St. Dale

Chapter XVIII

Daytona International Speedway

Matthew lay back in the seat and closed his eyes. He was tired of the Game Boy, and the south Georgia scenery was monotonous. There were no palm trees, just plain old pines, and long flat fields full of some kind of crop, tobacco or peanuts, or something. It was a couple of hundred miles from the Atlanta Motor Speedway to Daytona, and as far as he could tell, there was nothing much worth paying attention to in between. He was tired, anyhow. He didn’t feel like reading or talking, either. The motion of the bus started him thinking about little Madison Laprade, back at the children’s home, and what a weird experience it was to ride with her. She wasn’t really a friend or anything. She was only four, but she had big space alien eyes and limp blonde hair, and she never, ever smiled. A few months back, he and Madison had been taken for their dental appointments on the same morning. Madison hardly ever spoke to anybody. Nick said that she’d been taken away from her folks, because they did terrible things to her, so it wasn’t surprising that she was a little strange. So Miss Salten started driving them into town, and after a minute or so, Madison, sitting beside him in the backseat, said, “Bump.” Very softly. Just one word. Bump. He turned to ask her what she meant, but before he could pose the question, the car went over the railroad tracks. “Bump.” Sure enough, all the way into town, Madison would whisper an announcement of every turn, every curve, every rough spot in the road. She never missed. Matthew thought about it, and he decided that she’d memorized the road because she didn’t like surprises of any kind. She watched everything all the time, remembered everything, because she’d always had to watch all around her for danger, and try to figure out who was going to hurt her and when. Now the danger had been taken away, but she couldn’t stop watching. Matthew felt sorry for the kid, and he thought about sending her a postcard, but she’d only have to get somebody to read it to her, and then she’d have to memorize it. He didn’t want to put her to the trouble. He wondered if being on his own was going to turn him funny, too. He could already feel himself beginning to watch grown-ups with clinical interest, to see who felt like talking and who didn’t feel uncomfortable around kids. Perhaps it wouldn’t be long before he was sizing people up to see who might buy him a candy bar or a toy in the gift shop. Nick said that sooner or later everybody learned what they had to in order to get by. Bump.

It had been Justine’s idea for everyone to change seats, because as she explained, “If Bekasu has to listen to me for much longer, she’ll probably strangle me. And you two-” She pointed to Shane and Karen. “You have the rest of your lives to be together, so why don’t you take some time off for a couple of hours? And Mr. Reeve-you and Mr. Franklin need to stop sitting together before folks start thinking y’all are a couple.”

With no apparent logic, she proceeded to play musical chairs with the passengers-“It’s just like a dinner party!”-pairing Cayle with Mr. Reeve, Bekasu with Jim Powell, Sarah Nash with Shane, Karen McKee with Terence Palmer, Jesse Franklin with Arlene Powell, Bill Knight with herself, and she sent Matthew up to the front to talk racing with Harley.

If anyone objected to these assignments, they decided that putting up with the change was easier than arguing with Justine.

Shane McKee looked doubtfully at the elegant older woman, thinking that if he had to sit beside her, he was glad it was at a time when which fork to use would not be an issue.

But Sarah Nash’s decades of wine-and-cheese parties had served her well. Somehow, she seemed to ask the questions that Shane knew the answers to, and then she told him about the flock of ducks on her farm-the Fonty Flock, she called them, and each one was named after a NASCAR driver. “Unfortunately Todd Bodine turned out to be a lady duck,” she said. “So now I call her Mary Todd Bodine.”

Shane laughed. “Do you know about the goat with the number three marking on its side? I was hoping to see it, but the tour isn’t going there.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it. It’s not too far from my husband’s place.” Seeing his wary look, she added, “Long story, which I don’t propose to go into.”

Shane was still thinking about the Fonty Flock. “Aren’t you worried about foxes or coyotes getting your ducks out there at the pond?”

“Well, we pen them up at night. And I’ve got a great big, loud goose, at least twice the size of the ducks, to act as their bodyguard.”

Shane smiled. “What’s his name?”

Sarah Nash glanced around to make sure that Harley wasn’t listening. Then she leaned over and whispered, “Darrell.”

He laughed. “I’d like to see him.”

“Well, you and Karen are welcome to come over sometime. You live over in east Tennessee, don’t you?”

“Near Johnson City,” said Shane. “I work as a mechanic there.”

“Well, that’ll come in handy,” said Sarah. “All I know about car repair is how much everything costs to fix. How about Karen? What does she do?”

“She’s been waitressing while we were going to school, but she didn’t like it much. I don’t know what she wants to do now.”

“And what do you want to do? Your goal in life, I suppose I mean.”

Shane didn’t have to think about it. “The show,” he said. “Get a job with a NASCAR team, but it isn’t easy.”

“No. The old way would be to have kinfolks in the business. The Elliotts, the Earnhardts, and the Pettys all went racing with relatives in their pit crews. The new way is to get an automotive degree.” She smiled. “I guess it’s too late for you to marry a Shelmerdine.”

“Getting an engineering degree wouldn’t be any harder.”

Sarah Nash considered it. “Well, Shane, my husband Richard is on the board of directors at a place that might interest you. Maybe what you need is a pass in the grass.”

Cayle Warrenby gave Ray Reeve a bright smile, and cast about for some topic other than Dale Earnhardt. “I was checking my e-mail last night, and one of the engineers from my company had sent me one of those redneck quizzes. They know I hate those things.”

Ray Reeve grunted. “In Nebraska we get pretty sick of hearing about the heartland, too,” he said. “The Flyover Zone crap.”

“But the quiz did have one interesting question, I thought,” said Cayle. “‘Which of these cars will rust out the quickest when placed on blocks in your front yard? A ’65 Ford Fairlane, a ’69 Chevrolet Chevelle, or a ’64 Pontiac GTO.’ I’m an environmental engineer, so of course I wondered if there’s a way to determine the answer.”

Ray Reeve considered it. “Don’t bet on the Fairlane,” he said. “They’re duller than ditchwater to look at, but they didn’t call them sixties iron for nothing.”

Jim Powell, who had overheard this exchange, said, “What year’s Fairlane? ’65? Okay. Wasn’t that the fourth year they used that same structure?”

“Different sheet metal from the roof down, though,” said Ray Reeve. “But I take your point. The Ford folks must have got the hang of making ’em by then.”

“I never did see many of them rusting in junkyards,” said Jim Powell. “And it’s not like anybody would bother to rescue one.”

“So not the Fairlane,” said Cayle. “Okay, y’all agree on that?”

They nodded.

“Me, too. So that leaves the ’64 GTO and the ’69 Chevelle.” She considered it. “Both GM A-bodies.”

“Yeah, but not the same,” said Ray Reeve. “Remember they designed a new from-the-ground-up A-body in 1968 for all GM intermediates, which included the Chevelle.”

“And the Skylark, the Olds Cutlass, and the Pontiac Tempest,” said Cayle, nodding. “We had a burgundy Cutlass when I was a kid. Well, my dad had it, but the rest of us got to ride to church in it.”

“That’s an awful lot of makes and models,” said Jim Powell. “And then the government started throwing all those safety regulations and pollution controls at the manufacturers, so maybe things began to slip a little at the factory.”

“So which rusts first? The Chevelle?”

Jim Powell and Ray Reeve looked at each other and nodded. “In a junkyard? Chevy first,” said Ray Reeve. “I can see it. There’d be some rust at the base of the back window. It’s a steeper angle, so the water would collect there, and after the water took hold in there, more water coming in would rust the rocker panels and the lower rear fenders.”

Jim Powell gave him a thumbs-up. “The GTO would be the next to rust out. In a junkyard.” He smiled. “Unless-”

“Unless a car buff chances upon them and decides to rescue one,” said Cayle, grinning. “And he sure wouldn’t pick the Fairlane. He’d save the GTO, I think.”

“Would, if he had any sense,” said Ray Reeve.

After a moment’s silence Jim Powell said, “Didn’t know you knew so much about cars.”

Cayle laughed. “Doesn’t my name tell you?” she said. “I was daddy’s ‘boy.’ I used to toddle around the garage after him and my uncles, learning car talk. Can’t fix ’em, though.”

Jim Powell sighed. “I couldn’t even teach our Jean how to drive a stick shift.”

“Cayle,” said Ray Reeve thoughtfully. “Cale Yarborough. He was all right. If he was still around I might root for him. But he’s not Dale.”

“I know how you feel,” said Jim. “Nobody was hit any harder than we were when Dale was taken, and Arlene spent last season crying through damn near every race, but you know, like I told her, I don’t think he’d want you to give up the sport for him. He wasn’t into giving up, was he?”

“I wonder which one of those cars Ralph Earnhardt would have salvaged?” said Cayle.

The three of them spent another hundred miles rehashing memories of sixties’ iron, and when Cayle drifted off to sleep Jesse Franklin was telling Ray Reeve a war story about a soldier’s wife named Dora Jean who was afraid her husband’s ship would sink in the harbor when it came home to port, so she had an affair with the captain of the minesweeper.

“How are you liking the tour?” said Terence politely to his new seatmate.

Karen sighed. “I wanted to go to the beach,” she said. But she was too worried to make small talk. With a tentative smile she said in her smallest voice, “I need to ask you a question. I mean, since you’re a guy. I need some advice. Before we get to Daytona.”

Terence Palmer closed his magazine with no apparent enthusiasm. “I hope it’s about your stock portfolio,” he murmured.

“No.” She glanced around to make sure that no one was listening. “But it is kind of an ethical question.”

Terence blinked with alarm. “Why ask me then? There’s a minister on board.”

Karen wrinkled her nose. “He’s nice, but he has to be older than Mark Martin. You’re the only guy on this bus who’s anywhere near Shane’s age.”

Terence turned away, rattling his magazine. “I can’t help you.”

“Well, you could listen,” said Karen. “You don’t have anything better to do. Maybe it would help me just to talk about it.”

Terence closed his eyes and sighed deeply, which was what his family did instead of shouting and throwing plates, but meant the same thing. “All right,” he said. “Talk about it.”

“Okay, suppose you tell somebody a lie because you love them and you don’t want them to feel bad, but now you think they might find out the truth and be mad at you for keeping it from them.”

“Okay,” said Terence.

“Oh, good, so you think it’s all right?”

“No. I thought you just wanted to think out loud. Now you’re asking me to say what I think?” His eyes drifted back to the open magazine.

Karen snatched his copy of Fortune and stuffed it into the seat pocket.

Terence reached for the magazine, but he succeeded only in pulling out the letter that had been the bookmark in Karen’s book about the Irish princess. He opened it before she could snatch it back.

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention that to anybody,” she said. “Especially Shane.”

“Why would I?”

“Well, you might not realize it was a secret. He doesn’t know. Listen, I need some help here. I’ve only been married six days, and I’m afraid I’ve ruined things already. Or I will have, when Shane finds out.”

“About the letter?”

She shook her head. “Something else.”

“Something else? What-no-don’t tell me. Doesn’t matter. You sound like my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“It’s the sort of thing she’d do. One year-I think I was nine or ten-they sent me off to camp for two weeks, and I had a pet hamster. I wasn’t allowed to have a messy cat or a smelly dog.” He did a passable imitation of his mother’s Tidewater Brahmin accent. “The only reason I had the hamster was that we’d had it in the classroom at school, and the teacher asked for a volunteer to take it home over the summer. So every day from camp I called home to ask about Chip, the hamster, and Mother always said he was fine. Was she feeding him? I’d ask. Giving him a little lettuce or a peanut? Oh, yes, all taken care of. So-two weeks later I get home from camp-”

“And the hamster is dead?”

“Gone, anyway,” said Terence. “I don’t know if she let it go, gave it away, or forgot to feed it. Anyhow, it was gone. The cage was gone. Like it had never happened. And when I started to cry, she said, ‘I did it for your own good, dear. You really didn’t need any bad news to make you sad while you were at camp.’” He shrugged. “You know how that made me feel?”

Karen shook her head.

“Enraged, of course. But insulted, too. Who was she to decide what I was capable of handling? Who was she to lie to me and then expect me to be grateful?”

She studied him for a moment. This was the longest speech she’d ever heard Terence make. His voice shook with anger. “You’re still mad about that hamster after all these years, aren’t you?” she said.

He shrugged. “I don’t think about it.”

“But you wish she’d told you the truth, even if it hurt you at the time?”

“Look, don’t try to solve your problem based on a dead hamster. I don’t know what you did or how upset Shane would be about it, so my advice would be useless.”

Karen leaned over and whispered a few words into his ear.

Terence’s eyes widened. “You told him what? You’d never get away with that.”

“If he ever heard any different, it didn’t sink in. It’s what he wanted to hear.”

“Well, if it matters that much to him, I hope I’m not around when he finds out,” said Terence.

Karen, looking shaken, went back to her novel about the princess of Ireland. She didn’t notice Terence staring at the book cover, lost in thought.

Harley thought there was something a little depressing about entering Florida via the Interstate. Maybe it was all the tourist-trap exits, luring motorists to buy fresh oranges or come and see the real fifteen-foot alligator (deceased and leathery, displayed on a ledge surrounded by knickknacks and more oranges). It made him want to get away from there as fast as he could. He could forgive some drivers for hoping that the “95” signs posted along the way meant the speed limit.

Daytona International Speedway was within sight of I-95, at least from the overpass at the U.S. 92 exit. International Speedway Boulevard was as urban a setting as you could imagine for a noisy, traffic-spawning speedway. A Holiday Inn and a Hilton stood across the road, and the sprawling Volusia Mall took up much of the next block. Harley had a spiel written out on yellow index cards: the Daytona 500 is the Superbowl of NASCAR, the first Cup race of the season; the highest paying win and the event that makes you a celebrity. (In these days of David Letterman and Good Morning, America, anyhow, he reminded himself. Sorry, Bodine.) A 2.5 mile super speedway, restrictor-plate track…Daytona is where NASCAR began, back in the forties when drivers raced along the hard-packed sandy beaches, racing tide as well as time. Harley nearly had the hang of this lecture business now, and he thought he could do a good twenty minutes of Daytona stories without too many slipups, but nobody wanted to hear it. Not the folks on this bus.

Oh, maybe Bill Knight would have been all courteous attention, because he would be anyway, even if the lecture was on Sanskrit…in Sanskrit. But the folks who really cared about Daytona probably knew the note card trivia as well as he did and, judging from their expressions at the moment, they didn’t give a damn about any of it.

Maybe someday the excitement would return, and the thrill of Speed Week would matter again, but right now, row upon row of somber faces said it all. This was where he died. Just now, for Earnhardt’s supporters, a visit to Daytona evoked not the excitement of seeing, say, Yankee Stadium, but the somber reflection one might feel at the USS Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor.

“Park anywhere in the front lot, Ratty,” said Harley. “You know where we’re going first.”

As he turned into the parking lot, Ratty looked over the facade of the Speedway with its adjoining museums, and then he saw what Harley was talking about. “Right,” he said. “I’ll get as close as I can.”

The solemn little group assembled on the sidewalk a few yards from the entrance to the building labeled “Daytona USA.” Beside the white building was a raised flower bed encircled by a knee-high white cement wall. In the center of the circular garden stood Dale Earnhardt on a bronze pedestal, trophy in one hand, and the other arm upraised in a gesture of triumph.

There he was. So many hundred miles they’d come, all the way from Bristol, where he’d won his first race back in ’79, to here, where it all ended twenty-two years later. But the moment frozen in time in that bronze statue was a happier one: February 15, 1998, the day he finally won the big one.

“That’s the Harley Earl Trophy,” said Harley. “My dad had high hopes, I guess, naming me that. Anyhow, that’s what you get when you win the Daytona 500.”

“It was the only race he won that year,” said Jim Powell, nodding to the man in bronze.

“I’ll bet he didn’t care,” said Sarah Nash with a fond smile. “It took him so long to finally win this race, I’ll bet he felt like getting dipped in bronze right on the spot, so that he’d never have to put that trophy down.”

“This is where we ought to put the wreath,” said Cayle.

“That’s what we decided,” said Harley. “But I thought we’d look around first. We’re taking the tour of the Speedway here. They put you on a little tram and drive you around the track. There’s so much history connected with this place we couldn’t cover it in a week. Who won the first Daytona 500?”

“Petty!” said Cayle.

“Lee Petty,” Jim Powell corrected her. “That was the year after young Richard started racing.”

“Okay, that was a hard one. Now for the younger crowd,” said Harley, putting a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “Who won the last Daytona 500, back in February?”

“Ward Burton,” said Matthew.

Shane shook his head. “Sorry, Matthew,” he said. “It was Little E. Last year Mike Waltrip, and this year Dale Junior.” He looked around for confirmation, but no one met his eyes, except Karen whose stricken look puzzled him. “What?”

“Sorry, Shane,” said Harley, sounding puzzled. “Matthew’s right. Little E. won the July race here in 2001. I expect that’s the race you were thinking of, but Ward Burton did win the 2002 Daytona 500.”

“No! He couldn’t have!” Shane reddened at the looks of pity and confusion on the faces of the others. Were they teasing him? It wasn’t funny. “Junior won,” he said again. “It’s part of the miracle.”

Bill Knight patted Karen’s arm. As soon as he’d heard the name “Ward Burton,” he had remembered his conversation with Pvt. Alvarez back at DEI and he had known what was coming.

“What miracle?” said Jim Powell.

“Overcoming the curse. You know how the Intimidator tried twenty times to win this race and lost from ’79 to ’97, right?”

Nods from the Number Three Pilgrims.

“Ran out of gas. Cut a tire. Hit a seagull, for God’s sake. And then the little girl in the wheelchair gave him the lucky penny in ’98 and he won the race.”

“And he lived three years and three days after that,” said Bill. “We know, Shane.”

“Okay, but since he died he hasn’t lost the Daytona500. Because the drivers of his company DEI have won every year. And they’ll win next year, too. Three times. That’s the miracle.”

A bewildered Jesse Franklin stared at Shane for a moment, as if waiting for a punch line or for someone else to speak up. When no one did, he said, “But, hold on there, son. Ward Burton doesn’t drive for DEI.”

“Ward Burton didn’t win!” Shane said it so loudly that passersby turned to stare at them.

The others looked at him in awkward silence.

Then Justine said gently, “You didn’t see the race, did you?”

He blinked. “Of course, I…well…I…”

Karen was shaking her head. “You made it through the first couple of laps, I think, Shane. Until they showed Kevin Harvick’s car up close, anyhow. The Goodwrench logo. Remember? And then you walked out of the den, saying you couldn’t stand to watch it. You went off to the garage and you spent the rest of the afternoon tuning up my mom’s car, which it did not need. And later you made me tell you who won.”

“That’s right. And you said Junior won it.”

“I know, Shane,” she murmured. “I know I said it. It just wasn’t true, that’s all. But you were so sure that the miracle was going to happen…” Her voice quavered. “I couldn’t tell you any different. I’ll bet half a dozen times since then people have mentioned that Ward Burton won. We even saw a program on television where they said it, but it seemed like it just went right over your head. You didn’t want to be wrong, Shane.”

He stood there, fists clenched, taking heaving breaths, while the other passengers stood in embarrassed silence, contriving to look elsewhere. Karen looked as if she might burst into tears at any second.

The seconds ticked by while they glanced at each other, wondering whether to try to comfort the young man or to pretend it hadn’t happened.

“You got the wrong miracle, man,” Terence Palmer said at last. He stepped up beside Harley, concerned but not distressed by the public scene playing out before him. He managed a reassuring smile at Shane. “The first miracle was Kevin Harvick.”

Distracted now, Shane simply stared at him. “Huh?”

Terence nodded, and went on in the earnest voice he might have used to discuss mutual funds. “Look, after the Intimidator was killed in the 2001 Daytona 500, his Goodwrench car went to Kevin Harvick, right? And it was Harvick who won the 3rd race after Daytona that year. There’s your number three, Shane. The third race A.D. That made it the fourth race of the season. What’s Harvick’s number, Shane?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Right. Okay, in that race at Hampton, Harvick started in the fifth position. But he came in first. Fourth race. Twenty-nine car. Starts fifth, finishes first.”

“So?” Shane was no longer angry, just confused.

“What was Earnhardt’s birthday, Shane?”

“April 29, 1951,” said Shane without a second’s hesitation. Then it hit him. “Four. Twenty-nine. Five-one.”

“Right. There’s your sign.” Terence glanced up at the bronze features of Dale Earnhardt, forever in victory. “But as for Junior winning Daytona this year, he’d never stand for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Intimidator. Well, think about it. Dale Senior tried twenty times to win that race, and got jinxed every time. You said so yourself. So do you think he’s going to let Little E. win the big one the third time the kid ever tries? At the age of twenty-seven?” Terence gave Shane a pitying smile. “Oh, please.”

Shane nodded, not happy yet, but on the verge of being handed back his dream. No one else moved, for fear of breaking the spell.

Terence pulled a checkbook out of his hip pocket, and looked at the three-year calendar on the back of the deposit record. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll bet you want to know when Junior is going to win it, don’t you?”

Wordlessly, everyone nodded.

“When did Dale Earnhardt win the 500, Shane? The date.”

“February 15.”

“Right.” Terence tapped the checkbook calendar. “And the next time the race will fall on that date is in 2004. The sixth anniversary of the win. Two times three, Shane. Two drivers-Dale and Junior-times the magic number three. And 2004 is three years after he died. By then Junior will be twenty-nine. Harvick’s number again.”

Shane was nodding eagerly now. “Right. But it’s also the age Dale was when he won his first championship.”

Terence closed the checkbook with a snap. “That’s when Little E. will win it,” he said.

Everybody nodded solemnly, and Justine started to clap, but Cayle and Bekasu each grabbed a hand, glaring at her until she stood still.

Shane still looked shaken, but he was nodding now and his eyes shone with the newly kindled light of belief. Karen took his arm and they walked away.

“I’ll buy that,” said Harley to the group. “How about you, Reverend?”

Bill Knight smiled. “No devil’s advocate here,” he said. “There are saints who have been given shrines for less. I suppose we’ll all find out in February, 2004.”

“Now, how about we check out this Speedway tour,” said Harley, motioning them forward. “We can talk more over lunch.”

As the group began to file into the museum and gift shop building, Sarah Nash caught up with Terence. “That was a fine thing you did there,” she said. “Was it all true?”

He nodded. “Sure, it was. I’m a numbers geek. I just try not to let it show. This morning on the bus Karen warned me that she’d lied to Shane, so I had some time to think about it. Miracles. I want one, too.”

“Well, you helped out that young couple. I didn’t think you’d get involved.”

Terence smiled. “Rubbin’ is racin,’” he said. “I guess that’s as true in life as it is on the track.”

Sarah Nash chuckled. “The gospel according to St. Dale. Never thought I’d see the day. But they’re nice kids. She’s the brains of the pair, but he’s got a good heart. She could do worse.”

Terence didn’t answer at first. They had entered the building now and followed the rest of the group into the gift shop-an unauthorized detour that Harley had been powerless to prevent. Finally he said, “I’ve just realized who they remind me of. It’s my parents. That’s what they must have been like. A smart, ambitious girl who marries a nice guy who’ll be content to drift through life, and maybe she doesn’t even know why she married him. She’s using a college acceptance letter for a bookmark. She never told him about that, either. She’ll leave him one of these days, when she gets tired of him holding her back.”

“Maybe not, Terence. Sometimes an anchor keeping you grounded is a good thing. Not all women want to be outranked by their husbands these days.”

“But do you think I’m right about them resembling my parents?”

“Now that you mention it? Of course I do. I just hope they don’t end up the same way.” Sarah Nash looked thoughtful. “Maybe what they need is a drafting partner. May I borrow your cell phone?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to call my husband and ask for a favor. Northeast State Community College in Blountville offers an industrial technology program in automotive service. That’s near enough to where Shane lives that he could take courses there, if we can get him in. Richard is on their board, so I think he can put in a good word for Shane.”

“So Shane can learn how to be a NASCAR mechanic?”

“It’s a start. While he’s studying at Northeast, he could do an internship at the Bristol Motor Speedway, which is about two exits away. Richard can probably arrange that, too. If Shane does well, maybe he can get financial aid and go on to a more specialized program, like the one in Mooresville specifically designed for NASCAR.”

Terence handed over his cell phone, still looking bewildered. “But how do you know about all this?” he asked.

She hesitated. “Well, Terence, your father told me about those programs. I think he had hoped that you might want to do that someday. Of course, he’d be very happy about the way things did turn out for you, I’m sure.”

While Sarah Nash placed her call, Terence walked into the gift shop, so lost in thought that he barely noticed the brightly colored displays of drivers’ emblems. One featured item did penetrate his reverie. You could get a dog or cat collar that said “The Intimidator,” marked with the red-outlined Earnhardt number three. He smiled, picturing his mother’s surly Bichon Frise in a Dale Earnhardt dog collar, but his thoughts were mostly elsewhere. He was still considering the purchase when a smiling Sarah Nash reappeared and returned his phone.

“Richard was there,” she said. “I’d forgotten how much I missed the old bear. Watching the Powells this past week has made me think about my husband more than I ever thought I would. And he sounded right glad to hear from me. I think Florida may not be as riveting as Richard thought it would be.”

“You asked him about Shane?”

“Yes. He wants to meet the newlyweds and talk to Shane about maybe going to Northeast State. He was so pleased to hear from me that he even promised to take us all out to see Li’l Dale the sacred goat, and said that if Shane and Karen want to stay at his place for the rest of their honeymoon, they’re welcome. His place is on the beach. I thought Karen would love that. I just spoke to them and they want to go.”

Terence blinked. “Stay with your husband?”

She blushed. “Well, Richard won’t be there. He said he might like to come back to North Carolina for a while. So we’re going to take on the McKees as a project, I suppose.”

Terence nodded. “I’ve been thinking about them, too. And about my dad. You know you asked me what I wanted to do with all the art pottery in my father’s house? Well, I think I’d like to send it to that auction house in Asheville, and put the money in a trust for the McKees. That way my dad would get to send someone on to NASCAR, even if it isn’t me. I think he’d have liked that.”

“I think so, too. I think Tom would be proud. Do you want to come with us?”

“With you?”

“We’re going to leave the tour. Shane wants to see that goat, bless his heart, and Karen wants to spend part of her honeymoon at the beach.”

“But how will you get home?”

“Didn’t I mention it? Richard has his own plane.”

“At all the other tracks we’ve reminisced about Dale’s past races,” said Harley. “And I know that now that we’ve reached Daytona there’s one tragic race that looms large in your minds. His last one: 2001. But I just want to remember another race that Dale drove here. You know he tried from 1979 to 1997 to win the Daytona 500 and never made it. But he loved racing. Somebody-I think it was Rusty-said one time that if NASCAR had ever announced that they were going to hold a race, but no crowds were going to turn up, no prizes would be given, and they were going to charge five bucks for drivers to run on an empty speedway, Dale Earnhardt would be the only fellow to show up. He just flat loved driving, win or lose.

“That’s why the story I’d pick to tell here is not the 1998 Daytona 500, which he finally won, but the one before that-1997.”

“Wonderboy won that year!” said a scowling Ray Reeve. “Why do you want to talk about that?”

“You’re right, Ray. Jeff Gordon did win in ’97, but that isn’t my point. See, that was the year that Earnhardt had his bad luck a little earlier than usual. Most of the time he managed to have his disaster on the very last lap of the 500-mile ordeal-within spitting distance of the finish line if possible. I swear, it was like God’s thumb-well, anyhow, in ’97 the curse hit a little early. He barrel rolled the black number three on the back straightaway, which ended his chances of a win that year. He wasn’t hurt, though. Shaken up, of course, but he crawled out of the car and walked to the ambulance under his own steam. They were supposed to take him to the track clinic to get looked at, but while he was sitting there in the back of the ambulance, Dale got to thinking about his car, and he decided that it was upright and therefore still able to be driven.”

Bekasu’s eyes widened. “He didn’t!”

“Oh, he did. He climbed out of the ambulance, went back to the Monte Carlo, and took off again. Didn’t have a hope of a win, of course, but he came in thirty-first. He loved being here. He loved it.”

The tram tour began with the recorded voice of Bill France, Jr., the head of NASCAR, welcoming visitors to the Speedway. The little caravan of trams began on the top of the 480-acre Speedway with its view of the airport next door and the Hilton across the street, trundled through one of the tunnels leading to the infield, and began its circuit of the two-and-a-half-mile track, while the Speedway guide told anecdotes about Daytona, not unlike Harley’s performance on the Earnhardt Memorial Tour. He pointed out the 44-acre Lake Lloyd in the Speedway infield, where the Intimidator had won a fishing tournament with a 10.8-pound bass. Around the track they went, staying off the 31-degree banking where the racers actually drove, past the orange balls on poles which were actually observation towers for the spotters to crouch in. Past turn 4. That was where it happened. But the guide didn’t say so. When he mentioned Dale, it was the win, the fishing tournaments, the happy memories.

“I guess I can understand them not referring to Earnhardt’s death on the tour,” said Ray Reeve, when the Number Three Pilgrims had assembled again in the parking lot, with yet another speedway pin affixed to hats and tote bags. “But they didn’t talk about Neil, either.”

“I guess we ought to talk about Neil,” said Harley.

Bill Knight saw the somber faces of the others. “Neil?”

“Yeah,” said Cayle softly. “Dale Earnhardt’s best friend. The other guy who died on turn 4.”

Harley thought this was a sadder story than Dale, but you couldn’t stand there at Daytona talking about grief and loss and not mention Neil. So he told them. Neil Bonnett had been a pipefitter back in Alabama, before he decided to become a race car driver. He was part of the Alabama Gang with the Allisons. If there were any ghosts in the voices at Talladega, they should have been telling Neil to slow down and be careful. Not that he’d have listened. Neil and Earnhardt were the Butch and Sundance of motor sports, for what? Fifteen years or more? They competed on the track. They tried to catch the biggest fish or shoot the biggest buck in the woods. They were either the most macho pair who ever lived or else neither one of them could spell death, because they went at everything full tilt. They both went into the wall more than their share of times, but Earnhardt got away with it. Neil didn’t. He’d come out of the wrecks with broken bones, injuries that would sideline him for weeks. One multicar crash at Darlington in 1990 gave him a head injury that wiped out his memory for months. So he retired. Became a TV announcer. But life in the slow lane didn’t suit him, and he was itching to get back in the show. So Earnhardt helped him out. Got him a job test driving the Monte Carlos that would replace Earnhardt’s Lumina beginning in 1994. So Neil started driving again, and if he was driving, he might as well be racing. A farewell tour for a 46-year-old daredevil who already had enough money to stop taking risks. Five races in the 1994 season, just to go out in style. But in a butt-ugly car: a garish pink and yellow Country Time Lemonade Lumina. Car owned by Earnhardt. The farewell tour would begin, of course, with the first race of the season: the Daytona 500.

Only he never made it to the race. On February 8, 1994, in a practice run, Neil Bonnett crashed in turn 4 and died. Some people say Earnhardt never got over it, but he drove in that year’s Daytona 500, and he came in seventh.

Ten years and seven days later, he would also die at turn 4 at Daytona.

Harley’s voice trailed away. He didn’t trust himself to say anything else. He had known Neil.

Nobody said anything. Not even Justine, who wiped a tear away with the back of her hand, but did not speak. The others looked at the ground, doubly solemn now.

“Okay,” said Harley. “Anybody have anything they want to say?”

Nobody did.

“Then let’s say our good-byes. Speaking of goodbyes, four of our group are getting off here. The newlyweds and Terence and Sarah have had a change of plans, so make sure you take time to wish them well at dinner tonight before they head off down a different road.”

Shane stood there holding the wreath, trying to think of something to say. He was excited about the prospect of a new future that might someday bring him back here, but saddened, too, at the memory of the loss of his hero.

“This place is so…what’s that thing Lincoln said in the Gettysburg address? So consecrated, that what we say here has to be special. I didn’t write a speech or anything, but I can’t just say any old thing. Not here. I thought about a poem that Karen put on a quilt for me last year, but then I remembered something even better. Hey, Karen, what’s that thing your mother’s club says sometimes? The ‘bright flame’ thing they say?”

Karen blinked. “Well, it’s an old Gaelic prayer, Shane. I don’t remember all the Gaelic. Besides, it’s a prayer. Well, not a prayer, I guess. I think it’s actually addressed to a guardian angel, but still.”

“To an angel. That’s it. But it says what I want to say. You know it in English. Just say it in English. Please.”

Karen glanced doubtfully at Rev. Knight, as if she expected him to pronounce it blasphemous to utter a prayer at a speedway, but he simply smiled and looked eager for her to begin. There was nothing for it, then. She hoped she wouldn’t get so nervous she’d forget the words. Probably not. She’d told Shane about the college letter, and now that he had the chance to go somewhere, too, he was okay with that. They were finally checking out-which is what NASCAR drivers say when they’re making a burst of speed to leave the rest of the field back in the dust.

She nodded for Shane to place the wreath at the foot of the Earnhardt statue, and then she said:

“Be thou a bright flame before me,

Be thou a guiding star above me,

Be thou a smooth path below me,

And be ever a kindly shepherd beside me,

Today, tomorrow, and forever.”

“For Dale,” said Shane, touching the wreath.

“And for Neil,” whispered Harley.