Motorhead

by Kate Gilead

  “Dad. What are you talking about?” I look at him with pleading eyes.

  My dad looks to Tommy and then me again. “So, neither one of you has been told…something…by or about… one of our clients?”

  “Not me,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Me neither,” Tommy says. “Despite your poor opinion of me, I’d have, you know, kept it in confidence if asked.”

  “I don’t have a poor opinion of you, I’m merely trying to find out…”

  “Carson,” Mom says. He glances at her but keeps talking.

  “…if word of something has gotten out. So…so that I can make the right decision about…something.”

  “Carson,” Mom says again.

  “What?”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “I…well I’m trying to keep something in confidence myself! It’s important, or I wouldn’t bother.”

  “Can’t you see they don’t know whatever it is you’re talking about?”

  “Yes. I can now. But…”

  “But what? What’s wrong with you? This is bloody daft!”

  Dad stiffens. “Goddamn it, Vivian. This is about the future. Their future,” he gestures to me and my brother, “our other sons’ future, and the future of the business.”

  “Then why can’t you tell us about it?”

  “Because I’ve been asked not to, that’s why.”

  “Who the hell has the right to ask you to keep secrets from your family?”

  “The person to whom the secret belongs, that’s who! Come on, Vivian! Are you telling me that you don’t trust me to make a judgement call?”

  There’s Dad’s thing about trust. Dad demands trust from everyone, but has problems showing trust in return.

  “No, Carson, I’m not telling that I don’t trust you. I don’t care about secrets your clients have asked you to keep. I do care if you’re having paranoid suspicions about your children, however.”

  Dad stares at her icily. “It’s not about the children. Or, well it is, but, I mean, it’s about their future.”

  “Then you should be able to tell us!” Mom’s losing patience now.

  “Vivian! Dammit! I’m warning you, don’t… ”

  “Warning me…? Warning me? Don’t bother, Carson Sinclair! I’m quite happy to leave you to yourself!”

  She stalks out of the kitchen and up the stairs into their bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  “Great,” Dad mutters angrily, turning to my brother and me. “This has got me exactly nowhere. Is it too much to ask my own family to trust me?”

  Tommy and I regard each other guiltily. His face mirrors what I’m feeling: Confused.

  “Dad? You’re still the only one who knows what’s going on here,” I say quietly. “You can’t expect…”

  “I’ll tell you what I expect,” he says, his voice low and dangerously reasonable. “I expect practice laps as scheduled tomorrow morning. Plain and simple. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m tired of this discussion.”

  And off he goes too, up the stairs, his footsteps stomping down the hall to his office.

  Tommy and I regard each other morosely.

  “That was fun,” Tommy says dryly. “Anyways. I’m gonna go over to Mike’s, get a couple games of pool in on his new table. Hey…you wanna come?”

  “Nah. I’m gonna hide out in my room. Thanks though.”

  “Okay.” And to my surprise, he comes over and gives me a hug. “This’ll blow over by tomorrow. No worries, ‘Ree. ”

  “You think so?”

  “Yup. The sun’ll come out…tomorrow.”

  But the sun doesn’t come out tomorrow.

  Or the next day, or all the next week.

  It’s a crazy busy week, one during which Mark and I don’t get to see each other at all. Mark’s shop is swamped, with him making sales calls during the day as well as regular work, and putting hours in at the shop at night.

  While it’s great for his business, it means no date night for us.

  But we talk on the phone as much as we can, and when we do, of course he hears in my voice that something’s wrong.

  But I just don’t want to drag him into it, even though it’s about him.

  So I tell him only that Dad’s stressed out about something and that a big family like ours has disagreements sometimes. He listens, doesn’t ask pushy questions, merely tells me he’s here for me if I need to talk.

  By the time the next Sunday, practice day, rolls around, things are still pretty tense at home. Mom and Dad were both out this week, a lot, with Mom in her room and Dad in his office when they’re home.

  It’s my first practice slot with Mark, so I want things to go well.

  I don’t have much hope, though.

  Most Sunday mornings, Mom’s in the kitchen, cheerfully cooking a big hot breakfast for anyone who wants it, usually teasing and laughing with Dad while she’s at it.

  Today, she’s conspicuously absent. Dad’s here, though…drinking an instant coffee and eating a bowl of cold cereal, looking like every bite hurts.

  Geez!

  He leaves an hour ahead of schedule, with a curt reminder to me and my brother not to be late for practice.

  Tommy and I make scrambled eggs with cheese, which we eat without saying much either.

  I’m nervous about the laps today.

  It’ll be my first time driving the track with Mark, and my nerves are already shot about the whole damn race in general.

  Suffering from butterflies, I can barely make myself eat. Tommy tries to ask if I’m okay, but I just hold up my hand. Just thinking about it makes it worse. With a sigh, he holds his peace.

  But he keeps glancing at me warily.

  We get through breakfast and, although neither one of us wants to do it, we get into his car and dutifully go to the track.

  “Marie…about Mark,” Tommy says, as he steers us onto the freeway. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to be too…chummy with him at the track in front of Dad, alright? I don’t wanna piss off Old Sourpuss any more than necessary.”

  “Wordy McWorderson,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, for both our sakes.

  It doesn’t help.

  “I mean it, Marie. Don’t push it. Things aren’t right with Mom and Dad either so…let’s just don’t push it.”

  “I know, I know! Mark already knows things are touchy. Don’t worry about it, nothing bad will happen.”

  At the track, we prepare for our practice laps and then stand around while we wait for our turn. It’s another boiling hot day and I’m already sweating buckets in my suit.

  Things are cool between Dad and me but we keep it civil enough to do what we need to do.

  Suddenly I notice Tommy do a double-take and then stiffen. Glancing around, I see Mark standing just outside our garage bay, wearing a racing suit in a horrible burgundy color, with his name emblazoned down the side in huge white letters. Tommy and Mark haven’t met but there’s no mistaking that name.

  The suit itself is a fashion disaster but somehow, Mark fills it out so nicely, he manages to make it look…well, not so bad. My heart goes out to him while, at the same time, panick-y worry flares that Dad will see him and cause a scene.

  Luckily, Dad wants to show Tommy something on the car and he moves away.

  Making big eyes at Mark, I gesture with my hands and my head, telling him to get away. Thankfully, he does what I ask and leaves us alone before Dad sees him.

  Still, my nerves are on edge. My stomach feels like it’s full of acid. Somehow, I have to get through this.

  Getting behind the wheel has its usual soothing effect. At the starting line, I give Mark a quick thumbs-up, which he returns.

  Quickly, we fall into a kind of a dance, leaving the pack behind and then lapping them easily.

  That magical thing happens again, and we end up pacing each other just as we did that day at Freddy’s farm. One after anot
her, we trade first place, then fly over the finish line, neck and neck.

  We nod to each other at the finish line, and then head our separate ways to the garage building.

  Back in the bay, Tommy informs me of what I already know: The laps we just completed saw Mark and me tied for first place on the practice leaderboard.

  “That was quite an interesting race, Marie,” Dad says, emerging from the back room, wiping his hands on a rag. His voice is cold, signaling that he’s still in pissed-off mode. “You and Mollenkamp drove a very close tie.” He tilts his head, looking at me curiously. “How do you explain that?”

  “The same thing happened when we raced the buggies,” I say, defensively. “We’re evenly matched as drivers, I guess.”

  “Are you? That’d be convenient, wouldn’t it? It looked to me like you were letting him pace you.”

  I throw my hands up. “Here we go again!” I stomp over to the workbench and fling my gloves down on it. “I don’t want to hear any more of this… unless you tell us what’s going on with you!”

  “Hey, would you two give it a fucking rest for a day?” Tommy says, watching us with dismay.

  “No rest for the weary, Thomas,” Dad says. “Someone has to watch out for this family.”

  “Oh, nice, Dad. Nice! Like the rest of us don’t watch out for the family?”

  “You never know what’s about to happen, son,” Dad says…but it’s me he’s looking at.

  He steps closer, his finger going up and wagging in the air. “You have to be vigilant. You simply cannot trust every one who shows an interest in you. You have to remember there’s an additional monetary motivation here, especially when the guy has none himself.”

  “Dad!” Tommy steps forward and puts a hand on Dad’s arm. “You’re taking this shit too far now. You sound paranoid as hell, don’t you realize that?”

  “Yeah,” I say, “And I mean, why on earth would I let Mark pace me anyway?” My voice is getting shrill but it’s a struggle to control it.

  “Maybe you want to let him to win the purse money?”

  “So you’re saying I’d help him cheat? Thanks a bunch, Dad. He’d never stand for that. If he wins, he wants it to be fair and square.”

  “Undoubtedly he does.” His voice is deadly quiet now. “But women naturally defer to a certain type of man, Marie. They obey him…try to please him. I’m not saying it’s deliberate, you could be doing it subconsciously.”

  I’m rolling my eyes. I don’t want to hear any more of this.

  But he won’t stop.

  “This race is a turning point for Sinclair’s. We have invested too much into this race––and into you–– to let some money-hungry upstart make fools of us all.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Mark

  Sunday morning.

  It’s my first practice session on the roster with Marie.

  I arrive at the track in plenty of time for my slot. The place is humming, but it’s a more subdued, organized buzz than the last time I was here. Today, it’s only drivers, crew or officials, no members of the public allowed.

  I go straight to the rental bay where we’re keeping my car, giving a silent prayer of thanks for Mason, who’s paying for all of this. Not all the entrants have the luxury of an on-site garage bay.

  Freddy’s already there, wearing his battered Yankees cap and grinning like a freckled, gap-toothed shark.

  “Check it out, check it out,” he says in his staccato style. He stands back and waves his arms at my car like a merchandise model on a game show.

  All the decals for the sponsors are now in place, colorful business logos applied to the vehicle’s roof, doors, front and rear hood. Various racing graphics are scattered around the body of the vehicle as well; stripes and flames and checkered flags among them. A round, hi-viz orange decal with the number 24 in black is prominently displayed for visibility. All of these appliqués are bright, eye-catching, and garish as hell, clashing horribly against the burgundy paint job on the Impala.

  “If there’s an Ugliest Car prize, we’ll win it, for sure,” I laugh.

  “Yeah. Ain’t nobody gonna miss this thing flying around the track,” he agrees. “C’mere,” he says, moving to the far side of the car. “Me and Mason threw this in as a surprise for you and Rob.”

  The gas cap is decorated with an oval decal, carrying the words:

  RIP Ken Mollenkamp

  Gone but not forgotten.

  “Shit, man,” I mutter, rubbing my hand over my chin. Freddy and Mason both knew our dad, and although it’s not cool to show it, I’m touched by the gesture.

  We stand in silence for a moment. “Thanks. Seriously, Frederick. Thanks, buddy. I appreciate that,” I say, when I trust myself to speak again. He claps me on the back in response.

  “Did the rest of my gear show up yet?” I move away from the car and clear my throat.

  “Damn right.” He opens a locker and shows me the bright, stretchy suit; the helmet, gloves and miscellaneous items…they’re all burgundy too, but in a burgundy that’s just a different enough shade from the car to clash with it.

  “God, what a fugly color,” I note, shaking my head.

  “What, this? I had a bedspread this color once,” Freddy says, his frizzy hair standing nearly straight out from under his cap. “I think it was in nineteen seventy-five.”

  “Huh. That’s amazing, considering you were born in nineteen eighty-four.”

  He snickers.

  I take the suit off the hanger, pull it on over my clothes and zip it up. It fits pretty well.

  For some reason, my name…“Mollenkamp”…. is emblazoned all the way down the side in huge white letters.

  “Awesome,” I say. “They’ll be able to read this from space!”

  Freddy snickers. “I thought you’d like that,” he says. “I wanted to make sure everyone knows who you are when they award you the winner’s purse.”

  “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Okay. We have a few minutes. I’m gonna hit the can, and then go see if Marie’s here yet and wish her luck.”

  “No probs, brah,” Freddy replies.

  I make my way down the concourse, passing a lot of the competitor’s cars around the venue and getting a glimpse of what I’m up against. All the entrants are Ford or Chevy, and they’re all looking a lot like my car: Like someone with really bad taste in color matching decorated ‘em all.

  Sinclair’s bay is all the way on the other side of the venue from mine, so it takes a while. As I approach, I see Marie is there, already suited up, deep in conversation with her father, whose bald head and stance I recognize, even though his back is turned towards me. Standing with them is a tall, built, good-looking young dude. A brief, reflexive tinge of jealously sparks in my chest, but suddenly I see the family resemblance and realize it’s one of her brothers. As I get closer, I see he’s quite young, and I realize that this must be her twin Thomas, whom I’ve yet to meet in person. I know that he and Carson are her only race crew, so it’s a pretty safe deduction.

  Walking up to the entryway, I stop at a respectful distance, waiting for them to finish their discussion and notice me. The young dude glances over at me, does a double take, then focuses his gaze back on his father rigidly.

  Marie’s eyes slide towards me, freeze, then flick back to her father.

  Marie and her probably-brother are staring at their father so intently, it dawns on me that they are afraid he is going to turn around and see me.

  What the fuck? Marie mentioned things were rough at home.

  Looks like things are still rocky in the family.

  Carson, still speaking, walks over to the car, gesturing towards one of the front tires. Tommy goes with him, all-too obviously positioning himself between Carson’s line of sight and myself.

  Marie looks over at me, makes big eyes and shakes her head, vigorously. She glances over at
her father and then back at me, flicking her hand at me in a shoo-ing motion.

  Go away, she mouths.

  I lift my hands and shake my head.

  Seriously?

  Shoo, shoo, she flicks with her hands, shaking her head firmly again. She lifts her chin towards the concourse behind me, making a clear motion that I should leave.

  Then she turns and joins her father and Thomas.

  Uneasy, I step back and fade into the crowd.

  Half an hour later, I’m at the starting line, waiting for the other entrants on today’s practice roster to pull up and take their spots. One by one, all the garishly decorated vehicles pull up.

  Lastly, comes the pink and yellow number 02, Wee Marie.

  Marie, her pretty face hidden behind the visor of her pink helmet, turns her head in my directions and shoots me a quick thumbs-up.

  Glad to see it, I return it with both hands.

  I glance over to the pit area. There’s Freddy, watching like a hawk, his iPhone out and ready to record.

  A little ways away, there’s Marie’s brother and Carson. Their body language is telling. Tommy is standing well away from his father, legs planted, arms crossed, the line of his body indicating barely held-back annoyance.

  Carson is pacing, his back ramrod straight, his movements telegraphing agitation.

  The race flagman takes his place and holds up the green starting flag.

  He drops the flag with a flourish, and off we go.

  Once again, Marie and I quickly fall into a very close, nearly neck-and-neck rhythm, trading places, but neither one maintaining the lead. There’s something almost eerie in the smooth and natural flow we share.

  Every position or slot that I want to move my car into, is mirrored by Marie, or vice-versa.

  Moreover, during every lap, I find I can’t drop my guard for a second. In fact, in order to keep Marie from permanently taking the lead, it’s necessary to drive at my very best, my focus and concentration at the highest level I’ve ever had to pull out.

  Marie and I, like all these other drivers, are amateurs, but as amateurs, we are so well-matched, it’s downright uncanny.

  And by the fourth lap, the weirdest thing happens. Everyone…and everything…except my car and the Wee Marie disappears from my awareness.