by Eden Connor
Dale’s eyes were still closed when I gathered my stuff and stole from the room.
I paused by the nurse’s desk. “Has my mother been by?”
The nurse in the chair shook his head. “You’re the first visitor I’ve seen, and I came on shift at seven.”
Mom had given up visiting, as far as I could tell, maybe because Dale called out for Jill and stayed with her in his mind.
On Saturday, I turned on the race and watched the whole thing from his side. He slumbered on, even when I kicked his bed and shouted, “God fucking dammit! Marley, will you puh-leeze put Rowdy’s ass into the wall?”
When wreckers raced onto the track, ending Marley’s day on the final lap—and taking Jonny out in the process—I turned off the television and kissed Dale’s cheek. Stroking the white streaks around his face, I huffed.
“We gotta figure out what to do about Kolby. That shit is driver retaliation. You might not admit it, but there’s driving hard to win, and there’s driving like you don’t give a shit about living. Kolby’s suicidal. Maybe humiliating him backfired, Daddy.”
Nadda.
“I’m graduating tomorrow and you won’t be there. But, I forgive you, because college is something I did for myself, and you know that. But the drag race? Motherfucker, I’m doing that for all of us. Wake up, Daddy. Please, wake up.”
His chest rose and fell with the same slow rate. His eyes moved behind his closed lids, but he didn’t return my squeeze of his hand. I grabbed my purse off the spot beside my chair and slung it over my shoulder.
“Fine. Be that way. If you don’t get your ass in gear by tomorrow night, I’ll sell that 6k ‘Cuda to the first sumbitch with a cute smile, clean hands, and a dirty truck.”
Chapter Forty-Three
The aubergine poplin robe was every bit as sweltering as the emerald polyester version I’d worn for my high school graduation. Flapping the hem for a breath of air, I dashed past the end of the line outside Twitchell Auditorium, hunting my spot in the processional. A few of my fellow seniors cried and said they wanted to turn back the clock. I could hardly wait to get this over with.
The professor who’d taught me Art History held a finger to her lips. The excited chatter of one hundred and eighty-three young women died.
“Shelby, you’re out of line,” Gina Habersham whispered. “What’re you doing?”
“Trust me, this is where I belong.”
I stepped in between Gina and Vickie Holloway, chin held high, just as notes swelled from the massive pipe organ inside the auditorium. Two juniors opened the tall double doors. Down front, thirty-foot maroon velvet curtains bracketed the wide stage. The opening bars of Pomp and Circumstance silenced the buzz of conversation in the elegant auditorium.
Swiping my palms on my gown, I moved forward, blinking back tears. My golden tassel—the second of my life—swung in front of my eyes as I started down the aisle.
Heads turned as the crowd got to their feet, but the faces were a blur. As the faculty climbed the stairs to take their places on stage, I admired their diverse regalia. I’d never wear mine again, so I wanted to memorize every moment.
Instead, my eyes were drawn to three tall figures to my left. My heart took a leap, despite knowing the men would be strangers.
I’d dreaded this moment off and on for years, and now that it was here, it was exactly what I’d have wished for—before Christmas. Mom was somewhere in the crowd. Francine was here. Caroline texted me early this morning to ask where to go once she got to the campus. I’d been so excited she was making the trip I’d forgotten to ask whether Jonny had come with her.
My heart ached for Colt, whose first Cup start would be marred by the knowledge that Dale had yet to wake. Rick had bumped him up to drive in Barnes’ spot. Doctor Erikkson kept insisting all would be well, but we were all out of our minds with unspoken worries.
We filed into the reserved seats down front. I crossed my legs and fastened my attention on the stage. The keynote speaker must’ve been funny, since laughter rippled through the building several times during her speech. The valedictorian’s speech failed to hold my attention, either, but she was blessedly brief.
President Jamison stood to rippling applause. Resplendent in academic regalia and hat that denoted her doctorate degree, she adjusted the podium microphone and laid a piece of paper on the stand.
“I’m always both honored and intimidated on Freshman Move-In Day, when you bring us your daughters. I know what you expect. You want me—Converse—to return a polished product, a daughter you can point to with pride. A young woman prepared for the business world, a life of community service, or further study. I happen to feel we do a good job. And yet, with any rule comes the exception. I’d be disingenuous if I withheld this short essay by a member of today’s graduating class, because it illustrates precisely how we—how I—have failed. So, I beg your indulgence while I read it.”
I exchanged a glance with the girl next to me. I had a hard time imagining Dr. Jamison failing at anything.
The president’s gaze swept the rows of parents. “This piece caused me to reflect that, while we take pride in the education we offer, the most important thing we do is help the young women who walk through our gates decide which rough edges they’d like to sand away, and which to sharpen. And on that note....” She cleared her throat and lifted the paper.
“While my classmates filled out an application to get here, I told a story.”
Shock reverberated though me. My words.
The president’s speaking voice reflected the same easy assurance as everything else the woman did. “It was the truth as I knew it at the time, an outpouring of my soul. A story about wild nights spent drag racing on a Carolina backroad. A tale about the jarring trip from childhood to womanhood; of getting in over my head, fueled by hormones and curiosity. A tragedy about falling in love with the wrong man, with a sordid, cautionary ending about how he betrayed me.”
A few murmurs sounded, most from behind the row where I sat, but President Jamison paid no heed. “At the conclusion of my woeful tale, I was allowed to join the freshman class, despite not having all my paperwork filled out, or knowing how the hell I’d pay my tuition.”
She lifted her head to smile. “This is the part where I get to publicly thank a generous private benefactor. You’re about to see the dividend.” She lowered her eyes to the page once more.
“And yet, as I sit, staring at a blank exam booklet, charged with having to write another story to earn my way out the door of this magnificent sanctuary, several things become clear.”
“With apologies to my distinguished professors, every important thing I know, I learned from a racin’ man.”
Dr. Jamison’s thick tassel swung while she nodded. “I learned self-reliance when I was given the keys to a ’71 ‘Cuda, but wasn’t allowed to take it out of the driveway until I could change a tire, check the oil, and swap out a fuel filter to get a better run.”
“I learned everything I need to know about the laws of physics when that same car tipped up on two wheels. With apologies to my religion professors, I only learned that I truly did believe in God when I landed on all four tires, safe and sound, only to flip the same car twice, just two days later.”
“I walked away, but I cowered for a while after that accident. And yet, when a racin’ man challenged me to drive again, I got behind the wheel and clocked my fastest time to date, because he taught me that nothing feels better than facing my fear and whippin’ its ass.”
Chuckles—mostly masculine—pinged around the huge space.
“I learned money management in the front seat of a ’93 Dodge Ram, from a life-long racin’ man who could turn fifty bucks into five thousand by days’ end, may he rest in peace.”
Something dripped onto my robe, making dark dots. I swiped away the unexpected tears. Without a doubt, the strangled sob somewhere behind me belonged to Francine.
“I learned philosophy—the difference between what we do fo
r money and what we do for love—from the racin’ man who owns the drag strip at the county fairground back home, and I learned that when your dreams die, you’re doomed, from the man who owns the drag strip right down the road in Greer.”
“I learned to take pride in the details—and in my adopted family—when I was told, ‘hand wash or drive dirty and a Hannah never drives dirty’.”
I felt the curious gazes that turned my way, but kept my eyes on my clenched hands.
“I learned diligence, to avoid the trap of mental laziness, because one racin’ man spat the words, ‘never trust the technology’, when something important was at stake.”
“And most of all, I learned to put my nose on the start line, even if I think I’ll get beat, from a racin’ man who believes that if a thing’s worth doing, you put the hammer down and don’t look back to see what’s gaining on you, because that’s your spotter’s job.”
I squared my shoulders and raised my chin.
“In all fairness, this institution did offer me similar lessons, but the covers of a text book and the safety of a lecture hall never captured my interest half as well as the colorful phrases and adrenaline-soaked atmosphere of auto racing. While here, I think I learned as much about what I’d left behind as I did about my chosen fields of study. This education is a paint job, if you will, an attractive graphic applied over the rough-sanded metal hull of the young girl who walked through these gates, but a racin’ man helped me decipher the engine inside my own chest, and he gave me the guts to run it wide open.”
“And, if the racin’ man I love most could talk right now, I know he’d tell me that it’s time. Time to put the pedal to the metal. So, I’m going to accept my diploma, and I thank you kindly for the refuge and the education I found here. For the genteel lessons that served to buttress the rough-and-tumble education given me by every racin’ man I know.”
She cleared her throat again, and I was stunned to realize she struggled not to cry.
“And, when I turn my tassel and walk through the gates, keep your eyes on me. I never managed an A in creative writing. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to write the book that’s on my heart. I’m painfully aware that my art is too commercial to be called ‘art’, but I already have designs licensed by NASCAR, thanks to a racin’ man. And, I’ve accepted the job that will make me the Chief Operations Officer for a new NASCAR race team next season.”
She lowered the page and stared into my eyes, smiling broadly. A bright tear streaked down one cheek.
“And if anything I’ve done, or if what I do next, offends anyone, then those folks can kiss my red-headed, NASCAR-man lovin’, college-educated, country girl ass.”
She laid the page on the podium, and when she spoke again, her voice rang to the highest rafter, to be heard above the applause and laughter.
“Quite a failure, indeed.” Her grin belied the words. “On a personal note, I recommend you keep your eyes on the sports section, because this particular young woman has a way of making me believe every word when she tells me a story. And, when she breaks through that barrier and strides into the testosterone-soaked world of NASCAR, you can bet your,”—she cleared her throat again—“I plan to take full credit for our part in her success.”
I shot the man who’d never given me anything above a B a smug glare. Roots and wings. There you go, motherfucker.
Dr. Jamison continued, “Recently, I had occasion to meet one of the racin’ men that influenced this student’s life. I found him all alone in Wilson Hall, wringing the stuffing out of his baseball cap and overwhelming a wing chair I’d never thought of as dainty.”
She cleared her throat again. “I regret to say, Mr. Hannah isn’t with us today. He’s fighting to regain consciousness in a Charlotte trauma center. Please join me in a moment of prayer for his recovery. The world cannot afford to lose a man like Dale Hannah. Show me a man who will defy convention to instill the identical skills and values in his daughter that he infuses into his sons, and I will show you hope for all mankind.”
I lost the battle not to sob. Vickie Holloway tucked a tissue into my hand, then slid an arm around my shoulder.
“And now, the moment these ladies have worked so hard for.” President Jamison raised her hands. While the first row got to their feet, my mentor moved to stand by a table laden with small leatherette folders.
“Mischa Elaine Aarons.” While Mischa climbed the short set of stairs to the stage, I battled for self-control and wondered what Dale was doing right this minute. I knew Caine was pacing while he waited for Colt’s car to clear inspection.
And before I knew it, it was time for my row to stand. The line moved forward at a steady pace. Glancing over my shoulder when I reached the third step, I spied Francine, elegant in black. She waggled her fingers and then dabbed her eyes. Mom sat next to her, sobbing so hard that Caroline put an arm around her. Little Shelby waved with both hands from her perch on Jonny’s knee. Smiling through my tears, I turned my back and moved forward.
I’d lost and gained so much here, it was impossible to reckon up the score, but I knew I’d miss this place as surely as I knew that where I was going was where I belonged.
“Shelby Anne Hannah.”
I straightened my shoulders and made the final step onto the stage. President Jamison extended the leatherette case embossed with my name in gold. Underneath rested a fat manila file folder, with my signature across the unmarred tape that sealed the flap.
“Congratulations, Shelby.” I clutched the hand she extended and stared into her eyes, their honeyed shade as familiar to me as my mother’s green ones. “There must be quite a twist somewhere in the middle chapters of that story. I look forward to reading an autographed copy one day.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.” I clutched her hand, reaching across to accept the folders.
“You just did.” She nodded, letting go to reach for the next diploma.
The envelope seemed to weigh more than a few hundred sheets of paper accounted for. Then, I realized, a young woman’s roots lay tangled inside.
Now, she had wings as well.
Chapter Forty-Four
Dale’s eyes were closed when I peered around the door. The television played, but on mute. That’s different.
I crossed the room on tiptoe, trying not clomp in my cowboy boots.
“It’s not gonna end like this, you know.” I laid my diploma on the edge of Dale’s hospital tray. “I refuse to accept that. So listen up. I just graduated. Mom paid a professional videographer to film the ceremony. You will watch it later.” I slid my hand underneath his and squeezed his fingers. His eyelids opened a sliver. His fingers tightened, nearly crushing my hand.
“Jill?” The ragged whisper stopped my heart. I stared in horror as a tear slid down his cheek.
I stared in horror. “No, Dale. I’m Shelby.”
He blinked several times, then shook off my hand. Stung by his rejection, I watched the tender heat in his eyes fade to resignation. How many times had my mother watched that same descent into disappointment? Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry.
“If you ain’t real, then I don’t wanna wake up,” he mumbled.
My heart sped—half with outrage, half with pity. I tapped the side of his face few times.
“I’m not Jill, but I’m here, and I need you to open your eyes. Colt and I are both racing tonight. We need you to wake up, sit up, and give us a little backup.” I held my breath until his eyes opened again.
Cocking one brow, he lifted his right hand, flexing his fingers. Peering into the darkened bathroom, he scowled. “Where’s the preacher?”
My heart stuttered. “That’s just a dream, Dale. I’m the only one here.”
His hoarse cough, paired with a plaintive look at the sweating pitcher on the bedside table, made me jump to fill a cup with water. He sipped every drop through the straw before he fell onto the pillow. Sweat dotted his forehead. The half-inch of dark hair covering the lower half of his face—and the brac
kets of white at his temples—only emphasized the blazing blue eyes.
Dale raked his nails through his hair, leaving the dark waves tousled. “Got a smoke?”
“No.” I frowned. “You don’t smoke.”
His scowl faded to a naughty grin. “Wrong. Just ‘cause I don’t buy ‘em no more, don’t mean I quit. I just smoke less’n I used to, ‘cause everybody else quit.”
The scowl returned, as if he was pissed that his friends cut off his supply. Was this Dale, unfiltered? I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I dug through my purse, retrieving the pack of Juicy Fruit.
He beamed at the gum. “You always were my favorite.”
“Of course I am.” I held the stick out, but pulled it away when he reached for it. “Teach me how to pop it.”
He snagged the piece. I cringed at the difficulty he had removing the paper and foil, but focused on peeling my own stick. He wouldn’t want my help anymore than I’d wanted his, when the shoe had been on the other foot.
“That doc said I’d have to go to rehab to get my hands workin’ right again.” He finally folded the stick over three times. He popped the gum into his mouth. I followed suit.
Propping my crossed heels on the footboard, I grinned. “Well, if you don’t wanna go to rehab, don’t go to fuckin’ rehab. I reckon you’ve earned the right to make your own decisions. Either way, I’m looking forward to having you all to myself for a while.”
His eyes warmed. Did he become more ‘in the moment’ with each passing heartbeat, or was that wishful thinking?
“Get it softened up. Chew it sorta flat and long. Let it rest on your back teeth. Then, usin’ the side of your tongue, push air into it when you stretch it. Fold it over. Chomp down and pop the bubbles you trapped inside.”
He lifted the leatherette case and flipped it open. “Bachelor of Arts. Shelby Anne Hannah. Damn, sugar. I sure wanted to be there. Every time that bitch of a nurse helps me got up to piss, I think I’ll pass out ‘fore I get to the door.”
