“Yes, we hope!” Gondor shot back. “We have no desire to see these two hurt, but we have our instructions. The sale of the planes must be stopped. And right now, it is up to us to do so.”
By six o’clock that same evening, the large hall was full. Almost everyone had crowded around the four highly polished, parallel wooden tracks that were set up near the stage. There were half again as many children as adults, and many of the boys were in Cub Scout uniforms. The sound level was deafening, and the official starter for the pinewood derby races had to shout to make himself heard. “All right, let’s hold it down a little. We’re ready for the next heat.”
His plea had no effect on the noise, and with a shrug he looked at the clipboard, then yelled: “Darrin Warner, Kevin McInnes, Seth Anthony, and Brad Armstrong.” He looked around. Three boys in Cub Scout uniforms stepped forward with their fathers. “Darrin? Where’s Darrin Warner?”
A muffled shout from behind the crowd was heard, and another boy in a blue uniform pushed his way to the front, with his father trailing close behind. As they passed Brett Jeppson, he saw that Darrin’s car had been shaped into a sleek, Corvettelooking shape. It was painted metallic blue and had neatly stenciled, white racing stripes. As Darrin reached the track and handed his car up to the starter, Brett saw the underside of the car. Just in front of the rear wheels there was a round hole that gleamed with the dull sheen of metal.
Valerie saw the look on his face. “What’s the matter, Brett?”
“See, I told you. Did you see Darrin’s car?”
She shook her head.
“They drilled a plug out of the bottom and filled it with lead. You gotta do that, Valerie.”
Valerie put her arm around his shoulder. “Brett, we didn’t have anything to drill the hole with. And we don’t have any lead.”
He pulled away from her. “It doesn’t have to be lead. It can be pennies or nails. Anything to give it weight.”
“I’m sorry, Brett. I’m sure it will be all right.”
Mary touched his shoulder. “Your car looks very nice, Brett.”
He glanced down in disgust. The back end was still square, the nose rounded like the front end of a lawn mower. The only paint they had been able to find was the pale yellow latex his father had used to paint the bathroom some months before. Even the numbered decals weren’t on exactly straight. Brett dropped the car closer to his leg, so no one could see it.
The official had the four cars now and set them on the track. They rolled forward to rest against the starting gate. Brett edged forward to see better.
“We’ll run two heats. The winner of the first heat will drop out for the second. The winner of both the first and second races will compete in the final ‘Race of Champions.’”
There was a momentary drop in the noise level, then a shout went up as the starting gate was raised and the cars shot down the incline. Darrin Warner’s blue Corvette flashed ahead, hit the level stretch, and coasted to a stop a good two feet further out than any other car.
Seth Anthony’s car easily won the second heat. There was brief applause, and then the man consulted his clipboard again. “Josh Morgan, Brian Keebler, Brett Jeppson, and Kyle Carver. Let’s have the next four.”
Mary pushed gently on his back. “Okay, Brett. That’s you.”
He held his ground, dropping his head. “I don’t want to.”
Valerie leaned over, putting her arm around him. “Brett. It’s your turn. You’ve got to go up there.”
“I don’t want to race.”
At that moment, Matt pushed in to stand beside his brother. “Brett, they called you.”
“Brett Jeppson,” the official called again, more loudly this time.
Valerie gave him a little shove, and he took a deep breath, then stepped forward to hand the car to the offical without looking up.
“Same rules apply to this heat. The two winners will compete in the finals.”
The starting gate went up. Brian Keebler’s car shot forward into the lead, the other three close behind. To that point, Brett’s yellow lawnmower was holding its own, but as it hit the bottom of the incline, where the track leveled out, the front end was too long, or perhaps the wheel base was not aligned properly, because the car bottomed, jerking the front end to one side. The left wheel hit the side of the track, and the car ground to a halt several feet short of where the others had come to rest.
Brett felt a hand on his shoulder. “What happened, Son?” An adult den leader was at his side. He picked up the car, spun the wheels. “Hey, don’t worry about it. Let’s try it again.”
“Okay,” cried the starter, “bring them up here for the second heat. Winner drops out.”
Brett felt his face burning with shame, and he didn’t even look up this time as he heard the quick hush, the sudden shout, and the sound of the cars on the track. As several disappointed “ohs” sounded in his ear, he looked up, then blindly reached out and grabbed his car. It had been an instant replay of the first heat, and his car sat far back from all the rest.
“It’s all right, Brett,” Matt said loyally as he rejoined Mary and Valerie. Brett just stared straight ahead, dimly aware of the looks of the other boys and the murmured attempts at comfort from the adults. Valerie, close to tears herself, put her hand on his shoulder. He jerked away.
“Brett,” Mary said kindly. “It’s all right.”
He whirled around, tears streaming down his face. “It’s not all right!” he whispered fiercely, aware that others were turning to watch. He ducked his head and pushed through the crowd.
“Brett!” Mary called after him.
“It’s all right, Mom,” Valerie said. “I’ll go talk to him. You stay with Matt.”
She found him in the back hallway, shoulder against a doorway, staring at the floor. “Brett,” she called softly, moving slowly toward him.
“Leave me alone!”
She stopped a few feet away. “Brett, I’m sorry it didn’t go better. Let’s see if we can fix it. I’m sure they’ll let you try again.”
He spun around. “I won’t race this stupid car!” he shouted. “It’s a dumb, stupid car!”
Valerie flinched. “Brett, that’s not true. It didn’t win, but—”
“I didn’t want to come! You made me come!”
Suddenly he whirled and threw the car against the wall with all his might. It shattered, spraying pieces across the hall. A black plastic wheel bounced twice, then rolled several feet down the polished tile.
“I didn’t want to come with you!” he shouted, crying openly now. “I wanted to come with my dad!”
It was nearly eleven-thirty when Marc slipped through the garage door and into the kitchen. As he set down his bag, he noticed the light in the living room was on. Surprised, he crossed softly to the entryway and into the other room. Valerie was sitting on the couch watching him steadily.
“Hi,” he said. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“I told Mother to go home and sleep.”
He came over and sat down beside her with a weary sigh. “I’m sorry we’re so late. We left early this morning so we could get back, but then we had to wait two hours to refuel in Guatemala, and it took almost three hours to clear customs in L. A.”
“How was the trip?” Her voice held little life.
“Kind of odd, actually. We got the job done, but it wasn’t nearly as critical as Gerritt led us to believe. But it went well.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re home.” She stood. “I’d better go.”
He looked at her closely. “Let me run you home.”
“It’s only a couple of blocks. I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m not going to have you walking out this late at night. Come on.”
He stopped for a moment, fumbled in his bag, then led her out to the car. The Volkswagen was gone now, but in its place Marc had a Chrysler LeBaron convertible, another company car from Barclay Enterprises. He was glad, for he didn’t want bucket sea
ts between them tonight.
Valerie was quiet the short distance to her home, and when he pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine, she immediately reached for the door handle. “Thank you, Marc. Good night.”
“Valerie!”
She didn’t open the door, but neither did she turn around. “What?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. It’s late. I’m very tired.”
“I know. I really am sorry we were so late.” He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a small box. “I brought you something from Bogotá.”
Finally she turned around to look at him. He reached across and set the box in her lap. She took it without looking up, unwrapped it slowly.
“It’s a tiny replica of one of the artifacts in the Gold Museum in Bogotá.”
“It’s very lovely.”
He sat back. “Well, I’m glad you’re able to contain yourself.”
Her head snapped up, and for several seconds her eyes locked with his, bitterness tightening her mouth. Then she suddenly shook her head and looked away, but not before he saw the glint of tears in her eyes and the quiver in her lips. He moved over and touched her arm. “Valerie? What is the matter?”
She shook her head. “I need to go in, Marc.”
He took her hand. “No, not yet. I want to know what’s wrong.”
She turned then, brushing angrily at the streaks on her cheeks. “You don’t even know?” she cried.
He blinked in surprise. “No. What?”
“You think about it a minute.”
He did, then suddenly understanding dawned. “Is it Jackie?”
Valerie just stared, then laughed bitterly. “Did you have a wonderful trip together?”
“Valerie,” he said softly, “I don’t have any say in who Alex sends. Jackie is a charming and lovely woman, but—”
“It isn’t Jackie,” she snapped. “So don’t worry about trying to explain things to me.”
“Then what?” he demanded in exasperation.
She whirled, her eyes blazing. “Why don’t you ask how Brett did in the pinewood derby? Did that even cross your mind?”
Marc felt like he had been kicked in the stomach. “Oh!” He put one fist to his forehead and banged it softly. “I totally forgot.”
“Good! That will make Brett feel better.”
“Valerie, I’m sorry. I was thinking about it this morning, hoping we’d get home in time, but the day has been such a nightmare since. I…”
She was looking out the window, fingering the necklace and tiny gold figurine without looking at them.
“How did he do?”
“He got the ‘Safe Driver’ award.”
“The ‘Safe Driver’ award? Is that good or bad?”
She opened the door, suddenly very weary. “Why don’t you ask him tomorrow, Marc? That is assuming you’re going to be home long enough to see him.”
He sat back, took a deep breath, and started running his hands slowly over the steering wheel.
Valerie started to get out, stopped, and turned back half around. She sniffed back the tears. “I’m sorry, Marc. I know you’re tired too. Let’s just talk about it tomorrow.”
Marc nodded, not looking at her. She raised one hand, as though to touch him, hesitated, then let it drop again. “Thank you for the necklace, Marc.” Then she shut the door and walked slowly into the house.
Marc tiptoed quietly into Matt’s bedroom, picked up a dump truck, and set it on the toy chest. One hand was tucked under the tangled blond hair, the other was entwined in the small blanket that was Matt’s inseparable sleeping partner. Marc pulled the covers up and placed them across his son’s shoulders softly, then tiptoed out again.
The moment he entered Brett’s room, he knew his older son was still awake. There was no movement, but the thin body was rigid, the breathing shallow and controlled. Marc walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Hello, Son.”
There was neither answer nor movement.
“Valerie told me about the derby.”
Silence.
“I tried to get back. We left real early this morning from South America, but we had several delays in flight. I’m sorry, Brett. I know I promised I’d be there.”
Still nothing.
“Who had the fastest car?”
The shoulders moved slightly, and Marc waited. Finally, “Darrin Warner.”
“What did they give him?”
“A gold trophy.”
“Valerie said you got an award.”
No answer.
“Can I see it.”
“I threw it away.”
Marc sighed wearily. “I understand.” He laid his hand on Brett’s shoulder. “One of those they give just to try and make a guy feel good.”
There was an almost imperceptible nod.
“Look, Brett. I know that saying I’m sorry isn’t much better than getting the ‘Safe Driver’ award, but I am, Brett. I’m going to make it up, too.”
He stopped, but again Brett did not respond, and after several seconds he went on. “I’ve been gone a lot. It’s been hard on you guys. But I’m going to change that.”
“Does that mean you won’t be going to Washington, D.C., on Monday?”
Marc winced. “No, Brett. That’s one I just can’t get out of. But when I get back, we’ll go over to Puddingstone Reservoir and do some fishing. How would that be?”
“You can take Matt. I don’t want to go fishing.”
“What?” Marc teased. “Is this Brett Jeppson I hear talking? The Brett Jeppson who can cast a line farther than any kid I know?”
There was no answer.
“Brett?”
Nothing.
“I brought you and Matt something from South America.”
Nothing.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning, okay?”
Nothing.
Marc stood, leaned over, and kissed his son on the cheek. “Good night, Brett.”
He waited for a moment, and when the silence became too heavy to bear, he turned and walked slowly out of the room.
Chapter Twenty
The old man standing next to Marc in the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum gazed upward, where the fragile “Wright Flyer,” the plane flown by Orville and Wilbur Wright, hung a short distance from the sleek, rocket-like X-15, the first aircraft to fly at six times the speed of sound.
“The old and the new, the new and the old,” the man said in a heavily accented voice. “It seems impossible that they come from the same generation.”
Marc nodded, taking note of the man for the first time. He was lean, but with a kind face and wise eyes. His hair was completely white, and he wore a slightly rumpled black suit and a black Homburg hat.
“My grandfather was born in 1903,” Marc said. “His life spans the first powered flight to the space shuttle.”
“He is still alive then?”
“Yes. He still runs his farm in a little town in Utah.”
“Utah,” the older man smiled. “I was there not long ago. In Salt Lake City.” He held out his hand. “My name is Yaacov Shoshani. I am from Jerusalem.” He smiled, with a sparkle in his eye. “That is in Israel.”
Marc laughed. “I know.” He shook the other’s hand, which had a surprisingly firm grip. “My name is Marc Jeppson.”
“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Jeppson. So you are from Utah?”
“No, I live in California now.”
“And you came to Washington to see the sights? Is that how you say it?”
Marc nodded. “Yes, but actually, I’m here on business. Or at least I’m supposed to be.” He frowned. “I’m here with three associates, and we’re waiting for some meetings to be arranged.”
Yaacov tapped his chest with understanding. “I too.”
Marc raised an eyebrow, curious but not wanting to pry.
“While I was waiting, I decided to see some of the famous Smi
thsonian Museum.” Yaacov rolled his eyes. “I did not realize the famous museum is a whole city of museums.”
Marc laughed. “I know.”
“Well.” Yaacov looked up one last time at the two aircrafts suspended in midair. “It was delightful to meet you, Mr. Jeppson. Have a good visit to Washington.”
“You too, Mr. Shoshani. Good luck to you with your business.”
He laughed. “I will need it. Mazel tof to you as well.”
“Mazel tof and shalom,” Marc returned with a wave.
The old man shuffled off, peering up at one of the space capsules.
There was a soft knock on the hotel door. Marc was sprawled out on the bed studying a map of the downtown area, trying to decide where he would go tomorrow if they had another day free. He went to the door, still carrying the map.
It was Jackie, still dressed in the skirt and blouse she was wearing when they had all had breakfast together that morning. “Hi,” he said, noticing the weariness around her eyes.
“Hello, Marc. Can you stick your head out a minute while I get Derek? I have a message from Alex.”
“Sure.” He followed her out into the hallway and watched as she tapped on the next door. When it opened, Derek stepped out, smiling broadly. Then he saw Marc, and the smile faded.
“No luck, yet,” she said. “The earliest we can meet with the delegation is tomorrow afternoon.”
Marc groaned inwardly. That meant at least another two days here. It just kept mounting up, and every call home was getting to be more and more difficult.
“Alex would like you to be on hand from noon on, just in case, but it will probably be tomorrow evening.”
“But nothing tonight?” Derek asked.
“No.”
“A classmate of mine from Harvard lives in Alexandria. He wants me to spend the evening with him. If that’s okay, I’ll call him.”
Jackie nodded. “Fine.” As Derek went back inside, she turned to Marc. “And what did you spend the day doing?” She pulled a face. “Not sitting in your room drinking, like Derek, I hope.”
That surprised him a little.
“You mean you couldn’t smell him?” she said in disgust, waving her hand in front of her face.
Marc looked thoughtfully at the door. Derek had had several drinks the night before at dinner, to the point that Alex had finally made a comment. Derek had not liked being called down in front of Marc and Jackie and had bristled. Marc shrugged and turned back to her. “So what about tonight? Do you and Alex want to do dinner again?”
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