Crown and Anchor Series: Book 1-4

by Kerri Ann

  WYATT

  Today is D-day for me.

  Today is Dad’s funeral. Dad’s final ride into the Brickyard.

  We flew out on the family jet around seven this morning, and arrived at the hotel in Indianapolis with a few hours to settle in beforehand, and now as we proceed on the route, I’m doing my best to ignore my mother. Giving Dad the peace he deserved from us in death is my gift.

  We, the family, will ride along the path in a set of black limousines, sporting white crowns on the sides, the symbol of Crown Industries.

  Riding through the slow procession, that has been snaking its way around the Indianapolis streets, we enter the tunnel for the infield of the Indianapolis Raceway. I don’t miss the noise of the crowd. We all grew up on this track and others just like it, listening to the roar of the fans.

  This, though, is a sight. Nowhere in the world could you find this. It was one thing to know the venue was sold out and that the roadways were packed to the hilt with every type of person imaginable, but to see the paddocks with flags flying low, purposely jammed up with Indy cars, Le Mans and NASCAR racers, the feeling is immeasurable. This is a receiving line unlike any other.

  Each of these racers are the same. Sure, they may ride or drive different beasts, but oil permeates their skin. Octane enriches their pounding hearts, as the steel steeds roam the hallowed paved roadway, all chomping at the bit to proceed. Speed pushed them all forward like a snapped rubber band, but passion is what engages their souls. Every one of them are different, but all are of the same mind. Dad died doing what he loved.

  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t wish to go down in flames, but I do wish to be a part of what he embodied. I told Mother that I wanted this just as much as him, which incited a new fight. Doll and Whiskey were able to separate us enough to calm it before things escalated too far, because to me, there was no way we weren’t going to do this. Nothing would stop me from graciously accepting their praises and their love. The unusual and unconventional condolences on behalf of a Dad I loved. All the stories they had about him as the racer, and as their friend, would be something I’d treasure for years to come.

  I’d always dreamt of going around the stadium on a two-wheeled devil, banking and cornering while I scraped my knees on the edges of mechanical ghosts. But, today isn’t about me. I may have wanted the applause, and the congratulatory pat on the back from my father to say ‘you made it, Wyatt,’ but that’s a pipe dream of epic proportions.

  It’s truly amazing, the care and love being shown here, and I only wish for a fraction of this adoration when I leave this world. My father won’t be here when I wake up from this dream. He’ll never see me do what I do again, and never offer praises to Doll again. That’s my job now. And as I take one last look around before pushing my heart deep inside, drowning the emotions that seep to the surface so I can make it through today in one piece, I feel excitement.

  “You all know my stance on this,” Mother says tightly. She wants us to stay in the car, ignoring the fans until it was absolutely necessary, forgetting that this is even happening. But we won’t. We can’t.

  My brother, Whiskey, known for speaking his mind, crassly pipes up. “No need to be nice, Mother. We all know your stance. We know you don’t wish to be a part of this.”

  Truer words have never been spoken. Glancing at Doll, I notice she’s trying to ignore the whole interaction. She has zero choice in any of this. Age once more dictates her involvement, and after the stunt of coming to get me in India, Mother is being horrible to her. She only has a few more months before she can decide her own fate, making her own way in the world of Crown racing. It will be her choice.

  “If you want, stroll out looking heartfelt and warmed-over by their shows of affection. Accept the fan’s gratitude, Mother, or do nothing. You owe them nothing, and you have no words of wisdom from father to impart. I, myself, will graciously accept the love from the fans, racers, and team members that he’s lived with for years as his other family. Embrace it or hide from it, it’s your choice.” Popping the door, stepping out of the stationary car, my sister and brother join me. We won’t go through this without being a part of it.

  Immediately to my left is a group of racers I know well. The one closest is Carior, the French Porsche driver, and beside him is Taratallo in his Chevrolet. Directly across is Magnota. His face shows weariness, stress, and loss. Walking up slowly with purpose, the group of normally loud racers grows still.

  “Hey, Carlos. How you doing today?”

  Staring at the ground, clearly afraid, he lets out a light breath. “I’m good, kid. How you doin’? You all right with me on the track during this? ’Cause I can step back, but I—”

  “Yeah. You two were close. He’d want you here.” Tapping him on the shoulder, I confirm, “I want you here.”

  He relaxes a bit. “Thanks, kid. I’m glad.”

  “There’s a lot of rides here. Mind if I ride with you?”

  Adjusting his stance, seeming a little prouder, he smiles. “I’d be honored.”

  I turn to see my brother and sister, waiting just behind me. “You good to meet me at the front when Mom comes around?” I need to be here. Carlos needs me to be here, accepting his apology.

  “Doll’s riding with Dad’s carriage, and I’m gonna walk up to the finish.”

  “Whiskey, come on. Dad would—”

  “Understand my need to avoid her for as long as I can. I’ll be up there, kid. When it’s time, I’ll be there. Enjoy your ride.” Whiskey’s gravelly voice brokers no room for argument. He’s been on his own, away from her prying and involvement for over ten years now. Being in her presence this week, living in the house, enduring her quirks again must have been stressful without us as a buffer. But, it’s only been one week. After today, he’s on a flight to New Zealand for powder and training.

  After I’m left alone, I look around at the group I’m in. Each approach me, or Doll, with unusual and unconventional condolences on behalf of Dad.

  Turning back to Carlos and his ride, I take it all in, absorbing the reality of it. His Indy car, of course, can’t lap the track with a passenger, so after a bit of persuasion, and a request made to the officiates, we were offered the use of another set of wheels.

  As the various men and women prepare for the run around the track, I settle into the idea that this is the first and only time I would be going around this track in a car. It’s staggering to have it all come soaking into my bones at the same moment, and yes, Mother may not have wanted to be an integral part of this event, but I was chomping at the bit to give Dad his due. That final moment in the sun, as it were, before the stone is placed over his feathered ashes.

  The day is spectacular, the weather is perfect, and the venue is superb. The sounds of the milling crowd are still sensational, but now that they know the procession will form up on the track with cars and drivers alike, they’ve quieted considerably.

  “Ready?” Carlos asks, more frightened of my reply than that of the consenting audience.

  I nod. “Yep.”

  Without pomp and circumstance, the Pacemaster official gives the cue to all those in attendance.

  “Gentlemen, start your engines!”

  WYATT

  Within moments, the sounds of the murmuring voices go from a low volume radio channel to that of dead air. All those within the building hush, as if muted, seeing us at the vehicles. As I turn towards my cohorts, seeing the same look and silent demeanor, all the varied cars roar to life. The whines of turbos, superchargers, and the pulse pounding drone of the exhausts dumping from the row of awaiting metal create an amazing symphony.

  The Pacemaster steps to the side of the chariots. One by one, each shifts forward. Some slowly creep, while others bump to life across the sticky tar as they are given a quick shove forward by helpful hands.

  Slowly and methodically, pacing each other like pallbearers, we dance around the hallowed halls.

  Rounding turn three, fitting into the straighta
way like brightly colored crayons in a box—flashy and varied in color, advancing upon the final turn—we come upon the end of the promenade. Coming up on that fateful spot on the track, I can see the makeshift memorial that had been erected on the seating. Balloons, flowers, bottles of beer, and little toy cars litter the spot in the stands where no one dares venture. He was truly loved by the fans, and this was fitting. To end it this way was proper, no matter who disagreed. I’m not ready to stop. Knowing that once I step out of the car, it’s done. It’s final.

  As each engine shuts down, the odd noise here and there can be heard within the stadium, but it’s serene and solemn overall. To say a pin drop could be heard is not far from the truth.

  Taking a moment to compose myself after Carlos parks the pace car, I knew after I exited the car it was definitive. My dad was not coming back from this turn; this wreck was his last.

  Standing in the blistering sun, watching as the carriage approaches, I feel the need to touch it, to give him a final farewell that is mine and mine alone. My moment of reflection, I guess, but necessary. As his white crown-emblazoned carriage pulls up, I give myself closure, just like everyone in attendance, because this is their time too.

  Touching the heated wood, placing my hand directly over the family crest, I choke back the tears threatening to spill. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more for you.”

  Stepping back from the carriage, the driver slowly pulls away to the specified position on the track, lining up for the best view for the presentation.

  Walking over to rejoin my family, we’re silent and contained, just as Mother had asked. It’s not for her that we do it. We do this for him; for us.

  Mother had requested a Catholic priest to officiate the interment. Standing in all his finery—a white frock, with black sashes that accentuate his diminutive stature. Father Michael O’Leary’s fat, stout, balding, sweaty form reeks of the sacraments that I’m sure he’s partaken.

  Reciting the blessing and prepared scriptures in a monotone voice, he moves through the motions without emotion. It takes a good twenty minutes before I realize I’ve zoned out to his incessant droning. The man sounds like a pre-recorded book on tape with no inflections, no carefully drawn-out pauses for effect; just a speech about someone he never knew. My thoughts aren’t here. They’re off to the next moment when I can leave. This show is pulling every thread of sanity I have left as thousands of eyes are upon me.

  Looking at the small box in my mother’s arms, I’m unsure of how something so small can hold the contents of someone who was so enormous. Dad was by no means a small man—six foot plus and over two hundred pounds of solid muscle—but it was his aura and larger than life personality. How does all that crumble down to a mere bag of soot?

  Watching the soaked priest approach, he opens the onyx box and peels the small bag out before moving to settle my father in his last pole position. Two bricks in the track have been lifted for this purpose, and yes, it’s right he’s here, but I feel deep in my soul that there’s something more needed. That he deserved more from us.

  “Wait,” I say. Halting with a look of incredulous wonder, I move to take the bag from the paunch clergyman before the error is made. "It should be us, not you, to do this."

  Stepping forward questioningly, Mother ponders my motives. “Wyatt?”

  “It should be us. Someone who knew him and understood the love for the track, not a priest who's only job is to be paid.” Even though she’s warring with it, being in public, I know she won’t disagree.

  With a nod from her, the priest reluctantly gives up the satchel as instructed. Taking it in hand, it feels heavy. Not weighty, but more as in a deep responsibility. Looking to China and Jamieson, pleading with my eyes, I want them with me, taking this burden together. Wordlessly, and without a thought, China moves from beside Mother, as Jamieson steps forward to stand with me. We’re flanking each other in a move that could probably be the last time. With Whiskey’s hand on my shoulder, Doll’s tears finally fall down her perfect face. Taking a deep breath, we bend down to place Dad to rest in the hollow space, dusty from years of rubber tires skimming across the bricks. The soot of engine grease and the charred remains of other cars that hadn’t quite crossed in pristine shape is perfect. He should be here for eternity.

  Carefully placing the velveteen black and white bag into the notched-out area, I pick up the brick that will be tamped back into place. Kissing it lightly, lifting the brick up, Jamieson and China do the same. It’s a light touch of the lips, but each of us smile, knowing we’ve done right by him.

  Replacing the brick, we rise from the ground and stand back. Between my two kindred spirits, the three of us watch as the track official taps the brick back into its place, sealing Dad in.

  This was the right way. This is the way I would want to go. This is the way that it should have been all along. No fighting, no bickering, no judgements, or injunctions, just the family, the fans, and heartfelt love expressed in its truest form.

  The priest finishes his diatribe as we wait stoically, then everyone piles back into cars, heading out of the arena before the masses exit the stadium. Now, our lives will go back to races, hills, parties, and ignoring each other as if we don’t exist.

  Well, for some of us that will happen.

  For me? Everything changes.

  WYATT

  Mother asked that we have dinner in town before everyone departed for our own corners of the world. Preparing myself for it, I know what the conversation will be about. Of course, I agreed, because in all honesty, I couldn’t deny that it was something Dad would want us to do. Am I happy about it, or decidedly scared to be with her with no buffer? No. Food and sedatives. What could be more fun?

  The ride over was probably the best part of the whole experience. I was alone in my car with no one there to bicker, taunt, or poke. Knowing these times will be few and far between, as my life is about to transform into a complete shit-show, I accepted, reluctantly.

  Decidedly, neither Doll, nor I, have any races planned in the near future. We talked on the flight home, and both of us figured it was just respectful to Dad, at least for a week or two.

  Whiskey didn’t give so much as a fucking day’s grace. He’s leaving tomorrow morning to attend a race in New Zealand that, in his words, would wait for no one. It’s a World Cup race that would put him in the standings for next season’s X-Games in Colorado, and I can’t really deny him because it’s something I would do too.

  Walking into the venue, there’s not a soul in sight. I see that mother has had it closed for a private affair, which is for the best. A fight in public wouldn’t be what Dad would want of us.

  “Wyatt, over here,” Doll calls out, wide-eyed, and visibly asking for assistance. Approaching, I see Mother sitting demurely with a scowl firmly in place, stretching into a fake smile as her teeth grind together.

  Smiling tightly before taking a seat across from her, I acknowledge them all. “Mother, China, Jamieson,” I greet, kissing each of Doll’s cheeks.

  She doesn’t understand why we needed today more than she did; she never has. Doll, Dad, Whiskey, and me, we’re all the same to her—daredevils, looking for the next thrill, the next chance to cheat death.

  Fuck.

  We have a need that’s deep within us. It’s a rush to cheat death every time we step on or into our vehicle of choice. Dad didn’t win his game with the cloaked figure, but he did everything he loved up until the moment of his death. That’s really what living is about, anyway. We’re not standing by, waiting for the Reaper to appear. We’re living every moment as if it’s the only one we have. We push it harder than she could ever imagine, and it scares her because we live outside the box.

  Dinner, being exactly as I’d expected, was tense. I felt bad for the wait staff as they walked on eggshells around us. Putting the Crown family in one room, stuck with each other’s silent company was deafening. We never really had things to speak about when Dad wasn’t around; he was the glue, and I do
ubt we’ll speak much now after parting ways tonight.

  Interrupting the quiet, Mother speaks. “As we all settle in for a nice meal, I’d like to give a toast to your father.” Raising her glass, we each do the same. “To Jaxon. To the love of my life, the father that you all adored, and to the man who touched so many. I didn’t want the spectacle today, but you each helped to make it a beautiful day for him. Thank you.”

  Wow, I’m shocked. Looking at my brother and sister, we’re all just as stunned as we clink glasses to the nicest toast imaginable, especially coming from her.

  Placing my drink down, I begin eating my meal. But, Mother is not quite finished. “We will need to speak about your father’s will shortly, Wyatt. Jamieson, I expect you to travel back for that day, no excuses. I will converse with your Aunt Janie to confirm there will be no conflicts in your scheduling. China, I expect your team to also adhere to these needs.” Cutting into her mackerel, I wait for what I know is inevitable.

  Taking a small portion onto her fork, she goes in. “Wyatt, you will begin adjusting your schedule and correcting your position—”

  “Mother, I understand what you wish, but I will be fighting this.” I feel the steam rising in my soul. I never wanted this. This was always her dream for my future. Day in and day out, I’ve fought and railed against it. I’ve pushed back as much as possible, to no avail.

  Gently setting her utensils on the plate, she turns and gives me a look I know so well. A fight is about to ensue, and it’s the last thing I wish for today of all days. “Wyatt Jaxson Crown, you will do as commanded by your father and I.” She turns back to her food, as if I’ve agreed. “I will give you the weeks leading up to the adjudicated date, but after that, there will be nothing more to the matter.”

  Knowing where this is going, Whiskey doesn’t pipe up at all. There’s no disagreement, no pushing the subject, and no way to win.