Art of Racing in the Rain, The

by Garth Stein

  Later in the evening, the doorbell rang. Denny answered it. Mark Fein was there.

  “It’s time,” he said.

  Denny nodded and called for Zoë.

  “This was a major victory for us, Dennis,” Mark said. “It means a lot. You understand that, right?”

  Denny nodded, but he was sad. Like Zoë.

  “Every other weekend, Friday after school until Sunday after dinner, she’s yours,” Mark said. “And every Wednesday, you pick her up after school and deliver her before eight o’clock, right?”

  “Right,” Denny said.

  Mark Fein looked at Denny for a long time without speaking.

  “I’m fucking proud of you,” he said, finally. “I don’t know what goes on in that head of yours, but you’re a fucking competitor.”

  Denny breathed in deeply.

  “That’s what I am,” he agreed.

  And Mark Fein took Zoë away. She had just returned and she was going away again. It took me some time to fully grasp the situation, but I understood, ultimately, that the court case earlier in the day was not Denny’s criminal trial, but a custody hearing, a hearing that had been delayed over and over, put off for months because the lawyers were going to their houses on Lopez Island with their own families and the judge was going to Cle Elum to his ranch. I felt betrayed; I knew that those people, those officials of the court, had no clue as to the feelings I had witnessed that night at the dinner table. If they had, they would have stopped everything, canceled all of their other obligations, and ensured a swift resolution to our situation.

  As it was, we had taken only our first step. The restraining order had been quashed. Denny had won visitation rights. But Zoë was still in the custody of the Evil Twins. Denny was still on trial for a felony charge he didn’t deserve. Nothing had been solved.

  And yet. I had seen them together. I had seen them look at each other and giggle with relief. Which reaffirmed my faith in the balance of the universe. And while I understood that we had merely successfully navigated the first turn of a very long race, I felt that things boded well for us; Denny was not one to make mistakes, and with fresh tires and a full load of fuel, he would prove a formidable foe to anyone challenging him.

  41

  The flash and fury of a sprint race are grand. The strategies and skill of a race of five hundred miles are spectacular. But the race for the true racer is the enduro. Eight hours, twelve hours. Twenty-four. Even twenty-five. I introduce you to one of the forgotten names in automotive racing history: Luigi Chinetti.

  Chinetti was a tireless driver who participated in every motorsports race at Le Mans from 1932 through 1953. He is known mostly for winning the first ever Ferrari victory at the 24 Hours of Le Mans, in 1949. Chinetti drove more than twenty-three-and-one-half of those twenty-four hours. For twenty minutes, he relinquished control of the car to his co-driver, Peter Mitchell-Thompson, the car’s owner, a baron from Scotland. That is all. Chinetti drove all but twenty minutes of the twenty-four hours. And he won.

  A brilliant driver, mechanic, and businessman, Luigi Chinetti later convinced Ferrari to sell their cars in the United States, and he convinced them to grant him the first—and for many years, the only—Ferrari dealership in this country. He sold expensive red automobiles to very rich people, and they paid very rich prices for their toys. Chinetti always kept his client list confidential, shunning the garish light of conspicuous consumption.

  A great man, Luigi Chinetti. Clever and smart and resourceful. He died in 1994 at the age of ninety-three years. I often wonder who he is now, who possesses his soul. Does a child know his own spiritual background, his own pedigree? I doubt it. But somewhere, a child surprises himself with his endurance, his quick mind, his dexterous hands. Somewhere a child accomplishes with ease that which usually takes great effort. And this child, who has been blind to his past but whose heart still beats for the thrill of the race, this child’s soul awakens.

  And a new champion walks among us.

  42

  How quickly.

  How quickly a year passes, like a mouthful of food snatched from the maw of eternity.

  How quickly.

  With little drama, comparatively speaking, to mark the months, they slipped by, one by one, until another fall lay before us. And still, almost nothing had changed. Back and forth, round and round, the lawyers danced and played their game, which was merely a game to them. But not to us.

  Denny took Zoë on schedule, every other weekend, every Wednesday afternoon. He took her to places of cultural enrichment. Art museums. Science exhibits. The zoo and the aquarium. He taught her things. And sometimes, on secret missions, he took us to the go-karts.

  Ah. The electric karts. She was just big enough to fit when he took her. And she was good. She knew the karts immediately, as if she had been born to them. She was quick.

  How quickly.

  With little instruction she climbed behind the wheel, tucked her golden hair into a helmet, buckled her harness, and was off. No fear. No hesitation. No waiting.

  “You take her to Spanaway?” the worker boy asked Denny after her very first session.

  Spanaway was a place south of us where children often practiced go-karting on an outdoor course.

  “Nope,” Denny replied.

  “’Cause she could kick your ass,” the kid said.

  “I doubt it.” Denny laughed.

  The worker kid glanced nervously at the clock. He looked through the glass barrier to the cash register people. It was mid-afternoon, after the lunch rush and before anyone showed up for the evening activities. The place was empty except for us; they only let me in because I had been there before and I had never created a problem.

  “So take a session,” the kid said. “She wins, you pay. You win, you don’t pay.”

  “You’re on,” Denny said, grabbing a helmet from the rack of helmets that people can borrow—he hadn’t bothered to bring his own.

  They started their race, a flying start, with Denny giving Zoë a bit of an edge, taking it easy on her. For several laps he dogged her, stayed on her back tires, let her know he was there. Then he tried to pass her.

  And she slammed the door on him.

  He tried again to pass. She slammed the door.

  Again. Same result. It was like she knew where he was at every moment. In a kart with no mirrors. Wearing a helmet that allowed no peripheral vision. She felt him. She knew.

  When he made his moves, she shut him down. Every single time.

  Consider that she had a tremendous advantage, being only sixty pounds to his one hundred fifty. That’s a huge weight differential in karting. Still. Consider that he was a thirty-year-old semiprofessional race car driver and she was a seven-year-old neophyte. Consider the possibilities.

  She took the checker, God bless her little soul. She took the checker and beat her old man. And I was so happy. I was so happy that I didn’t mind it when I had to wait in the car while they went into Andy’s Diner for French fries and milk shakes.

  How did Denny sustain himself for the duration of this ordeal? Here’s how: He had a secret. His daughter was better and quicker and smarter than he was. And while the Evil Twins may have restricted his ability to see her, when he was allowed to see her, he received all the energy he needed to maintain his focus.

  43

  “This is not a conversation I like to have,” Mark Fein said, leaning back on the iron chair until it groaned with fatigue. “It’s one I have too often.”

  Spring, again. Victrola. Dark chocolate eyes.

  I slept at my master’s feet on the sidewalk of Fifteenth Avenue, which had been warmed by the sun like a cooking stone. Slept and sprawled, barely lifting my head to acknowledge the occasional petting I received from the passersby, all of whom, on some level, wanted to be more like me: able to enjoy a nap in the sun without guilt, without worry. Little did they know that, in fact, I was quite apprehensive, as I always was at our meetings with Mark.

  “I’m r
eady,” Denny said.

  “Money.”

  Denny nodded to himself and sighed. “I’ve missed some invoices.”

  “You owe me a shitload, Dennis,” Mark clarified. “I’ve been giving you slack, but I have to cut you off.”

  “Give me another thirty days of slack,” Denny said.

  “Can’t do it, friend.”

  “Yes, you can,” Denny said firmly. “Yes. You can.”

  Mark sucked on his latte.

  “I have investigators. Lie detector specialists. Paralegals. Support staff. I have to pay these people.”

  “Mark,” Denny said. “I’m asking you for a favor. Give me thirty days.”

  “You’ll be paid in full?” Mark asked.

  “Thirty days.”

  Mark finished his coffee drink and stood.

  “Okay. Thirty days. Our next meeting is at Café Vita.”

  “Why Café Vita?” Denny asked.

  “My dark chocolate eyes. They left for a richer roast. She’s at Café Vita, so that’s where our next meeting will be. As long as you pay your bill. Thirty days.”

  “I’ll pay,” Denny said. “You keep working.”

  44

  The solution had been put to Denny by Mark Fein: if Denny were to quit his claim to Zoë, the criminal charges would vanish. That’s what Mark Fein said. As simple as that.

  Of course, that was speculation on his part. The Evil Twins didn’t tell him that outright, but, drawing on his experience, Mark Fein knew. Because the mother of the girl was Trish’s cousin, was part of it. And also because their lawyer had made it clear in the initial hearings that they did not wish for Denny to spend any time in jail for his offense. They simply wanted him to be registered as a sex offender. Sex offenders don’t get custody of their little girls.

  “They’re very devious,” Mark noted. “And they’re very good.”

  “As good as you?” Denny wondered.

  “No one is as good as me. But they’re very good.”

  At one point Mark even counseled Denny that perhaps the best thing for Zoë would be to stay with her grandparents, as they were better able to provide for the comforts of her childhood, as well as pay for her college education, when that became necessary. Further, Mark suggested, were Denny not to be the principal caregiver for Zoë, he would be much more able to accept instructing and driving jobs out of state, as well as participate in racing series worldwide, if he so chose. He noted that a child needs a stable home environment, which, he said, could be best provided in a single housing location and with consistent schooling, preferably in the suburbs, or at a private school in an urban neighborhood. Mark assured Denny he would settle for nothing short of a liberal visitation schedule. He spent quite a long time convincing Denny of these truths.

  I wasn’t convinced. Of course, I understood that a race car driver must be selfish. Success at any endeavor on an elite level demands selfishness. But for Mark Fein to say Denny should put his own needs above the needs of his family because concurrent success in both fields was impossible was simply wrong. Many of us have convinced ourselves that compromise is necessary to achieve our goals, that all of our goals are not attainable so we should eliminate the extraneous, prioritize our desires, and accept less than the moon. But Denny refused to yield to that idea. He wanted his daughter and he wanted his racing career and he refused to give up one for the other.

  Things change quickly on a racecourse. I remember watching one of Denny’s races, when I had accompanied him to the track and was looked after by his crew. We watched near the start/finish line as, with one lap remaining, Denny was in third place, behind two other cars. They drove past us, and when they came back around for the checkered flag, Denny was by himself; he won the race. When asked how he had overtaken two cars on the final lap, he simply smiled and said that when he saw the starter wag one finger, meaning it was the last lap, he got a flash, and he said to himself, “I will win this race.” One of the racers ahead of him spun off the track, the other locked up his wheels and gave Denny an easy opening to pass.

  “It’s never too late,” Denny said to Mark. “Things change.”

  Very true. Things change quickly. And, as if to prove it, Denny sold our house.

  We had no money left. They had sucked him dry. Mark had threatened to cease working for Denny’s defense. There was little else Denny could do.

  He rented a truck from U-Haul and called on his friends, and one weekend that summer, we moved all of our belongings from our house in the Central District to a one-bedroom apartment on Capitol Hill.

  I loved our house. It was small, I know. Two bedrooms and one bathroom. And the yard was too small for a good running. And sometimes at night the buses on the street were too loud. But I had grown attached to my spot in the living room on the hardwood floor, which was very warm in the winter when the sun streamed in through the window. And I loved using my dog door, which Denny had installed for me so I could venture into the backyard at will. I would often go out on the back porch on a cold and rainy day when Denny was at work and sit and breathe and watch the movement of the tree branches and smell the rain.

  But that was no more. That was gone. From that point forward, my days were spent in an apartment with carpeting that smelled of chemicals, insulated windows that didn’t breathe properly, and a refrigerator that hummed too loudly and seemed to work too hard to keep the food cold. And no cable TV.

  Still, I tried to make the best of it. If I squeezed myself into the corner between the arm of the sofa and the sliding glass door that opened onto a balcony that was too small to be considered a balcony at all, if I wedged myself just so, I could see past the building across the street and, through a narrow gap, I could see the Space Needle with its little bronze elevators that tirelessly whisked visitors from the ground to the sky and back again.

  45

  Denny paid his account with Mark Fein. Shortly afterward, Mark Fein was appointed to be a circuit judge, something about which I know little, except that it is a lifetime appointment, it is quite prestigious, and it is not refusable. Denny found a new lawyer who didn’t meet at Café Vita or Victrola Coffee because he didn’t care for young girls with eyebrow piercings and chocolate eyes. Whereas Mark Fein was a letter B, this new one was a letter L. Mr. Lawrence. Laconic, laid-back, lugubrious…Mark had spark and fire. This one had very large ears.

  This one asked for a continuance, which is what you can do in the legal world if you need time to read all the paperwork. And while I understood it was necessary, I was still concerned. Mark Fein had carried himself with the energy of someone who had already won the game and was politely waiting for you to count the chips to discover your loss. Mr. Lawrence might have been very capable, but he carried himself more like a hound without a hunt: a let-me-know-when-you’re-ready look on his sad face. And so while it had seemed like we were getting close to the reckoning, suddenly the horizon shot away from us and, again, we were waiting for the legal wheels to turn, which they did, but exceedingly slowly.

  Shortly after Denny began working with our new representation, we received more bad news. The Evil Twins were suing Denny for child support.

  Dastardly, is how Mark Fein had described them. So now, in addition to taking his child from him, they demanded he pay for the food they fed her?

  Mr. Lawrence defended their action as a legitimate tactic, ruthless as it might be. He posed to Denny a question: “Does the end always justify the means?” And then, he answered it: “Apparently, for them, it does.”

  I have an imaginary friend. I call him King Karma. I know that karma is a force in this universe, and that people like the Evil Twins will receive karmic justice for their actions. I know that this justice will come when the universe deems it appropriate, and it may not be in this lifetime but in the next, or the one after that. The current consciousness of the Evil Twins may never feel the brunt of the karma they have incurred, though their souls absolutely will. I understand this concept.

  But
I don’t like it. And so my imaginary friend does things for me. If you are mean to someone, King Karma will swoop out of the sky and call you names. If you kick someone, King Karma will bound from an alley and kick you back. If you are cruel and vicious, King Karma will administer a fitting punishment.

  At night, before I sleep, I talk to my imaginary friend and I send him to the Evil Twins, and he exacts his justice. It may not be much, but it’s what I can do. Every night, King Karma gives them very bad dreams in which they are chased mercilessly by a pack of wild dogs until they awaken with a start, unable to fall asleep again.

  46

  It was an especially difficult winter for me. Perhaps it was the stairs in our apartment building. Or maybe it was my genetic deficiency catching up to me. Or maybe I was just tired of being a dog.

  I so longed to shed this body, to be free of it. I spent my lonely, joyless days watching the people who walked by on the street below, all going somewhere, all with important destinations. And me. Unable to unlock the door and go to greet them. And, even if I had been able to greet them, I had a dog’s tongue and therefore would have been unable to speak to them. Unable to shake their hands. How I wanted to talk to these people! How I wanted to engage them in life! I wanted to participate, not just to observe; I wanted to judge the world around me, not merely be a supportive friend.

  And, looking back, I can tell you it was my state of mind, it was my outlook on life, that attracted me to that car and attracted that car to me. That which we manifest is before us.

  We walked back from Volunteer Park late in the night, extending our usual quick jaunt because of the special weather conditions. It was not too cold and not too warm, a gentle breeze blew, and snow fell from the sky. I was unsettled by the snow, I remember. Seattle is rain. Warm rain or cold rain, Seattle is rain. Seattle is not snow. There are far too many hills for Seattle to be able to tolerate snow. And yet there was snow.