by Penny Reid
“Yeah, she likely had an influence…” Duane squirmed a little in his seat, his eyebrows tugging low over his eyes like he was deep in thought. “I reckon most people look at us Winston boys and see a bunch of hillbillies, sons of Darrell Winston, con man and criminal. In some ways, I guess we are. We like our cars, barbeque, and banjo music. But our momma wanted more for us. She demanded it. Momma basically put each of us through a kind of finishing school.”
“How’d she manage that?”
“Books. Lots of books. At least one a week to expand our vocabulary and our minds. The classics were required reading. Plus table manners—all manners—were taken very seriously. Words like ain’t, which isn’t a word, weren’t allowed in the house, though we’ve all grown lazy with proper grammar as we’ve grown older. She also taught us how to dance.”
“Dance? She taught you to dance?”
“Yep.”
“Like, what? Like the waltz?”
He nodded faintly, clearly lost in a memory of his mother. I didn’t interrupt. Instead I admired his profile, feeling the depths to which I’d missed him. I’d missed him so much. For the first time in a week I felt like I could draw a complete breath. I knew I was falling hard and fast, but I didn’t care. We had just over a year and I planned to abandon myself to it, to him. I was completely and totally all in.
At length Duane shook his head like he was coming out of a trance and added, “But really, I think I’d prefer to be out there myself. Living, doing, seeing for myself.”
I was nodding before he finished his thought. “Yes, exactly. That’s exactly how I feel. I actually get frustrated sometimes when I read travel blogs or magazines. It’s like, I want to be the one out there doing it, not reading about someone else’s experience.”
Duane nodded at my words like he truly understood my perspective; but then he surprised me by asking, “So then, what have you done?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how have you lived? What have you done? And that crazy stuff you did while we were kids doesn’t count.”
Now I squirmed a bit in my seat. Duane shifted like he was about to remove his hand, so I covered it with mine, pressed it to my knee.
Eventually I admitted the sad truth. “I’ve done a lot of planning, getting ready. But honestly, nothing exciting so far.” I added with a sad sigh, “No big trips or adventures.”
His eyes were on the road, but how he’d slightly inclined his head toward me and stroked his thumb over my kneecap told me he was thinking about my response. His thoughtful expression transitioned into a frown.
“You don’t need a big trip to have an adventure. There’s plenty of adventures to be had right here.”
I tsked. “You know what I mean.”
“I guess I do…and I guess I don’t. I’m just saying, if you can’t have an adventure where you are, what makes you think you’ll have an adventure anywhere else?”
I felt the answer was obvious; nevertheless I said, “Because it’ll be someplace new. I’ve already done and seen everything there is to do and see here.”
“Well, enlighten me then. What adventures are there to be had in Green Valley, Tennessee?”
I assumed his question was meant to be ironic, so I laughed and responded, “None.”
“Wrong.”
I scoffed. “No. Not wrong. We have three restaurants, three bars, Cooper’s Field, and the jam session on Friday nights. Therein lies the sum total of what Green Valley has to offer.”
“Wrong,” he repeated, but this time the corner of his mouth tugged upward like he was fighting a smile.
“Oh really? What am I missing then?”
“Hiking, fishing, canoeing, camping.”
“Come on, Duane. We hiked and explored all through these mountains when we were kids. You said kid stuff doesn’t count.”
He hesitated for a minute, then said, “Bungee jumping.”
I nearly choked. “Bungee jumping? You’ve been bungee jumping?”
“Yes. And sky diving.”
“Holy crap! When, where?”
“I’ll take you.”
My chest constricted with a healthy dose of fear, and my immediate response was to shake my head. “No. No thank you. I think I’ll pass.”
“You said you wanted adventure.”
“Adventure isn’t the same thing as trying to kill yourself.”
Now he laughed. “It’s not that dangerous.”
“Says the Dare Devil, Duane Winston.”
“So, you’re telling me that when you leave and go on your wanderlust walkabouts, you’re planning on having only nice, quiet safe adventures?” He made a face, like he was disappointed in me. “That’s not living. That’s just more time spent planning.”
Again I squirmed in my seat and grumbled, “No.”
“Yes,” he countered.
Mild irritation made my chest and cheeks hot, and I glared at him. “Just because I don’t wish to throw myself out of a plane and plummet to the earth doesn’t mean my adventures will be boring.”
“You don’t have to throw yourself out of a plane, because I’ll be there to push you.” With this he glanced at me, grinning like a devil, and winked.
My mouth fell open and a small, strangled sound of disbelief emerged from my throat. But then I laughed through my outrage, because his expression was both adorably and thrillingly mischievous. Soon he was laughing too, likely at my stunned and annoyed expression.
While laughing, I reached over and squeezed his leg. “Well, I wouldn’t want to be a burden.”
He caught my hand. “It would be no burden at all. I’m happy to offer my services any time you need to be tossed out of a plane.”
“Or off a bridge?”
“Or a dock.”
“Or a boat.”
“Yes. Even a boat. I’ll be happy to push you any time pushing is required.” As he said these words we came to a stoplight and he turned just his head, giving me a happy smile and squeezing my hand. His smile was dazzling, and I felt my own lips curve into a wide grin.
Goodness, I loved it when he smiled, like he was doing now. I felt like finally, finally I was seeing the real Duane Winston, the one he only shared with a rare and worthy few. And I fell a bit more. I enjoyed this feeling of falling, the thrill and certainty of it, of his worthiness.
“I feel I must reciprocate,” I said quietly, losing myself in his closeness, the genuine warmth and affection clear in his handsome face. “Please let me know if I can ever be of service pushing you in a similar fashion.”
I watched him take a deep breath, his gaze moving over my features—still warm with affection—and he said in a near whisper, “My momma once told me, you don’t need to be pushed in order to fall. I don’t think you’ll need to do much pushing, Jessica.”
It took us about another hour to reach our destination, during which we fell into easy conversation. He told me tales about crazy customers, and I had to guess whether they were true or false. The most outrageous stories turned out to be true, thereby shaking my faith in humanity and reminding me that fifty percent of the population fell beneath one hundred on the IQ curve.
Before I knew it, time was up and we’d arrived. I squinted out the windshield and realized where we were.
“The Canyon? You brought me to watch the dirt races?” I was not complaining, not at all. I was merely surprised, and maybe a little nervous.
Duane nodded as he pulled into a space toward the front. It was conspicuously empty, like it was his spot though I couldn’t see a marker that marked it as such.
He popped his door open as he cut the engine. “Yes. We can watch the races, but there’s good food, too. And we can talk in between. Just stay close, things can get crazy.”
He came around the car and reached for my door just as I opened it, offering his hand. I took his and he kept mine. Our fingers remained entwined as we walked toward the closest of three bonfires. I wasn’t usually much of a hand holder, but I liked
his hands—the large, roughness of them—and I liked how the contact kept us close.
“Are you hungry? There’s some tailgaters up ahead. They have ribs cooking, chili, cornbread, and coleslaw, though the coleslaw isn’t as good as the stuff served at the community center on Fridays.”
I made a note of how wistful he sounded about the community center coleslaw. I knew Julianne MacIntyre made it every week and decided to interrogate the recipe out of her at some point.
“Chili and cornbread sound good,” I responded while rubbernecking without shame, endeavoring to scope out our surroundings.
Duane was right. It wasn’t even 7:30 p.m. and things already looked a little crazy. I’d never been to The Canyon before, never seen one of the dirt races, never had an occasion to do so.
This wasn’t some country fair, wholesome dirt racing. This place felt dangerous, risky. The air smelled like various types of smoke—wood fire, charcoal, and engine oil—and would have been overwhelming in the hot, stagnant summer. But borne on the cool wind of late fall it was heady, but not overpowering.
I noticed a group of skinheads and their girls making out next to one of the bonfires—like, for real making out—black labeled bottles of bourbon lining their blanket. Two of the guys were arguing over one of the girls and tempers appeared close to snapping.
As well, I felt a little overdressed. And by overdressed I should say over-clothed. The night was mild, but it was still cold; yet every woman we passed was wearing either a miniskirt or leather pants, sometimes a leather miniskirt. And their tops showed more skin than my bathing suit.
“Not everyone is friendly,” Duane said, obviously noticing my gaping.
“Skinheads aren’t usually known for being friendly.” I pressed myself closer to Duane. He took the hint and wrapped his arm around my shoulders.
“The groups segregate themselves, don’t mix much, except on the track.”
“Which group is yours?” I glanced up at him, watched as his eyes narrowed and he twisted his mouth to the side.
“I don’t really have a group.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, I know just about all the racers—the ones who take it seriously—and we have a mutual respect thing going on. But I don’t usually associate with any one group.”
“A lone wolf?”
He smirked, his gaze sliding to mine. “Something like that.”
We passed several clusters of people, either gathered around one of the bonfires or lingering within a circle created by their cars. Several were calm, sedate, like they were tailgating at a football game. Others were rowdy like the skinheads—fighting, drinking, and screwing for everyone to see. I supposed everyone had a different idea of what constituted a good time.
As well, every age was represented and, seemingly, several socioeconomic strata. I saw Corvettes next to souped-up Honda Civics; a rusted-out Nissan truck parked beside a brand new Acura. Some of the groups looked like they were my age or younger—college and high school kids—and several seemed to be at least twenty or thirty years my senior. And some groups were mixed.
After assessing the crowd, the first thing I noticed was that The Canyon wasn’t really a canyon. The Canyon was an abandoned mine.
Street racing was obviously illegal, as it was almost everywhere. Racing at The Canyon, though not technically sanctioned by local law enforcement, wasn’t an arrestable offense. Betting on the races, however, was illegal. But I’d heard rumors that betting was rampant and thousands of dollars exchanged hands every weekend; the race winners supposedly went home with a big cut.
We eventually approached two giant Dodge trucks with grills and tables set up just in front of the truck beds. We stood in a line of about twenty or thirty people, all waiting to grab food. The man in front of us glanced over his shoulder, his eyes moved down then up my body. I scowled at his blatant leering.
“Keep your eyes to yourself, Devon,” Duane growled, his arm turning me so I was pressed against his side.
The man’s attention shifted to Duane. Then his eyes grew large and he turned completely around, a big smile on his face.
“I haven’t seen you in weeks.” He reached for and grabbed Duane’s hand, shaking it with enthusiasm. “Wait ’til I tell the boys you’re here.”
I studied this Devon person as he smiled at Duane with something like worship. He was about my age, maybe a bit older, and wore a black leather jacket, blue jeans, and boots. He was obviously part of some biker club, but I didn’t recognize the emblem on his chest.
“Let me buy you and your lady dinner.”
“No thanks, I got it.”
Devon’s dark brown eyes glanced at me, then back to Duane, and he lifted his dark eyebrows. I heard Duane sigh.
“Jess, this is Devon St. Cloud—or just Saint if you prefer to use his club name. Devon, this is Jess.” Duane made the introductions reluctantly, like his good manners required it.
Devon’s big brown hand enveloped mine as he gushed, “Your old man is the best. The best. Ain’t nobody race like Red. We used to race Humvees around dirt tracks in Afghanistan, when I was stationed there, and I thought those guys were crazy. But nobody compares to Red.”
I couldn’t help my smile, liking Devon a bit more now he was praising my old man. Plus I liked that his biker name was Saint.
“What? Red is here?”
This comment came from someone else farther up in the line, and I craned my neck to the side to see who. Turns out this was unnecessary because we were soon surrounded by several people—male and female—all anxious to see Duane, shake his hand, and meet me as well.
It became a bit overwhelming, to be honest, and everyone wanted to know the same thing: was Duane racing? And, if so, which races? And how was he feeling?
In the end we weren’t allowed to buy our dinner because a skinhead named Sheldon bought us a tray of food without asking permission. This caused a bit of an upset as Devon and his biker brethren had offered first. Duane used this distraction as an opportunity to move us away from the food line.
As he pulled me away I said, “Lone wolf, huh?”
He bent and whispered in my ear, “They only like me so much because I make them money and they enjoy watching me race.”
I shook my head, “Do you know everyone?”
“More or less.” He shrugged, “Or they know me.”
We were stopped a few more times on our way to wherever Duane had in mind. In between greeting people and introductions, Duane explained the locale was likely named The Canyon because of the red clay and dirt making up the race track and the exposed rock faces on three sides of the track. As well, the property was private, owned by some conglomerate who’d left it abandoned years ago, and clearly hadn’t protested its use as a regional racing ring.
The oval track covered two acres but set-up was required for each weekend night. Big industrial lights had been set into the exposed rock face earlier in the day, illuminating the track. The three large bonfires were off to one side—the side not enclosed by rock—and this was where all the cars lined up and parked. I estimated at least two hundred people were gathered around the bonfires, drinking, socializing, and trash-talking while sizing up the competition.
He was right. Everyone seemed to know or know of Duane, though we didn’t loiter to talk for very long. Everyone we encountered appeared greatly surprised to see someone with him. I got the sense that he typically came alone and said very little.
We took our chili, cornbread, and sweet tea to a big boulder close enough to the track to see everything, but not so close we’d get covered in dirt. A race was about to start.
“You look tense,” Duane remarked between spoonfuls of chili.
I realized I’d been frowning at the line of cars revving their engines. I glanced at Duane and lifted my chin toward the starting lineup.
“I’ve heard stories about cars smashing into the rock walls, and head-on collisions causing broken bones and leaving people unconscious.”
“Those rumors are true.”
I felt my frown deepen. “Why would anyone do it, then? If it’s so dangerous?”
He shrugged. “Because it isn’t easy, it takes patience and skill. Because it is dangerous and it’s fun to be a little scared sometimes.”
“A little scared?”
He gave me a crooked grin, his eyes on my mouth. “That’s right. Just a little.”
I snorted my disbelief. If dirt racing made Duane a little scared and sky diving wasn’t all that dangerous, I wondered what could possibly frighten Duane.
At the same moment a shot went off. The cars lurched forward and sped out of the starting line like demons from hell, the engines drowning all other sound. My eyes were glued to the action in front of me, how the cars—some old, some new, all souped-up—slipped and skidded all over the dirt track. Two of the seven spun out at the first turn, one of them bouncing off the rock wall.
I sucked in a startled breath and felt Duane’s hand close over mine. “He’ll be fine. He wasn’t going that fast.”
I leaned against his solid frame and watched the remainder of the race with rapt attention. Only three of the cars made it to the finish line and it was sickeningly close. The whole affair was irresponsible and dangerous, and I thought I’d disdain it.
I was wrong. I loved it. My heart was beating fast and yet I was sitting still.
I loved the sound of revving engines, the smell of engine oil mingled with smoke and earth. I loved the general air of excitement, camaraderie, adventure. I loved how these people loved their cars and raced them hard, used them, risked them. When the cars sped by I felt the rush of wind, the vibration in my chest.
Of course it helped seeing the people who crashed walk away from their cars with no assistance, looking more upset about losing the race and what had befallen their automobiles than about their cuts and bruises.
It was thrilling and everything seemed larger, brighter, clearer—likely a byproduct of the adrenaline pumping through my veins.
I deduced the turns were by far the most dangerous part of the race. Maintaining control of over a thousand pounds of steel, around a sharp corner, while traveling in excess of ninety miles per hour, on a dirt track basically sounded impossible to me. But some of the cars managed it beautifully, artfully.
