St. Dale

Chapter XIV

North Carolina Motor Speedway

“The Rock deserves more than the tail end of an afternoon,” said Harley, “but from here on out the distance between the speedways becomes so great that we have to make sacrifices in order to fit them all in.” He was sitting at the head of two pushed-together tables at a North Carolina barbecue. The other passengers, between trips to the salad bar, listened while they ate with varying degrees of attentiveness.

Either by luck or because the decor was inevitable in a restaurant in that area, the place was a shrine to Dale Earnhardt. There were the usual barbecue restaurant ornaments: cartoon pig statues on shelves, and signed publicity stills of celebrity patrons, mostly of Nashville singers passing through on the way to gigs in Charlotte, but besides this standard fare, the pine-paneled walls were dedicated to the Intimidator.

From official Earnhardt posters in narrow chrome frames, the Intimidator stared down at the restaurant’s patrons, stern-faced in his black-and-white Goodwrench firesuit, his eyes obscured by the usual dark sunglasses. A glass-fronted curio cabinet from the Hickory Furniture Market displayed die-cast replicas of the number 3 Monte Carlo and its predecessors, along with a collection of Earnhardt caps, coffee mugs, statuettes, framed 8x10 photos, and black-framed posters of the car and its driver at different race tracks or in posed publicity stills. The two most interesting posters were a departure from the standard fare. One from the Dukes of Hazzard era showed a young, shaggy-haired Earnhardt in jeans and boots, holding a cowboy hat, and perched atop the rail fence of a shady pasture. A western saddle was balanced on top of the rail beside him; just past it, a bay horse poked its head over the fence as if to inspect the blue-and-yellow race car parked on the grass verge of the country road.

“That was in the old days,” Ray Reeve remarked to no one in particular. “Back when he was sponsored by Wrangler, when he won his first championship in 1980. Boy, he looks young. I’d forgotten.” He pointed at the framed poster beside it. “That there’s his last championship, I do believe.”

His friend Jesse nodded happily. “I’d say it was, Ray. I surely would.”

Bill Knight, who had been staring in dismay at the latter image, said, “What an odd poster. What can they mean by it?” Repressing a shudder, he looked to Harley for an explanation.

Harley shrugged. “Coincidence.” He picked up a menu and began to study it as if there’d be a quiz.

No firesuit or sunglasses in this last championship poster. Instead, an older, debonair Dale Earnhardt, tuxedo-clad and confident, stood in a full-length photo scaled larger-than-life and superimposed at the far left of a nightscape of the New York skyline. Looming just past the Intimidator’s shoulder stood the glittering shapes of the Twin Towers, bright peaks against a blue twilight. In the composite photo, Earnhardt stood taller than the towers. At the other end of the poster, the traditional image of Earnhardt in racing mode was superimposed on an enormous moon image set in a slate blue sky above the cityscape. This black-and-white image wore sunglasses, and sported the Goodwrench logo on his white helmet: the man in the moon, waiting for the green flag. At bottom right, where the Hudson River ought to be, sat the black number 3, scaled to dwarf the skyscrapers in the background.

“What do you think they’re trying to say in that poster?” Bill Knight asked Harley, tapping the menu. “That Earnhardt’s death was more significant than 9/11?”

“They’re not trying to say anything,” said Jesse Franklin, looking distressed at the misunderstanding. “Ray told you: that poster dates from 1994-the year of his seventh championship. The NASCAR awards banquet is held in New York City. That’s all it means.”

Justine, who had come over to examine the poster as well, said, “Yes, but isn’t it odd that they would pose Earnhardt beside the Twin Towers, and that we lost them in the same year?”

Bill smiled, partly in relief that his hasty conclusion had been wrong. “It’s easy to spot omens after the fact,” he told her. “Anybody can be Nostradamus on those terms. But Monday-morning prophets are as useless as Monday-morning quarterbacks. If you had looked at that poster back in 1994 and foreseen the disaster, then you’d have my attention.”

“But, look,” said Shane. “That year was his seventh championship. His seventh. In 1994. And it was seven years later that the Towers fell.” He did a quick calculation on his fingers. “He died in February, 2001. February to September. Seven months after he died.”

Ray Reeve shook his head. “You’ve lost me there, son,” he said. “Maybe if those towers had been in Charlotte, I could see Earnhardt being a thread in a doomsday prophecy, but Manhattan was not his turf. I just can’t see it as any more than a coincidence.”

“And you can stop humming that Twilight Zone music, Bekasu,” said Justine, turning around to glare at her sister. “We’re trying to make sense of two tragedies here.”

“It’s a poster, Justine.”

Justine sniffed. “You wouldn’t recognize a miracle if it stepped on your foot. I know they say that seeing is believing, but maybe it works the other way, too. Maybe believing is seeing.”

“Well, I think you all ought to stop talking about it,” hissed Cayle, glancing around nervously. “Terence lives in Manhattan, you know. We might upset him with all this talk about 9/11.”

Terence and Sarah Nash were already seated at the table with Matthew, helping him decipher the menu, seemingly oblivious to the discussion taking place at the Seventh Championship poster. Sarah Nash had discovered that neither of her table partners knew what hush puppies were or why they were called that, so she had embarked upon the tale.

The others took a last look at the poster, and walked back to their seats. Harley and Ratty had pushed two large tables together so that those who were not hard-of-hearing could converse with anyone else in the group, but there still wasn’t room enough for everyone, so Bill Knight and Bekasu Holifield volunteered to sit at a smaller table nearby. They had tried to make this offer seem like a sacrifice, but their feigned reluctance to leave the group convinced no one.

Bill Knight studied the menu (what was red slaw?), still thinking about the concept of hindsight prophecy, and wondering how he should phrase his thoughts on the matter when he recorded it in his little notebook. He had set the notebook beside his fork in hopes that something would occur to him before the end of lunch. The motion of the bus tended to make his handwriting illegible. Hindsight prophecy: He supposed that it was human nature to look for omens in connection with significant events. Portents would be a sign that there is order in the universe: that things are predestined and foreseeable. The idea of a chaotic, random universe in which events have no meaning was more than some people could bear. He didn’t much like the thought of it himself. Perhaps that was what drew him to the ministry: God was a promise of order in a world of chaos.

Bekasu, who had sat down next to him, noticed his look of preoccupation. “I love my sister,” she said, “but sometimes I need a break from Planet Justine.”

“She’s an original,” said Bill, smiling politely.

“About that Manhattan poster,” said Bekasu, talking behind her upraised menu so the others wouldn’t overhear. “They really don’t mean to be blasphemous.”

“No, no,” said Bill. “I wasn’t offended, and I don’t think Terence Palmer even noticed. They’re so obviously sincere. Misguided, perhaps, but sincere. Perhaps they are postmodernists.”

Beksau smiled. “If you accused Cayle or Justine of being one, they’d say they were Presbyterian, but I take your point. The theory that people try to make a connection between random events in order to give the universe a semblance of meaning. Justine, searching for the mystical significance of all the threes, or a connection between two tragedies that some of them probably do see as equal.”

“Yes. If it’s only a set of coincidences that they are trying to impose order on, we needn’t consider it, but some of the things I’ve heard are a bit puzzling, I admit.”

Bekasu looked uneasy. “Well, Cayle for one may have good reason to think there’s a supernatural connection with Earnhardt.”

“Yes, she told me about her encounter on the road to Mooresville.”

Bekasu twiddled her spoon. “She swears it really happened. I don’t know what to make of it. I’ve known her forever, and she’s not a flake. Now if it were Justine, I’d know exactly what to think. Justine is capable of finding the Holy Grail in a Coke machine. But Cayle…I guess as a minister you must be used to it.”

He shook his head. Marriage counseling and fund-raising for charity were more in his line. Beans-and-rice suppers for Latin American political causes, yes; divine revelations, no. “You don’t expect to hear things like that these days,” he said. “Not outside of a supermarket tabloid, anyway. I suppose that if Cayle had told me that she’d met Mother Teresa, I might have been skeptical, but at least I’d have been more-”

“Respectful?” said Bekasu, smiling. “Well, I don’t know if I believe it, either, but I’m enough of a contrarian not to want anybody’s elitists electing our saints. I don’t think we should doubt her because of who she saw. Besides, I think there’s more than one kind of saint.”

Bill Knight stared for a moment at a forkful of barbecue. “Okay,” he said. “Angels-like St. Michael. Prophets and mystics-St. John the Baptist, Joan of Arc. Humanitarians-Mother Cabrini.”

“Don’t forget the political saints,” said Bekasu. “People who become saints because canonizing them was one in the eye to the enemies of the church.”

“Thomas More,” said Bill. “Well, I’m an Episcopalian, so obviously we don’t claim him, but Rome does.”

“Exactly. And have you considered the people’s saints? I mean the ones who got in by popular demand. Thomas Becket was one of those.”

“Surely he was also a political choice? Archbishop of Canterbury-defending the church against secular law?”

“Yes-canonizing him was a papal rap on the knuckles for Henry II, but don’t you think he was also a grassroots favorite?”

“Becket? Well, he became powerful despite the fact that he was a Saxon in Norman England, so by definition a member of the lower orders.”

“In other words, a redneck,” said Bekasu.

Bill stared at her. “Yes, but of course he transcended his humble beginnings.”

“Well, then I’d say that’s something he and Earnhardt had in common.” She nodded toward the image of the man in the tuxedo against the backdrop of Manhattan. “And I’ll tell you another resemblance. Neither one of them got above their raising, as we say down here. Remember Becket giving away the archbishop’s fine clothing to the poor and wearing a hair shirt? And here’s Earnhardt-fortieth richest person in America-and where does he live? Iredell County, where he started. Not Palm Beach. Not Palm Springs. Not New York or L.A. Mooresville. Ordinary people loved him for it.”

“Well, I grant you the similarity, but of course it doesn’t make him a saint.” Bill had begun to shred his paper napkin. “A Roman historian named Priscus said pretty much the same thing about Attila the Hun. How modest and well-spoken he was, I mean. Drank out of a wooden goblet, but served his guests in gold ones. Nobody ever mistook Attila for a saint. Or Earnhardt. Not that I’m comparing them,” he hastened to add.

Bekasu laughed. “He’d probably consider it a compliment. Okay, Dale and Attila weren’t saints by the church’s standards, no. But the clergy may not have the last word anymore. Not culturally, anyhow. I think in the twentieth century, the people started choosing the saints. Elvis. Princess Diana. Speaking of the princess, a few weeks before she was killed, she auctioned off her formal gowns at Sotheby’s and gave the money to charity. Does that sound familiar?”

“Becket’s robes…” murmured Bill. “Shortly before he was killed, he gave away his archbishop’s clothing to the poor.”

“Right.” She waved a hush puppy for emphasis. “They were of the people, and for the people. Scorned by the aristocracy. Becket was an uppity Saxon redneck. Elvis wasn’t ‘serious’ music. Diana wouldn’t toe the line with the royal family; and Dale was just a race car driver, which elitists don’t even consider a sport. All of them died in their prime, and all of them elicited the same public reaction: people felt rage as much as grief-that someone they loved had been taken from them.”

Bill stared at her. “I thought you hated stock car racing.”

Bekasu shrugged. “I’m a lawyer. I can argue both ends against the middle. I don’t particularly enjoy watching racing as a sport-not the way Justine does. But it annoys me when cultural snobs belittle it. Fighting for the underdog is in my blood, I suppose. A judge I clerked for once called me a Jacksonian Democrat, and I suppose I am.”

“But do you think Earnhardt-I mean, all those supernatural things?”

She shrugged. “I’m keeping an open mind, I guess. I’ve known Cayle all her life and she isn’t a liar, so I’ll take it as real that she saw something. But I’m reserving judgment on the rest. Mystical symbols in the posters. He touched a lot of lives much more deeply than anybody ever thought he would. I don’t know what it means.”

“Fair enough,” said Bill.

“But isn’t he an unlikely saint?” Bekasu nodded toward the Earnhardt-Twin Towers poster. “I grew up in North Carolina. I’m about the same age as Dale. And I keep thinking that I knew him. Oh, not him. But I went to school with a lot of Dales way back when…Sullen little chicken hawk guys with shaggy hair and long sideburns. They lived in the same small town that we did, but in another world. I grew up fettered with rules and expectations. Thou shalt not wear white shoes after Labor Day. Go to church. Make the honor roll. Don’t make waves in thought, word or deed. Respect your elders. Don’t get serious about a boyfriend in high school, because you’ve got to get through college and grad school unencumbered.”

“Sounds familiar,” said Bill.

“Yes, but not everybody had to follow those rules. My dad was a lawyer, and my friends were the doctors’ kids and the other lawyers’ kids, and the rest of the adolescents in our leafy upper middle class neighborhood. We all went to the nice new junior high school in the suburbs. But across town was the other junior high school-the old one-on the other side of the tracks in the working class part of town.” She sighed. “I used to envy them so much.”

“I know,” said Bill. “They didn’t have to be home by ten or do volunteer work with the church youth on weekends.”

“The girls could wear raccoon-eye makeup and tight skirts, and they could drink beer and go steady in ninth grade.”

“And you wanted to be like them?”

Bekasu took a deep breath. “Well, okay. You’re right. I probably wouldn’t have gone through with it. Justine was the family wild child. I had to be the responsible one. The honor student. But those kids from the other side of town seemed so free. So unencumbered by expectations. I was the rough beast, slouching toward graduate school since before I could even spell it.”

Bill smiled. “Same here. And you’re saying that Dale Earnhardt was from the other side of the tracks?”

“Of course he was! He dropped out of school in junior high! If I’d done that, my parents would have sent me off to a nunnery. And we were Presbyterian. He was a dropout, got married at sixteen or so, and worked in a mill or a garage or something. I knew a slew of guys from that world. They turned up in tenth grade, when both junior high school classes got dumped into the same city high school. But the two groups mostly stayed separate even then. It’s as if we knew even as adolescents that we were headed in different directions.”

“It must have been a big surprise for some of Earnhardt’s classmates to reach the pinnacle of society and find Dale way ahead of them.”

“Yes,” said Bekasu. “Some of those wine-and-cheese conversations were probably quite strained, but I don’t think Earnhardt’s success would have changed their fundamental outlook on life. You don’t cancel your electrical connection just because lightning strikes once.”

Harley Claymore stood up, and tapped his spoon against his iced tea glass. Since the glass was plastic, this did not have much effect, but the conversation subsided anyhow. “It looks like we’re on the last lap of lunch, so I thought I’d get back to talking about The Rock, before we drive on over there.” His note cards were propped against the bottle of hot sauce, but when he was standing up, he was too far away to be able to read them. He didn’t think he’d miss much, though. “Some housekeeping notes first, though. We’ll be spending tonight in the Greater Charlotte area-that’s-how far are we, Ratty?”

Rattly Laine paused with his coffee mug inches from his lips. He had been in the middle of a story about taking Mick Jagger to Graceland, a tale that was no less entertaining for being implausible. “Charlotte?” he said. “Seventy-five miles west of here. An hour and a half, barring rush hour. But, of course, we’re not going to Charlotte proper, are we?”

“Oh, right. We’re staying tonight at Exit 49 off Interstate 85.” In the early days Lowe’s Motor Speedway had been called the Charlotte Motor Speedway, but the track had always been located in Concord, a little town northeast of Charlotte. If they had been traveling in strict geographical order, the tour would have visited Lowe’s before Rockingham, but Bailey Travel’s research indicated (rightly) that there would be more accommodations around Concord than there would be in Rockingham. Besides, the Charlotte Interstate corridor was the route they’d be taking the next afternoon to reach Talladega.

Harley winced. It was past two o’clock now. There was no way they could miss Charlotte’s rush hour, unless they dithered in Rockingham until after five o’clock, and that didn’t seem likely. On a weekday with no Cup race scheduled there for months, the Speedway would be deserted. A walk around, a few minutes to lay the wreath-he thought they’d be out of there by four. Anyhow traffic was Ratty’s problem, not his. He half expected one of the wealthier passengers to ask why they weren’t staying in Pinehurst instead of closer to Charlotte. Rockingham bordered North Carolina’s golf resort country, and he hadn’t wanted to have to tell them that the Bailey Travel budget would not stretch to such luxuries. He’d already had to tell Sarah Nash that time did not permit them to visit the famous Seagrove potteries while they were in Randolph County visiting the Petty Museum. No one had mentioned the golfing opportunities, though. Perhaps they could only concentrate on one sport at a time.

He cleared his throat and began again. “Rockingham. Technically, it is the North Carolina Motor Speedway, but you’ll hear Sting called ‘Gordon’ oftener than you’ll hear the Rock called by that long-winded title. It dates back to the 1960’s, and is located in Rockingham-hence the nickname. They host the second race of the NASCAR season. This is the place for drivers to find out if they’ve corrected whatever problems they had in the race at Daytona. The second Cup race is held in October. The track is ninety feet over a mile long, and it’s hell on tires. The banking is slightly higher in turns three and four than it is in the first two. Well, you’ll see. Shall we head on over there?”

“I wish my father could have made this trip,” said Terence, settling back into his seat on the bus. “I’m having a good time, but he would have really loved it, wouldn’t he?”

“Well, he had visited most of these places before,” said Sarah Nash. “Rockingham and Charlotte were day trips for him. He only signed up on this tour as a lark, and maybe to relive some good memories of the old days. I think he’d be glad to see you enjoying yourself. If he’d have any regrets, it would be not getting to share this experience with you, so that you could hear his stories as well as the official NASCAR tales.”

Terence hesitated. “I know he was planning on making this trip with you, and so I’ve been wondering were you and he-?”

“An item?” She gave him a wry smile. “No. I told you. We were neighbors. And old friends. Besides, I have a husband, technically speaking.”

“You-?”

“There’s a quaint old term people used when I was a girl. Grass widow. You know it?”

“I think so. Someone whose husband isn’t dead, but has abandoned her?”

“Close enough. Richard didn’t abandon me, though. We just-came to a parting of the ways.”

Terence grunted. “Everybody does, in my experience.”

“Well, Richard and I stuck it out for thirty-five years. We built Nash Furniture together. Heard of it?”

“Is it expensive? My mother probably has.”

She smiled. “Reproduction colonial furniture in native cherry and walnut. Largely handmade by local craftsmen. Yes, it would set you back a thousand or so for an end table. Anyhow, about five years ago Richard wanted to sell the company and retire, which was fine with me-until he told me what he wanted to do with his newfound freedom.”

“What was that?”

“Move to Florida. Buy a condo or a McMansion in one of those million-dollar stalag communities, and play golf with the wine-and-cheese people in perpetuity.” She sighed. “I told him that if it was a choice between that and the back of Dr. Kevorkian’s van, I’d just take the van, thanks all the same.”

“He went without you?”

“He did. There were no hard feelings. We didn’t get a divorce-neither one of us wanted a feeding frenzy amongst the lawyers. Richard just took his half of the money and went south, and I stayed in our house near Wilkesboro, with my horses and my volunteer work.”

“So you and my dad really were just friends?”

“Sometimes it’s nice to have somebody to talk to over dinner. Tom used to like to watch NASCAR on television with me so that we could argue about it. He was a nice man. I miss him.”

“What would he have thought of all this?” said Terence.

“The tour?” Sarah Nash considered it. “Well, above all, Tom Palmer was a sensible man, but a reticent one. High as he was on Dale Earnhardt, I can’t quite see Tom making a speech over a wreath on some speedway. I think he might have made a few caustic remarks about all this, but he would have done it in private. I know that if people had carried on this way over Tom’s death, he’d have been mortified.” She smiled. “That may have been a pun. Mortified. I think Dale would have felt the same way; they were a lot alike.”

“And I never got to meet either of them,” said Terence.

“I think the question is: how are you enjoying this trip?”

“Uh-fine.” He honestly hadn’t considered it. “My mother always stressed that a true gentleman was at home in any company, and I try, but sometimes I feel that I’m just equally ill-at-ease in any company. Mother never had any patience with people who wouldn’t try the food in a foreign country, wouldn’t learn to speak the language. She called them barbarians. So I never waste time wishing I were somewhere else, or comparing one place to another. I’m along for the ride. But it’s great to see all the Southern speedways up close. It gives you a new perspective on the sport.”

“And on your father’s world.”

“Well, I suppose,” said Terence. “But it makes me wonder if I would have had anything to talk to him about besides racing.”

“Well, if you want to find out, maybe you ought to try to talk some more to some of your fellow passengers.”

Terence looked over at the rest of the group and shrugged. “And say what?”

The Number Three Pilgrims stood in the parking lot gazing up at the deserted Speedway. “It seems fitting to see the place empty,” said Ray Reeve gruffly. “More of a memorial, I guess.”

“You got that right,” said Shane McKee. “If you ask me, even when they’re racing here, the place is empty.”

Lord, here we go again, thought Harley. They’d end up passing around the handkerchief yet. To derail the wake, he held up his hand for silence. Think of something to say about Rockingham. “This place has changed some since I last drove it,” he said. “Four years ago, when they took the word ‘motor’ out of the speedway name, they added a new high-rise grandstand over there between turns 2 and 3. I guess that’s why they expanded the parking area. To me, though, the biggest change was in pit road. The Rock used to have pits on both sides of the track, but when they remodeled in ’99 they put all forty-five pit stalls on the front stretch. It’s a nice little track. Hell on tires, though.”

“I kind of miss the mountains surrounding the Bristol Speedway,” said Cayle. “It was such a pretty setting.”

“Well, you may see those mountains again in a day or so,” said Harley.

Justine seized the Rockingham memorial wreath before Ratty could get it completely out of the luggage compartment. “This is the best one!” she cried, holding it aloft. Smaller than the two previous tributes, the wreath was fashioned in the shape of a heart, using white silk dogwood flowers, a symbol of North Carolina, as Justine had informed them. Earnhardt’s trademarked number 3 was picked out in the center of the heart in smaller flowers dyed black.

“Cayle, you ought to do this one,” she said. “Since it’s the next stop after Mooresville.”

“I wouldn’t know what to say,” said Cayle. “I tried to tell him I was sorry it happened when-you know. But I’m no good at making speeches. You could help me. And we could get Matthew to carry it for us.” Justine handed the wreath to the boy, and the trio wandered off in search of a suitable place to leave it, while the rest of the pilgrims trailed behind at a respectful distance.

Bekasu caught up with Bill Knight again. “I’ve been thinking about that sainthood business,” she said. “You know, people have been trying to make Elvis into one for years.”

“I know. I have a clip file on Elvis phenomena. The people who claim to see his face in cracks in the ceiling plaster, or to get advice from him in dreams. There’s even a story claiming that there were strange lights in the sky the night he was born.”

“UFOs,” said Bekasu, and they laughed. “But, seriously, I wonder if there’s anything like that about Earnhardt?”

Bill Knight hesitated. It had been on the tip of his tongue to say that it was too soon for the legends to spring up. He wanted to tell her that the gospel of St. Luke-the only one of the four to mention angels and the Star of Bethlehem-had not been written until a hundred years after the crucifixion. That was the sort of remark you had to be careful making if you were a minister, though. Even people who didn’t believe expected childlike faith from the clergy. Instead he told her, “It’s early days yet. Remember that Elvis died in ’77, so there has been more time for the legends and myths to take root. Just wait a couple of years. There’ll be sightings.”

“Well, we’ve had that already,” murmured Bekasu, looking around for Cayle. “I just wish I knew what to make of it.”

“You know the options as well as I do,” said Bill. “Either it was real or it wasn’t. If it wasn’t real, then it could have been a dream. It was late at night on a dark road. Cayle may have drifted off to sleep without realizing it. Or it could have been a hallucination induced by the panic of being stranded on a lonely road. If it was real, then it could have been someone dressed up as Earnhardt for-I don’t know-a costume party or a promotional gimmick. And then there’s that last possibility that we come to with great reluctance. That she really did see him that night, and that it really was him, somehow. A ghost, perhaps? Such sightings are not that uncommon, after all. Ultimately, though, it doesn’t matter. All through history there have been odd little events from time to time that no one could really explain, but they didn’t change the fabric of civilization. Sooner or later, people just shrugged and went back to business as usual.”

“But you don’t believe she saw him?”

Bill Knight shook his head. “Of course I don’t.”

Justine put her hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “How are you doing, hon,” she said. “We need to buy you sunglasses at the gift shop here. It’s real bright in this sunshine, and it’s going to get brighter as we head south. I don’t want you getting sick.”

“I’m okay,” said Matthew. “Just kind of tired.”

The two of them had walked a little ahead of the others, still looking for a likely place to lay the wreath, which Matthew insisted on carrying.

“You’re sick, aren’t you?” said Justine, lifting up her sunglasses to give him a searching stare.

“Yeah,” said Matthew. “That’s how come they let me come on this tour.” As they walked he told her about his father wrecking the truck, and how he ended up a ward of New Hampshire, and about getting taken to the doctor a couple of weeks ago when he kept saying he was tired all the time.

Justine frowned. “I can imagine the kind of medical care orphans get,” she said. “Have you been to a specialist?”

Matthew scuffed a pebble on the track with his shoe. “I don’t think so. Maybe when I get back.”

“Well, what kind of treatment-oh, never mind. I’ll see if your reverend friend knows any details. Listen, the next gift shop we hit, you just pick out anything you want and come find me. My treat. But make sure you get sunglasses, too, you hear?”

Matthew nodded. “Will they still have Dale Earnhardt stuff at Daytona?”

Justine smiled. “Honey, when you’re as old as I am, they’ll still have Earnhardt stuff at Daytona.”

The group had assembled now to the left of the North Grandstand, where a tunnel led into the track area at turn 4. Solemnly, Matthew placed the number 3 heart next to the passageway and stepped back.

Cayle twisted her hands and looked uncomfortable. She motioned for Harley and whispered, “I don’t know what to say. See, my car broke down outside Mooresville six months ago, and Dale came along and fixed it for me.”

Harley was silent for a moment, while he digested this. He knew there’d be nuts on this tour; he just hadn’t pegged the little blonde to be one of them. He whispered back, “Well, it was nice of Dale to fix your car for you. It sounds like something he’d do. Just don’t tell DEI about it. They’ll send you a bill for road service.”

She was on her own. Justine motioned for her to go first, and after another pause to collect her thoughts, Cayle said, “Hello, sir. I have to say I wasn’t a big fan of yours when you were alive. I was always a sucker for the cute ones. Rusty. Ricky. But seeing how many people were devastated when you died has really touched me. And of course, I want to thank you for what you did for me. A lot of people love you. I just hope you know that. And if there’s some reason that I was the one to see you, I wish you’d let me know what it was. Well-bye.”

Several of the listeners exchanged puzzled looks, but Cayle stepped back without any indication that she would enlighten them.

Justine had been standing very still beside the wreath, her eyes closed and her hands clasped in front of her. When Cayle finished speaking, she knelt down and spoke directly to the wreath, as if it were a celestial speaker system.

“Hey, Dale!” she said. “I don’t know if I can explain this so it’ll make sense, but I’m going to try. People I’ve known have died. My grandmother. A girl in sixth grade. People in car wrecks, and girlfriends from breast cancer. And I was always very sorry when they passed away. I felt bad for their families, and I was sad that they missed out on more of life, and sometimes I regretted something I’d said or done or not done, or I’d wish I could see them again. So I thought I knew about how it feels when somebody dies. But, Dale, when you died, it didn’t feel like that a bit.

“It’s not like that sweet sorrow you feel when an acquaintance passes on. It felt-well, this sounds stupid, but it felt just the way it did when my house in Myers Park got robbed. Like a fist in my chest. They stole my grandmother’s Gorham Buttercup silver tea set, and I knew I’d never get it back, and I was so angry I couldn’t see straight. I thought my throat would close up when I tried to talk into the phone to report it.

“And that’s just what it felt like when you died. Like somebody had taken something that belonged to me. It was my loss. My pain. I didn’t have to reach inside myself to feel sympathy for you or for other people. I couldn’t. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself. So I hope you’re in heaven, and that it’s everything you wanted it to be, and that your loved ones have found the strength to go on. But I’m still mad about losing you. You were my driver, my champion, and it’s personal. And heaven or no heaven, if I could make them send you back I would. Amen.”