Art of Racing in the Rain, The

by Garth Stein

  “No, I will not sleep on it,” Denny said, rising from the chair. “You can’t have custody of my daughter. Final answer.”

  The Twins sighed simultaneously. Trish shook her head in dismay. Maxwell reached into his back pocket and removed a business envelope.

  “We didn’t want it to have to be this way,” he said, and he handed the envelope to Denny.

  “What’s this?” Denny asked.

  “Open it,” Maxwell said.

  Denny opened the envelope and removed several sheets of paper. He glanced at them briefly.

  “What does this mean?” he asked again.

  “I don’t know if you have a lawyer,” Maxwell said. “But if you don’t, you should get one. We’re suing for custody of our granddaughter.”

  Denny flinched like he had been punched in the gut. He fell back into the deck chair, his hands still clinging to the documents.

  “I finished my egg,” Zoë announced.

  None of us had noticed her return, but there she was. She climbed onto Denny’s lap.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. “Grandma can make you an egg, too.”

  “No,” he said apologetically. “I’m not hungry.”

  She thought a moment. “Are you still sad?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said after a pause. “I’m still very sad.”

  “Me, too,” she agreed, and she laid her head on his chest.

  Denny looked at the Twins. Maxwell’s long arm hung on Trish’s narrow shoulders like some kind of heavy chain. And then I saw something change in Denny. I saw his face tighten with resolve.

  “Zoë,” he said, standing her up. “You run inside and pack your things, okay?”

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “We’re going home now.”

  Zoë smiled and started off, but Maxwell stepped forward.

  “Zoë, stop right there,” he said. “Daddy has some errands he has to run. You’ll stay with us for now.”

  “How dare you!” Denny said. “Who do you think you are?”

  “I’m the one who’s been raising her for the past eight months,” Maxwell said, his jaw set.

  Zoë looked from her father to her grandfather. She didn’t know what to do. No one knew what to do. It was a standoff. And then Trish stepped in.

  “Run inside and put your dolls together,” she said to Zoë, “while we talk a little more.”

  Zoë reluctantly withdrew.

  “Let her stay with us, Denny,” Trish pleaded. “We can work this out. I know we can work it out. Let her stay with us while the lawyers come up with some kind of compromise. You were fine with her staying here before.”

  “You begged me to let her stay here,” Denny said to her.

  “I’m sure we can work this out.”

  “No, Trish,” he said. “I’m taking her home with me.”

  “And who’s going to take care of her when you’re at work?” Maxwell snapped, shaking with anger. “When you’re off at your races for days at a time? Who will take care of her if, God forbid, she were to get sick? Or would you just ignore it, hide it from the doctors until she was on the verge of death, like you did with Eve?”

  “I didn’t hide Eve from the doctors.”

  “And yet she never saw anyone—”

  “She refused!” Denny cried out. “She refused to see anyone!”

  “You could have forced her,” Maxwell shouted.

  “No one could force Eve to do anything Eve didn’t want to do,” Denny said. “I certainly couldn’t.”

  Maxwell clenched his fists tightly. The tendons in his neck bulged.

  “And that’s why she’s dead,” he said.

  “What?” Denny asked incredulously. “This is a joke! I’m not continuing this conversation.”

  He glared at Maxwell and started toward the house.

  “I regret the day she met you,” Maxwell muttered after him.

  Denny stopped at the door and called inside.

  “Zoë, let’s go now. We can stop by later to get your dolls.”

  Zoë emerged looking confused, holding an armful of stuffed animals.

  “Can I take these?” she asked.

  “Yes, honey. But let’s go now. We’ll come back later for the rest.”

  Denny ushered her toward the path that led around to the front of the house.

  “You’re going to regret this,” Maxwell hissed at Denny as he passed. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

  “Let’s go, Enzo,” Denny said.

  We walked around to the driveway and got into our car. Maxwell followed us and watched Denny strap Zoë into her car seat. Denny started the engine.

  “You’re going to regret this,” Maxwell said again. “Mark my words.”

  Denny pulled the driver’s-side door closed with a slam that shook the car.

  “Do I have a lawyer?” he said to himself. “I work at the most prestigious BMW and Mercedes service center in Seattle. Who does he think he’s dealing with? I have a good relationship with all the best lawyers in this town. And I have their home phone numbers.”

  We pulled out of the driveway with a spray of gravel at Maxwell’s feet, and as we took off up the idyllic, twisty Mercer Island road, I couldn’t help but notice that the white van was gone. And with it, Eve.

  30

  With experience, a driver adjusts his understanding of how a car feels when it is near its limits. A driver becomes comfortable driving on the edge, so when his tires begin to lose adhesion, he can easily correct, pause, and recover. Knowing where and when he can push for a little extra becomes ingrained in his being.

  When the pressure is intense and the race is only half completed, a driver who is being chased relentlessly by a competitor realizes that he might be better off pushing from behind than pulling from the front. In that case, the smart move is to yield his lead to the trailing car and let the other driver pass. Relieved of his burden, our driver can tuck in behind and make the new leader drive his mirrors.

  Sometimes, however, it is important to hold one’s position and not allow the pass. For strategic reasons, psychological reasons. Sometimes a driver simply has to prove that he is better than his competition.

  Racing is about discipline and intelligence, not about who has the heavier foot. The one who drives smart will always win in the end.

  31

  Zoë insisted on going to school the next day, and when Denny said he would pick her up at dismissal time, she complained that she wanted to play with her friends in the after-school program. Denny reluctantly agreed.

  “I’ll pick you up a little earlier than I usually do,” he said when we dropped her off. He must have been afraid that the Twins would try to steal her away.

  From Zoë’s school, we drove up Union to Fifteenth Avenue and found a parking spot directly across from Victrola Coffee. Denny tied my leash to a bicycle stand and went inside; he returned a few minutes later with coffee and a scone. He untied me and told me to sit underneath an outdoor table, which I did. A quarter of an hour later, we were joined by someone else. A large but compact man composed of circles: round head, round torso, round thighs, round hands. There was no hair on the top of his head, but a lot on the sides. He was wearing very wide jeans and a large gray sweatshirt with a giant purple W on it.

  “Good morning, Dennis,” the man said. “Please accept my sincere condolences for your devastating loss.”

  He leaned down and forcefully embraced Denny, who sat awkwardly, hands in his lap, looking out to the street.

  “I—” Denny started, then stopped himself as the man released him and stood upright. “Of course,” Denny said uncomfortably.

  The man nodded slightly, ignoring Denny’s confused reply, and then wedged himself between the metal arms of the other sidewalk chair by our table; he was not fat, and in fact, he might have been considered muscular in some circles, yet he was very large.

  “Good-looking dog,” he said. “He has some terrier in him?
”

  I lifted my head. Me?

  “I don’t know exactly,” Denny said. “Probably.”

  “Good-looking animal,” the man mused.

  I was impressed that he noticed me at all.

  “Oh, she pulls a good latte,” the man said, slurping his coffee drink.

  “Who?” Denny asked.

  “My little barista in there. The one with the plump lips, the pierced eyebrow, and the dark chocolate eyes…”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “You’ve got a lot on your mind,” the man said. “This consultation will cost you an oil change. My gull-wing is very thirsty. An oil change, whether or not you decide to retain me.”

  “Fine.”

  “Let me see the paperwork.”

  Denny handed him the envelope Maxwell had given him. The man took it and removed the papers.

  “They said Eve told them she wanted Zoë to be raised by them.”

  “I don’t care about that,” the man said.

  “Sometimes she was on so many drugs, she would have said anything,” Denny said desperately. “She may have said it, but she couldn’t have meant it.”

  “I don’t care what anyone said or why they said it,” the man said sharply. “Children are not chattel. They cannot be given away or traded in the marketplace. Everything that happens will be done in the best interest of the child.”

  “That’s what they said,” Denny said. “Zoë’s best interest.”

  “They’re educated,” the man said. “Still, the mother’s final wishes are irrelevant. How long were you married?”

  “Six years.”

  “Any other children?”

  “No.”

  “Any secrets?”

  “None.”

  The man drank his latte and leafed through the papers. He was a curious man, full of twitches and extra movements. It took me several minutes to realize that when he touched his hand to his hip pocket, which he did frequently, it was because he had some kind of buzzing device hidden away, and by touching it he could stop its buzzing. This man’s attention was in many places at once. And yet, when he locked eyes with Denny, I could sense the totality of his focus. Denny could, too, I knew, because in those moments, Denny’s tension slackened perceptibly.

  “Are you in a drug treatment program?” the man asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you a registered sex offender?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been convicted of a felony? Spent any time in jail?”

  “No.”

  The man stuffed the papers back in the envelope.

  “This is nothing,” he said. “Where is your daughter now?”

  “She wanted to go to school. Should I have kept her home?”

  “No, that’s good. You’re being responsive to her needs. That’s important. Listen, this is not something you should be overly concerned with. I’ll demand a summary judgment. I can’t see why we won’t get it. The child will be yours free and clear.”

  Denny bristled.

  “By ‘the child’ you mean my daughter, Zoë?”

  “Yes,” the man said, sizing up Denny. “I mean your daughter, Zoë. This is Washington State, for Christ’s sake! Unless you’re cooking meth in your kitchen, the child is always awarded to the biological parent. No question.”

  “Okay,” Denny said.

  “Don’t panic. Don’t get mad. Be polite. Call them and give them my information. Tell them all correspondence has to be directed to me as your attorney. I’ll call their lawyers and let them know the big dog is in your corner. My feeling is they’re looking for a soft spot; they’re hoping you’ll go away quietly. Grandparents are like that. Grandparents are convinced they’re better parents than their own kids, whose lives they’ve already fucked up. The problem is, grandparents are pains in the ass because they have money. Do they have money?”

  “Plenty.”

  “And you?”

  “Oil changes for life,” Denny said with a forced smile.

  “Oil changes ain’t going to cut it, Dennis. My rate is four-fifty an hour. I need a twenty-five-hundred-dollar retainer. Do you have it?”

  “I’ll get it,” Denny said.

  “When? Today? This week? Next week?”

  Denny looked at him hard.

  “This is my daughter, Mark. I promise on my soul you’ll get every dollar you have coming to you. She’s my daughter. Her name is Zoë. And I would appreciate it if you would use her name, or at least a gender-correct pronoun, when you refer to her.”

  Mark sucked in his cheeks and nodded.

  “I totally understand, Dennis. She’s your daughter, and her name is Zoë. And I understand that you’re a friend and I trust you. I apologize for even questioning. Sometimes I get people…” He paused. “Me to you, Dennis? We’re talking about seven or eight grand to make this thing go away. You can do that, right? Of course you can. I waive my retainer for you, my friend.” He stood up and the chair almost stood with him, but he shucked himself out of it before it embarrassed him in front of the Victrola crowd. “This is a totally bogus custody suit. I can’t even imagine why they would bother to file it. Call the in-laws—your in-laws—and tell them everything goes through me. I’ll have the paralegal on this today—my paralegal. I really have a problem with my pronouns, don’t I? Thanks for pointing it out. Trust me, they didn’t see this coming. They’re playing you for a sucker, and you aren’t a sucker, are you, champ?”

  He cuffed Denny on the chin.

  “Be cool with them,” Mark said. “Don’t get angry. Be cool, and everything is in little Zoë’s best interest, got it? Always say everything is for her. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Denny said.

  The man paused solemnly.

  “How are you holding up, friend?”

  “I’m fine,” Denny said.

  “Taking time off? A head-clearing walk with…What’s his name?”

  “Enzo.”

  “Good name. Good-looking dog.”

  “He’s upset,” Denny said. “I’m taking him to work with me today. I don’t feel comfortable leaving him home alone.”

  “Maybe you should take some time off,” Mark said. “Your wife just passed away. Plus this nonsense. Craig will give you some time off, and if he doesn’t, I’ll call him and rattle his cage with the threat of a workplace harassment suit.”

  “Thanks, Mark,” Denny said. “But I can’t stay home right now. It reminds me too much—”

  “Ah.”

  “I need to work. I need to do something. Keep moving.”

  “Understood,” Mark said. “Say no more.”

  He gathered his bag.

  “I have to admit,” he said, “watching you win that race on TV was pretty sweet. Where was that? Last year?”

  “Watkins Glen,” Denny said.

  “Yeah. Watkins Glen. That was sweet. The wife had some people over and I was barbecuing and I turned on the little TV in the kitchen and the guys were watching…sweet.”

  Denny smiled, but it was without conviction.

  “You’re a good man, Dennis,” Mark said. “I’ll take care of this. Of all the things you have to worry about, this is not one of them. You let me worry about this part. You take care of your daughter, okay?”

  “Thanks.”

  Mark trundled off down the street, and when he had rounded the corner, Denny looked at me and held his hands out in front of himself. They were shaking. He didn’t say anything, but he looked at his hands trembling and then he looked at me, and I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking that if he just had a steering wheel to hold on to, his hands wouldn’t shake. If he had a steering wheel to hold on to, everything would be all right.

  32

  I spent most of the day hanging out in the garage with the guys who fix the cars because the owners of the shop didn’t like it when I was in the lobby where the customers could see me.

  I knew all the guys in the garage. I didn’t go to work very often, but
I’d been there enough that they all knew me and gave me a hard time by doing things like throwing wrenches across the shop and trying to get me to fetch them, and when I refused, they’d laugh and comment on how smart I was. There was one tech guy in particular, Fenn, who was really nice, and every time he walked by me he would ask: “Are you done yet?” At first I had no idea what he was talking about, but I finally figured out that one of the shop’s owners, Craig, spent most of his time asking if the techs were finished with their cars, and Fenn was just passing it on down the line to the only one who ranked below him. Me.

  “Are you done yet?”

  I felt strangely anxious that day, in a very human way. People are always worried about what’s happening next. They often find it difficult to stand still, to occupy the now without worrying about the future. People are not generally satisfied with what they have; they are very concerned with what they are going to have. A dog can almost power down his psyche and slow his anticipatory metabolism, like David Blaine attempting to set the record for holding his breath at the bottom of a swimming pool—the tempo of the world around him simply changes. On a normal dog day, I can sit still for hours on end with no effort. But that day I was anxious. I was nervous and worried, uneasy and distracted. I paced around and never felt settled. I didn’t care for the sensation, yet I realized it was possibly a natural progression of my evolving soul, and therefore I tried my best to embrace it.

  One of the garage bays was open, and a sticky drizzle fogged the air. Skip, the big funny man with the long beard, dutifully washed the cars that were ready for pickup, even though it was raining.

  “Rain isn’t dirty, dirt is dirty,” he repeated to himself, a Seattle car-washing mantra. He squeezed his clump of sponge, and soapy water rushed like a river down the windshield of an immaculately cared-for British racing green BMW 2002. I lay, head between my forelegs, just inside the threshold of the garage, watching him work.

  The day seemed like it would never end, until the Seattle police car showed up and two policemen got out.

  “Can I offer you gentlemen a wash?” Skip called to them.