Over the Wall

by Chris Fabry

  Her Legend car sat on the hauling trailer beside the barn. Her stomach rumbled, and it was as much from hunger as it was from her nerves. She banged the steering wheel and shook her head. The phrase from the letter inside the packet came back to her: unless the amount is paid in full before the course begins . . .

  She’d tried to think of any way out of doing what she had to do, but in the end she knew she’d have to face the man herself. Her mom would say that if she couldn’t even deal with the guy who’d written the bad check, how was she going to handle the world of NASCAR? Of course, sitting behind the steering wheel and holding off other drivers was a lot different from this.

  “Come on,” she said softly to herself. “Be a man. Or at least a really strong woman.”

  She smiled. Cassie had called last night and said she’d pray for her. She wondered if that meant Cassie was getting up this early on a Saturday or if she just slipped in a quick prayer before she went to bed.

  “Okay, let’s do this,” Jamie said aloud to snap herself awake. She started the car and pulled it into the driveway, then slammed her door so whoever was inside would hear someone was there.

  She didn’t have to worry about that because the dog took care of it. He came bounding down the stairs barking and snarling and showing his teeth. She tried to soothe him with her voice, but he wasn’t having any of it. The hair on his back stood straight up, his eyes looked red—like some kind of Satan dog—and his mouth was about as wide as I-77.

  “Sparky, get back here!” a woman yelled from the door.

  Sparky? Jamie thought. The name didn’t fit the woof at all.

  “Can I help you?” the woman said.

  Jamie tried to talk over the noise of the dog, but every time she spoke, Sparky barked louder and inched closer, and the white stuff in the corners of his mouth hung down. She could see his rib cage and the bones of his hips, and he looked like he needed a good meal. She figured that’s exactly what she seemed like to him.

  “Can I come in there?” Jamie shouted.

  The woman nodded and opened the door. Jamie sidestepped Sparky and made it into the house, and the woman closed the door. “He wouldn’t hurt you. He’s just hungry for breakfast. What can I do for you?”

  The house smelled like Jamie’s grandmother’s place. Lots of old wood and linoleum. The boards creaked in the front room when she took a step. And it was hot inside—about 10 degrees warmer than it needed to be.

  The man who had given her the bad check stomped downstairs, stretching into a work jacket. When he saw her, his steps slowed.

  “I need a word with you, sir,” Jamie said.

  “This is the Maxwell girl, dear,” the man said when he reached the bottom step.

  “The racer’s daughter?” the woman said.

  “More than a daughter—she’s a racer too. And a good one, I hear. Now you’re not wanting that car back, are you? Because my grandson has his heart set on driving it this afternoon. He’s sure excited.”

  “I’m glad,” Jamie said, pulling the copy of his check out of her pocket. “But I’ve got a problem. I went to cash this, and they said there were insufficient funds.”

  He took it and held it at arm’s length. “How in the world? There must be some mistake. . . . Oh, I know. The mortgage payment probably came at the same time. I’ll go write you another one. There shouldn’t be a problem now.” He moved to the kitchen and took out his checkbook.

  Jamie cleared her throat. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, do you think we could go down to the bank and get a cashier’s check or a certified check?”

  He turned and his face went a little white. “Now that won’t be necessary, Jamie. I’m sorry for your trouble, but it was an honest mistake.”

  Jamie glanced out the front window. Sparky was looking in at her. “I believe that. I’m sure you didn’t mean to do this, but I can’t afford to pay for another bounced check.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m saying. This one won’t bounce. I’ll write you another one right now, and you can be on your way.”

  Jamie locked eyes with him and tried to calm the butterflies in her stomach. “Mister, I’m only 16. I don’t know a lot about selling cars and doing business, but a guy at the bank said I should never take a personal check for something this expensive. If you don’t have the money, I can call a friend and come out here and get the car. But I have to either have the money or the car.”

  The man looked at his watch. “I’m late to work as it is.”

  “If I don’t get paid for that car, there’s no way I can get into a school that I want to attend. So if you don’t have it, let me take it and sell it to somebody else.” Her teeth were chattering like global cooling had begun.

  The woman stepped into the shadows of the front room and turned to her husband. “Go down to the bank and make this right. This girl had to drive all the way out here.”

  His voice became meaner. “I told you—I have to get to work.”

  Jamie let the two look at each other.

  Finally the man sighed and shook his head. “All right. Get in your car and follow me down to the bank.”

  Chapter 17

  Race Prep

  TIM WOKE UP LATE and couldn’t remember where he was. The bed he was in had a big white comforter that was thicker than he was. Hotel, he thought. The big one near the speedway in Fort Worth. But where was Dale? He got up and walked through the suite. He had been sleeping in one room while Dale slept in the other. He opened the curtains, and the Texas sun blasted the room. He saw the speedway in the distance and a sea of colorful cars, RVs, and haulers. He wondered how much a room here cost on race weekend.

  He closed the curtains and headed for the bathroom but stopped at Dale’s bed. On the nightstand was an open black book, and Tim hovered over it, not turning any pages, just looking. It was a Bible, and beside it was a leather notebook with scribbling in it. He couldn’t read the writing very well, but it looked like personal stuff and what God was teaching him and junk like that. At the bottom were the initials P.R. Under that were three names: Chad, Jamie, Tim.

  He couldn’t figure that one out, so he turned toward the bathroom and saw a piece of paper taped to the front of the TV. This guy knows me pretty good already, he thought. Just like Vera taping notes on the food in the fridge.

  Tim,

  I headed over to the track early for a practice session and a drivers’ meeting. You were sleeping soundly, so I didn’t want to wake you. As I told you last night, I’ve asked Scotty to call you so you two can grab something to eat and then come over to the track. If you want to stay in the room, that’s fine too. Just tell Scotty.

  Whatever you decide, I’ll see you soon.

  Dale

  These people sure like to write a lot of notes, Tim thought.

  He took a shower and got dressed, and as he was coming out of the bathroom, the phone rang.

  Scotty was a little shorter than Dale and had what Tim thought was a round, kind face. He had a good tan, which was usual for people who stood on top of buildings during summer Sundays and watched car races. They met in the lobby, and Scotty took Tim into a restaurant and said he could order whatever he wanted. He chose the buffet, which had just about everything a guy would want for breakfast and then some.

  “If I eat one more bite, I’m going to pop,” Tim said when he’d finished his second plate.

  Scotty shoved his plate away and drained the last of his orange juice. “So, how do you feel about Dale and his family having you come to stay with them?”

  “I haven’t met the family, but so far Dale seems okay.”

  Scotty leaned forward, elbows on the table, his fingers interlaced. “Dale takes his family seriously. He’d shoot me if he knew I was saying this, but there’s some stuff I think you should know.”

  “Go ahead,” Tim said.

  “I know you’ve had it rough. And everybody wants you to find a good home. But Dale doesn’t drive as well when his personal life is messed u
p.”

  “You think I’m going to mess up his life?”

  “Not on purpose. But there’s something going on with his daughter that has him distracted. In the past, if he and his wife had a fight or a disagreement, those of us on the team could see that. It’s hard enough to drive out there with no distractions, but stuff at home affects him, and if it affects him, it affects us. The team depends on him.”

  “I know how it works.”

  Scotty held up his hands. “I know you’re not new to the business, and I’m real sorry about your—”

  “You want me to go back to Florida? Is that it?”

  “No, not at all. In fact, having you here might even help things. I don’t have any idea. But there’s a lot of talk about the sponsor and the future of Dale’s career.”

  “I’m not going to cause trouble.”

  “I know. I probably shouldn’t have even brought this up. None of what’s happened is your fault.”

  “It’s good to know what’s going on. I won’t mess anything up. I promise.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Scotty said. “If you haven’t picked up on it already, Dale’s pretty religious. He’s not pushy, for the most part, but he doesn’t like bad language, and he’s probably blocked access to any movies in your room.”

  “I don’t have a problem with religious people as long as they leave me alone.”

  “Well, good luck living with him and his wife.”

  Scotty gave Tim his credentials—a child’s pass and the lanyard, the fancy plastic thing to wear around his neck. He’d have to keep that on at all times while at the track. He also knew he couldn’t wear sandals and shorts there, even though that would be a lot cooler than jeans and tennis shoes. It was a safety precaution.

  They took the shuttle across Highway 114 and walked to the entrance where drivers and their teams were checked in.

  The Texas track was a 1.5 mile oval and could handle both stock car and Indy type racers. Tim figured Dale liked it because the banking in the turns was the same as the track in Charlotte—24 degrees. Talladega and Daytona had some of the steepest turns.

  Scotty took Tim directly to the hauler to meet the rest of the team, passing the long garage that was a beehive of activity. People with garage and pit passes milled about with their cameras, looking at cars and keeping an eye out for a driver or a familiar crew chief.

  They passed the Devalon hauler with the crash cart and pit box out front as well as their frame tents set up to keep people in the shade. The sun baked everything here, especially the track, so the team had to adjust to the extreme temperatures. With the Devalon team, everything sparkled, including the crew’s uniforms.

  The Maxwell hauler was parked at the far end of the track, and though it was clean, it was clear it wasn’t in the same league as Devalon’s and some others.

  A tall guy with spiky hair and a day’s growth of beard was outside looking at their tires. Tim could tell as soon as he saw him that this was their jackman. The guy who lugged the jack to either side of the car was usually the strongest and quickest on the crew.

  “Tim, this is Cal,” Scotty said.

  Cal shook his hand and said he was glad to meet him. “I’ve seen you at a couple of races before. Your dad was good at what he did. We all miss him.”

  Tim nodded.

  “Where’s T.J.?” Scotty said.

  “Over at the track. Dale’s still in his practice run before qualifying. Having trouble getting the wedge right.”

  Scotty introduced Tim to the other crew members, then turned and lowered his voice. “I have to warn you about Mac. He’s a little territorial.”

  “Is he your hauler driver?” Tim said. “My dad knew him. Said he was kind of cranky.”

  “That’s a nice way of saying it. A better way would be to say he’s a mad old dog who’ll bark at you for no reason and bite for less.”

  “If he’s so mean, why does Dale keep him on the team?”

  “That’s a good question. Guess you’ll have to ask Dale that.”

  They walked toward the pit, and Tim put in his earplugs. He’d been around the tracks long enough to be able to stand the noise without them, but it was a lot easier blocking it out.

  Scotty pointed to the track and Dale’s car as it sped past the start line. Tim followed him into the back straightaway until he lost sight of the car in the line of RVs and haulers. Out of the fourth turn the car shifted a little.

  “Looks like it’s loose in the turn,” Tim said.

  Scotty nodded. “He’s gonna have to bring it in.”

  They headed over to pit road as Dale drove in. The rear tire carrier turned the tool in the back, adjusting the rear jack bolt so it would hold better in the turn. They always ran the risk of making it too tight or too loose.

  Scotty grabbed two headsets and let Tim listen as Dale roared out of the pits and back onto the track. The crew chief waved at them and gave them a thumbs-up as they climbed onto the pit box.

  Tim examined the video monitors and equipment. The setup wasn’t as fancy as Devalon’s, but it worked. From up here, Tim could see almost the entire track. He watched Dale take turn two, accelerate down the backstretch, and hit the groove on the third and fourth turns.

  “Oh yeah,” Dale said. “That’s a lot better. T.J., looks like we got us a car this weekend.”

  “I got a real good feeling about it, Dale.”

  The Maxwell team drew 33rd position to qualify. As the track got hotter, the times were faster, so it was to their advantage to go as close to the end as they could. Tim stayed up on the pit box to watch as car after car took their two laps around the track. The fastest lap counted.

  Fans filled about half the stands—some there to watch the qualifying, some early for the truck race—and cheered when their favorite drivers entered the track. Butch Devalon’s time was 28.772 seconds, good enough for pole position when he finished, but there were still a lot of cars waiting.

  Dale was out of his car, talking to T.J., laughing, and smacking the top of the car.

  Tim looked around at the different teams, the excitement level rising this day before the race. Wish you were here, Dad, he thought.

  Dale entered the track and ran through the back turns, then took the green flag. His brakes lit as he entered the first turn, following the groove of the track. His front end slipped a little as the car hit the straightaway.

  The crew chief keyed his microphone. “That’s gonna cost you—let’s get a good second lap.”

  “Hit some loose stuff on turn two,” Dale said. “Here we go.”

  “Engine sounds good,” Tim said to Scotty, lifting one headphone. “Really tight.”

  Scotty nodded.

  When Dale crossed the start/finish line the first time, his time was 29.024. Not bad, but if he wanted to be close to the front at the start, he’d have to do better.

  Tim stood as Dale passed the second time. He held it in turn two, and the engine roared down the backstretch. He shot out of turn four and screamed toward the checkered flag. Tim looked up to the scoring pylon to see Dale’s car, #14, in first place with a time of 27.859 at a speed of 193.833 mph.

  “Woo-hoo!” T.J. yelled. “You’ve got the pole right now, Dale. Good work.”

  As it turned out, Dale wound up in the ninth position with the top car qualifying at just over 27 seconds. Still, the crew seemed pleased, and the talk was positive near the hauler. Scotty had a meeting and left Tim there. “Just stay out of their way.”

  A few minutes later, his throat parched and the temperature at nearly 90, Tim opened the cooler just outside the hauler and pushed the ice off some soft drinks. He grabbed one and unscrewed the top, then took a hot dog off the grill. Everybody else had already eaten, so Tim figured it would be okay.

  As Tim took a bite of the bun, someone with a scratchy voice said, “What do you think you’re doing?” Tim turned to see Mac, his grayish brown hair slicked back. He looked like an opossum that had just climbed out of a tr
ash can after a downpour. His face was wrinkled and came to a point in a mouth that looked as sharp as a toothpick. And he held one between his front teeth as he spoke. His eyes were gray and lifeless, like they should belong to one of those mummies in the old movies Tim used to watch late on Saturday nights in Charlie Hale’s truck.

  “I thought this was for the Maxwell team,” Tim said.

  Mac snatched the drink, screwed the top on, and jammed it back into the cooler. “It is. And you’re not a part of the team. Got it?”

  Tim nodded. I do now.

  Mac took the hot dog and tossed it in the trash. Then he grabbed the remaining three dogs and threw them away too.

  Tim just watched, a little amused but still hungry. Mac disappeared back into the hauler, and Tim felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “I see you’ve met Mac,” Dale said.

  “Yeah. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to touch any of your food and drinks.”

  Dale smirked and shook his head, reaching into the cooler and pulling out the drink. “I’ll have a talk with Mac. What’s ours is yours, okay?”

  Tim nodded. “Hey, good time out there. Ninth place isn’t bad.”

  “I’ll take it,” Dale said. “If I could finish in the top 10, I’ll be happy.”

  “My dad said he was tired of watching drivers just going for points,” Tim said. “Said if he was behind the wheel, he’d want to win.”

  “Your dad was smart,” Dale said. “I feel the same way.” He turned as someone moved toward them, then looked back at Tim. “I was thinking instead of fighting with Mac about a burger and a hot dog that we’d go back to the hotel and grab something. That okay with you?”

  “That’d be fine with me,” Tim said. “Breakfast was so good I’d go back there for leftovers.”

  “Good. We’ll be heading into ‘happy hour’ pretty soon—the last practice session. I want to work out a couple of kinks before I head back.”

  One of the on-track reporters came up to Dale, asked how the qualifying had gone, and stuck a mike out.