The Art of Racing in the Rain

by Garth Stein

  “A fantastic time,” replied Mike. “They played all day.”

  “Fetch?” Denny asked, thirsty for details. “Did she use the Chuckit? Or did they play chase? Eve never liked it when they played chase.”

  “No, mostly fetch,” Mike said kindly. “You know,” Mike said, “sometimes they just flopped down on the grass and cuddled together. It was really sweet.”

  Denny wiped his nose quickly. “Thanks, Mike,” he said. “Really. Thanks a lot.”

  “Anytime,” Mike said.

  I appreciated Mike’s effort to appease Denny, even though he was avoiding the truth. Or maybe Mike didn’t see what I saw. Maybe he couldn’t hear what I heard. Zoë’s profound sadness. Her loneliness. Her whispered plans that she and I would somehow smuggle ourselves off to Europe and find her father.

  That summer without Zoë was very painful for Denny. In addition to feeling isolated from his daughter, he felt his career was derailed. Though he was offered the opportunity to drive again, he was forced to decline, as the pending criminal case demanded that he remain in the state of Washington at all times. He was a prisoner of the state.

  And yet.

  I won’t say he created the situation, but he allowed it. Because he needed to test his mettle. He wanted to know how long he could keep his foot on the accelerator before lifting. He chose this life, and therefore he chose this battle.

  And I realized, as the summer matured and I frequently visited Zoë without Denny, that I was a part of this, too. I was an important part. Because on those late Saturday afternoons in July, Denny would sit with me on the back porch and quiz me. “Did you play fetch? Did you tug? Did you chase?” He would ask, “Did you cuddle?” He would ask, “How did she look? Is she eating enough fruit? Are they buying organic?”

  I tried. I tried as hard as I could to form words for him, but they wouldn’t come. I tried to beam my thoughts into his head. I tried to send him the pictures I saw in my mind. I twitched my ears. I cocked my head. I nodded. I pawed. Until he smiled at me and stood.

  “Thanks, Enzo,” he would say on those days. “You’re not too tired, are you?”

  I would stand and wag. I’m never too tired.

  “Let’s go, then.”

  He would grab the Chuckit and the tennis ball and walk me down to the Blue Dog Park. There we would play fetch until the light grew thin and the mosquitoes came out of hiding, thirsty for their dinner.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  There was an occasion that summer when Denny found a teaching engagement in Spokane and asked if the Twins could take me for the weekend; they agreed, as they had grown accustomed to my presence in their home.

  I would much rather have gone to racing school with Denny, but I understood that he depended on me to take care of Zoë. Also to act as some kind of a witness on his behalf. Though I could not relate to him the details of our visits, my presence, I think, reassured him in some way.

  On a Friday afternoon, I was delivered by Mike into Zoë’s waiting embrace. She immediately ushered me into her room, and we played a game of dress-up together. I knew my role as jester in Zoë’s court, and I was happy to play the part.

  That evening Maxwell took me outside earlier than usual, urging me to “get busy.” When I came back inside, I was led to Zoë’s room, which already had my bed in it. Apparently, she had requested I sleep with her. I curled into a ball and quickly dozed off.

  A bit later, I woke. The lights were dim. Zoë was awake and active, encircling my bed with piles of her stuffed animals.

  “They’ll keep you company,” she whispered to me as she surrounded me.

  Seemingly hundreds of them. All shapes and sizes. I was being surrounded by teddy bears and giraffes, sharks and dogs, cats and birds and snakes. She worked steadily and I watched, until I was buried in stuffed animals. I found it somewhat amusing and touching that Zoë cared to share me with her animals in that way. I drifted off to sleep feeling protected and safe.

  I awoke later in the night and saw that the wall of animals around me was quite high. Still, I was able to shift my weight and change position to make myself more comfortable. But when I did, I was shocked by a frightening sight. One of the animals. The one on top. Staring straight at me. It was the zebra.

  The replacement zebra. The one she had chosen to fill in for the demon that had dismantled itself before me so long ago. The horrifying zebra of my past. The demon had returned. And though it was dark in the room, I know I saw a glint of light in its eyes.

  As you can imagine, my sleep was sparse that night. The last thing I wanted was to awaken amid animal destruction because the demon had returned. I forced myself to stay awake; yet I couldn’t help but drift off. Each time I opened my eyes, I found the zebra staring at me. Like a gargoyle, it stood on a cathedral of animals above me, watching. The other animals had no life; they were toys. The zebra alone knew.

  I felt sluggish all day, but I did my best to keep up, and I tried to catch up on my sleep by napping quietly. To any observer, I’m sure I gave off the impression of being quite contented. But I was anxious about nightfall, concerned that, once again, the zebra would torture me with its mocking eyes.

  That afternoon, as the Twins took their alcohol on the deck, as they tended to do, and Zoë watched television in the TV room, I dozed outside in the sun. And I heard them.

  “I know it’s for the best,” Trish said. “But still, I feel badly for him.”

  “It’s for the best,” Maxwell said.

  “I know. But still . . .”

  “He didn’t pick Zoë up when he should have,” Maxwell said sternly. “On not just one, but several occasions. He endangered her life with his reckless driving, and he caused her to get frostbite, which can cause permanent nerve damage! What kind of a father is he?”

  I lifted my head from the warm wood of the deck and saw Trish cluck and shake her head.

  “What?” Maxwell demanded.

  Trish said, “From what I hear, it was a big misunder-

  standing.”

  “What you hear!” Maxwell blurted. “He didn’t!”

  “I know, I know,” said Trish. “It’s just that this has all gotten blown out of proportion.”

  “Are you suggesting that he is a good father?”

  “No,” Trish said. “But didn’t you exaggerate the situation because you were certain we wouldn’t get custody of Zoë?”

  “I don’t care about any of that,” Maxwell said, waving her off. “He wasn’t good enough for Eve, and he’s not good enough for Zoë. And if he’s stupid enough to devote so much time to that car racing that he forgets about his own daughter, then I’m going to seize the moment. Zoë will have a better childhood with us. She will have a better moral raising, a better financial raising, a better family life, and you know it, Trish. You know it!”

  “I know, I know,” she said, and sipped her amber drink with the bright red cherry drowned at the bottom of the glass. “But he’s not a bad person.”

  He poured his drink down his gullet and slapped the glass down on the teak table.

  “It’s time to start dinner,” he said, and he went inside.

  I was stunned. I had been suspicious since the beginning. But to hear the words, the coldness in Maxwell’s tone. Imagine this. Imagine having your wife die suddenly of a brain cancer. Then imagine having her parents attack you mercilessly in order to gain custody of your daughter. Imagine that they exploit allegations of neglect against you. Then they hire very expensive and clever lawyers because they have much more money than you have. Imagine that they prevent you from having any contact with your six-year-old daughter for months on end. And imagine they restrict your ability to earn money to support yourself and, of course, as you hope, your daughter. How long would you last before your will was broken?

  They had no idea who they were dealing with. Denny would not kneel before them. He would never quit; he would never break.

  With disgust, I followed them into the house. Trish beg
an her preparations and Maxwell took his jar of peppers from the refrigerator; inside me, a darkness brewed. Contrivers. Manipulators. They were no longer people to me. They were now the Evil Twins. Evil, horrible people who stuffed themselves with burning hot peppers in order to fuel the fire in their stomachs. When they laughed, flames shot out of their noses. They were disgusting creatures.

  My anger with the Evil Twins fed my thirst for revenge. And I was not above using the tools of my dogness to exact justice. I presented myself to Maxwell as he stuffed another pepper into his mouth and chewed it with the fake teeth he removed at night. I sat before him. I lifted a paw.

  “Want a treat?” he asked me, clearly surprised by my gesture.

  I barked.

  “Here you go, boy.”

  He extracted a pepper from the bottle and held it before my nose. It was a very large one, long and artificially green and smelling of chemicals. The devil’s candy.

  “I don’t think those are good for dogs,” Trish said.

  “He likes them,” Maxwell countered.

  My first thought was to take the hot pepper and a couple of Maxwell’s fingers with it. But that would have caused real problems. I likely would have been put to sleep before Mike could return to save me, so I didn’t take his fingers. I did, however, take the pepper. I knew it was bad for me, that I would suffer immediate discomfort. But I knew my discomfort would pass, and I anticipated the unpleasant rebound effect, which is what I wanted. After all, I am just a stupid dog, unworthy of human scorn, without the brains to be responsible for my own bodily functions. A dumb dog.

  I observed their dinner carefully because I wanted to see for myself. The Twins served Zoë some kind of chicken covered in a creamy sauce. They didn’t know that while Zoë loved chicken cutlets, she never ate them with sauce, and certainly never with cream. When she didn’t eat the string beans they served, Trish asked if she would like a banana instead. Zoë said yes and Trish made some banana slices. Zoë barely picked at them because they were crudely sliced and speckled with brown spots, which she always avoided.

  And these agents of evil—these supposed grandparents!—thought Zoë would be better off with them! Bah! They didn’t spend a moment thinking about her welfare; after dinner, they didn’t even ask why she hadn’t eaten the bananas. They allowed her to leave the table having eaten almost nothing. Denny never would have allowed that. He would have prepared for her something she liked so she would continue to grow in a healthy way.

  All the while I watched, I seethed. And in my stomach, a foul brew steeped. When it was time to take me out that night, Maxwell opened the French door to the back deck and began his idiotic chanting: “Get busy, boy. Get busy.”

  I didn’t go outside. I looked up at him and I thought about what he was doing. How he was tearing our family apart for his own selfish purposes; I thought about how he and Trish were grossly inferior guardians for my Zoë. I crouched in my stance right there, inside the house, and I unleashed a massive, soupy, pungent pile of diarrhea on his beautiful, expensive, linen-colored Berber carpet.

  “What the hell?” he shouted at me. “Bad dog!”

  I turned and trotted cheerfully to Zoë’s room.

  “Get busy, boy,” I said as I left. But, of course, he couldn’t hear me.

  As I settled into my pile of stuffed animals, I heard Maxwell exclaim loudly and call for Trish to clean up my mess. I looked at the zebra, still perched on his throne of lifeless animal carcasses, and I growled at it very softly but very dangerously. And the demon knew. The demon knew not to mess with me that night.

  Not that night, or ever again.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Oh, a breath of September!

  The vacations were done. The lawyers were back at work. The courts were at full staff. The postponements were finished. The truth would be had! Denny left that morning wearing the only suit he owned, a crumpled khaki two-piece from Banana Republic, and a dark tie. He looked very good.

  “Mike will come by at lunch and take you for a walk,” he said to me. “I don’t know how long this will go.”

  Mike came and walked me briefly through the neighborhood so I wouldn’t be lonely. Then he left again. Later that afternoon, Denny returned. He smiled down at me.

  “Do I need to reintroduce you two?” he asked. And behind him was Zoë! I leapt into the air. I bounded. I knew it! I knew Denny would vanquish the Evil Twins! I felt like doing flips. Zoë had returned!

  It was an amazing afternoon. We played in the yard. We ran and laughed. We hugged and cuddled. We made dinner together and sat at our table and ate. It felt so good to be together again! After dinner, they ate ice cream in the kitchen.

  “Are you going back to Europe soon?” Zoë asked out of the blue.

  Denny froze in place. The story had worked so well, Zoë still believed it. He sat down across from her.

  “No, I’m not going back to Europe,” he said.

  Her face lit up. “Yay!” she cheered. “I can have my room back!”

  “Actually,” Denny said, “I’m afraid not yet.”

  Her forehead crinkled and her lips pursed as she attempted to puzzle out his statement. I was puzzled, too.

  “Why not?” she asked, finally, frustration in her voice. “I want to come home.”

  “I know, honey, but the lawyers and judges have to make the decision on where you’ll live. It’s part of what happens when someone’s mommy dies.”

  “Just tell them,” she demanded. “Just tell them that I’m coming home. I don’t want to live there anymore. I want to live with you and Enzo.”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that,” said Denny. “Someone said I did something very bad. And even though I know I didn’t do it, now I have to go to court and prove to everyone that I didn’t do it.”

  Zoë thought about it for a moment. “Was it Grandma and Grandpa?” she asked.

  I was very impressed with the laserlike accuracy of her inquiry.

  “Not—,” Denny started. “No. No, it wasn’t them. But . . . they know about it.”

  “I made them love me too much,” Zoë said softly, looking into her bowl of melted ice cream. “I should have been bad. I should have made them not want to keep me.”

  “No, honey, no,” Denny said, dismayed. “Don’t say that. You should shine with all of your light all the time. I’ll work this out. I promise I will.”

  Zoë shook her head without meeting his eyes. Sadly, she went into her bedroom to play with the animals she had left behind.

  Later in the evening, the doorbell rang. Denny answered it. Mark Fein was there.

  “It’s time,” he said.

  Denny nodded and called for Zoë.

  “This was a major victory for us, Dennis,” Mark said. “It means a lot. You understand that, right?”

  Denny nodded, but he was sad. Like Zoë.

  “Every other weekend, Friday after school until Sunday after dinner, she’s yours,” Mark said. “And every Wednesday, you pick her up after school and deliver her before eight o’clock, right?”

  “Right,” Denny said.

  Mark Fein looked at Denny for a long time without speaking.

  “I’m very proud of you,” he said, finally. “I don’t know what goes on in that head of yours, but you’re a real competitor.”

  Denny breathed in deeply. “That’s what I am,” he agreed.

  And Mark Fein took Zoë away.

  As it was, we had taken only our first step. Denny had won visitation rights. But Zoë was still in the custody of the Evil Twins. Denny was still on trial for a charge he didn’t deserve. Nothing had been solved.

  And yet. I had seen them together. I had seen them look at each other and giggle with relief. Which reaffirmed my faith in the balance of the universe. And while I understood that we had merely successfully navigated the first turn of a very long race, I felt that things looked good for us. Denny was not one to make mistakes. And with fresh tires and a full load of fuel, he
would prove a tough foe to anyone challenging him.

  Chapter Forty

  How quickly.

  How quickly a year passes, like a mouthful of food snatched from the jaws of eternity. How quickly.

  With little drama, the months slipped by, one by one, until another fall lay before us. And still, almost nothing had changed. Back and forth, round and round, the lawyers danced and played their game. It was merely a game to them. But not to us.

  Denny took Zoë on schedule, every other weekend, every Wednesday afternoon. He took her to places of cultural enrichment. Art museums. Science exhibits. The zoo and the aquarium. He taught her things. And sometimes, on secret missions, he took us to the go-karts.

  Ah. The electric karts. She was just big enough to fit when he took her. And she was good. She knew the karts immediately, as if she had been born to them. She was quick.

  How quickly.

  With little instruction, she climbed behind the wheel. She tucked her golden hair into a helmet, buckled her harness, and was off. No fear. No hesitation. No waiting.

  “You ever race against her?” the worker boy asked Denny after her very first session.

  “Nope,” Denny replied.

  “’Cause she could kick your butt,” the kid said.

  “I doubt it.” Denny laughed.

  “So take a session,” the kid said. “She wins, you pay. You win, you don’t pay.”

  “You’re on,” Denny said, grabbing a helmet from the rack of helmets that people can borrow—he hadn’t bothered to bring his own.

  They started their race, a flying start, with Denny giving Zoë a bit of an edge, taking it easy on her. For several laps he dogged her, stayed on her back tires, let her know he was there. Then he tried to pass her. And she wouldn’t let him by.

  She “slammed the door” on him.

  He tried again to pass. She slammed the door.

  Again. Same result. It was like she knew where he was at every moment. In a kart with no mirrors. Wearing a helmet that allowed no side vision. She felt him. She knew. When he made his moves, she shut him down. Every single time.