but Harvick had taken Dale’s ride at Richard Childress Racing, and the cars he had driven last season-repainted of course, and with a different, less sacred number, would have been Earnhardt’s Monte Carlos, if he had lived to finish the season.
“On the drivers’ message wall,” said Jim Powell. “Bristol always has a wall where fans can leave messages to their driver of choice. I don’t know if they’ll have a section for Dale, since he’s not racing today, but we could check. I reckon a wreath could go right against the wall where the messages go.”
Yeah, thought Harley. Dale will be sure to check there for his messages.
Cayle turned to him. “Would that be all right?”
Harley shrugged. He hadn’t noticed any Earnhardt tributes on display as they drove by, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t still a shrine somewhere around. Or ten. Earnhardt had been dead a year and a half, but there were still thousands of mourners who’d fly the flag at half-staff for him if they could. In the camping area, there were probably a dozen makeshift memorials to the Intimidator. If there wasn’t a formal shrine-and why would there be? He hadn’t died here-then the BMS official message wall would be as good a place as any to leave the wreath. “The message wall it is, then,” he said, leading the way.
They marched up the hill from the parking area, with Cayle proudly holding up the wreath, leading the others along in a way that made Harley want to hum “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” People passing by stopped to look at the procession and a couple of Earnhardt fans took a picture of the wreath. One burly, bearded man with a leather vest over his black tee shirt stared for a few seconds at the tribute wreath and fell into step beside Harley. “Y’all mind if I come, too?” he said in hushed tones that suggested he was crashing a funeral. “Never really got to tell him good-bye.”
Harley shrugged. “Sure. Come ahead.” He was beginning to feel like the Pied Piper-lead all the Earnhardt fans out of the Speedway and into the creek…Then it occurred to him that he should have reminded them about sunblock, because the August sun beat down in unclouded intensity, so that they were sweaty and breathless by the time they reached the graffiti wall. They were also a bigger crowd now, since the procession had been picking up strays all the way up the hill. Harley kept turning around to make sure that all of his charges were still in the pack. Ray Reeve, squinting in the blazing sun, was bringing up the rear, but he didn’t seem to be in difficulty-just walking at his own pace. There’s always one, thought Harley.
A small weaselly man had hurried up to accompany his friend, the big guy who had first joined them.
“Say, what is this here march?” the scrawny fellow said, double-timing to keep pace with Harley’s longer strides. “I didn’t see no official announcement about this.”
“It’s part of a special Speedway tour,” said Harley, wishing the man would go away. “Earnhardt Memorial Tour.”
The man brightened. “Yeah? My buddy there was about the biggest Earnhardt fan there ever was.”
In size, certainly, thought Harley, stealing a glance at the weasel’s burly friend. The two of them looked like a Saint Bernard and a Chihuahua who had decided to go into partnership.
“Yessir,” the weasel said, leaning close to Harley to exude his garlic-fumed confidences. “My buddy Cannon just thought the world of Dale. He almost quit the business after the 2001 Daytona.”
“The business?” said Harley, suddenly interested. “What is he, pit crew?”
The little man smirked. “Naw. Even better. You know when they have wrecks out on the track? Well, ol’ Cannon skulks around afterward and picks up the debris. Or else he talks the pit crew into letting him have it. Or slips ’em a few bucks. Old hoods, bell housings, whatever. And he collects discarded lug nuts, racing slicks-any old thing they’re fixing to throw away. Then he sells ’em to race fans. Sometimes he makes them into little plaques or lamp bases or something. Lug nut key chains. It’s like turning scrap metal into gold, the prices folks’ll pay for Speedway trash. My buddy Cannon is a master at it.”
“He must be in hog heaven at Bristol, then,” said Harley. The Bristol short track was a series of wrecks punctuated by laps.
The weasel grinned at the thought of a fresh haul of car parts in the wake of the Sharpie 500. “So where’s this tribute tour going after this, then, huh, mister?”
Harley didn’t want to tell him, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint the cause of his reluctance. The tour itinerary was not only public record, it was common sense. Where would anybody go to pay their respects to Earnhardt? Bristol, Martinsville, DEI in Mooresville, Rockingham. Duh. Finally, because he was beginning to feel petty about snubbing the eager little man, Harley said, “The Southern speedways. Here to Daytona.”
“Yeah?” The guy nodded eagerly. “So from here to Martinsville, right? Then, what? Richmond?”
“Not Richmond. Too far east and out of the way. We’ve only got ten days. Martinsville down to DEI and then to the Rock, Charlotte, so on.”
“Yeah? You gonna leave one of them wreaths everywhere you go?”
Harley, gritting his teeth, managed to nod. Please don’t let this runt be a USA Today reporter, he thought.
“Well, that’s great,” said the weasel. “A little late, maybe, ’cause he’s been dead over a year, but my buddy Cannon will love it. He took it hard when it happened. He had a whole stack of used parts from the black number 3, and it’s all he can do to part with one of them.
He gets offered top dollar, too. Just kills him to sell one. Hey, maybe we’ll meet up with you again down the road.”
“Whatever,” said Harley, who couldn’t summon the energy to argue the matter. He mopped the sweat off his brow with a slightly used tissue.
“Say, buddy, who’s leading this tour anyhow?”
Harley sighed. There was nothing for it. “I guess I am,” he muttered.
“Yeah? No kiddin’. How’d you get that job?” The weasel peered up into Harley’s red face. “Did you used to be somebody?”
“I was a NASCAR driver. Yes.”
“Hot damn!” cried the weasel. “Hey, Cannon, guess what? This guy here used to be somebody!”
That’s right, thought Harley. I used to be somebody.
On race day, Bristol Motor Speedway provided a specially papered white wall on which fans were encouraged to write a few words of praise or encouragement to their favorite driver. The number of each car entered in the day’s race was painted in numerical order on the top of the wall, with each number allotted a space about six feet high and three feet wide for messages. Number 6 was Mark Martin; number 9, Bill Elliott; and so on. If you knew your driver’s number (and who didn’t?) you could leave him a message or inscribe your support on his section of wall. Presumably, after the race, the message papers would be given to each driver. Some numbers still had more white space than writing, and Harley felt a pang of sympathetic kinship for the slighted ones. He felt like writing Hang in there, buddy! on Todd or Brett Bodine’s wall, and he didn’t even particularly like the Bodines. Jeff Gordon and Dale Junior, though, might want to set aside a couple of hours to decipher all their fan messages.
When the little procession of mourners reached the graffiti wall, they found that no message space had been allotted for the number 3, since of course no car of that number was racing today. Harley willed himself not to roll his eyes as he met the looks of outrage and tearful disappointment on the faces of the assembled pilgrims.
St. Dale Page 8