St. Dale

by Sharyn McCrumb

  Wordlessly, everyone nodded.

  “When did Dale Earnhardt win the 500, Shane? The date.”

  “February 15.”

  “Right.” Terence tapped the checkbook calendar. “And the next time the race will fall on that date is in 2004. The sixth anniversary of the win. Two times three, Shane. Two drivers-Dale and Junior-times the magic number three. And 2004 is three years after he died. By then Junior will be twenty-nine. Harvick’s number again.”

  Shane was nodding eagerly now. “Right. But it’s also the age Dale was when he won his first championship.”

  Terence closed the checkbook with a snap. “That’s when Little E. will win it,” he said.

  Everybody nodded solemnly, and Justine started to clap, but Cayle and Bekasu each grabbed a hand, glaring at her until she stood still.

  Shane still looked shaken, but he was nodding now and his eyes shone with the newly kindled light of belief. Karen took his arm and they walked away.

  “I’ll buy that,” said Harley to the group. “How about you, Reverend?”

  Bill Knight smiled. “No devil’s advocate here,” he said. “There are saints who have been given shrines for less. I suppose we’ll all find out in February, 2004.”

  “Now, how about we check out this Speedway tour,” said Harley, motioning them forward. “We can talk more over lunch.”

  As the group began to file into the museum and gift shop building, Sarah Nash caught up with Terence. “That was a fine thing you did there,” she said. “Was it all true?”

  He nodded. “Sure, it was. I’m a numbers geek. I just try not to let it show. This morning on the bus Karen warned me that she’d lied to Shane, so I had some time to think about it. Miracles. I want one, too.”

  “Well, you helped out that young couple. I didn’t think you’d get involved.”

  Terence smiled. “Rubbin’ is racin,’” he said. “I guess that’s as true in life as it is on the track.”

  Sarah Nash chuckled. “The gospel according to St. Dale. Never thought I’d see the day. But they’re nice kids. She’s the brains of the pair, but he’s got a good heart. She could do worse.”

  Terence didn’t answer at first. They had entered the building now and followed the rest of the group into the gift shop-an unauthorized detour that Harley had been powerless to prevent. Finally he said, “I’ve just realized who they remind me of. It’s my parents. That’s what they must have been like. A smart, ambitious girl who marries a nice guy who’ll be content to drift through life, and maybe she doesn’t even know why she married him. She’s using a college acceptance letter for a bookmark. She never told him about that, either. She’ll leave him one of these days, when she gets tired of him holding her back.”

  “Maybe not, Terence. Sometimes an anchor keeping you grounded is a good thing. Not all women want to be outranked by their husbands these days.”

  “But do you think I’m right about them resembling my parents?”

  “Now that you mention it? Of course I do. I just hope they don’t end up the same way.” Sarah Nash looked thoughtful. “Maybe what they need is a drafting partner. May I borrow your cell phone?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to call my husband and ask for a favor. Northeast State Community College in Blountville offers an industrial technology program in automotive service. That’s near enough to where Shane lives that he could take courses there, if we can get him in. Richard is on their board, so I think he can put in a good word for Shane.”

  “So Shane can learn how to be a NASCAR mechanic?”

  “It’s a start. While he’s studying at Northeast, he could do an internship at the Bristol Motor Speedway, which is about two exits away. Richard can probably arrange that, too. If Shane does well, maybe he can get financial aid and go on to a more specialized program, like the one in Mooresville specifically designed for NASCAR.”

  Terence handed over his cell phone, still looking bewildered. “But how do you know about all this?” he asked.

  She hesitated. “Well, Terence, your father told me about those programs. I think he had hoped that you might want to do that someday. Of course, he’d be very happy about the way things did turn out for you, I’m sure.”

  While Sarah Nash placed her call, Terence walked into the gift shop, so lost in thought that he barely noticed the brightly colored displays of drivers’ emblems. One featured item did penetrate his reverie. You could get a dog or cat collar that said “The Intimidator,” marked with the red-outlined Earnhardt number three. He smiled, picturing his mother’s surly Bichon Frise in a Dale Earnhardt dog collar, but his thoughts were mostly elsewhere. He was still considering the purchase when a smiling Sarah Nash reappeared and returned his phone.

  “Richard was there,” she said. “I’d forgotten how much I missed the old bear. Watching the Powells this past week has made me think about my husband more than I ever thought I would. And he sounded right glad to hear from me. I think Florida may not be as riveting as Richard thought it would be.”

  “You asked him about Shane?”

  “Yes. He wants to meet the newlyweds and talk to Shane about maybe going to Northeast State. He was so pleased to hear from me that he even promised to take us all out to see Li’l Dale the sacred goat, and said that if Shane and Karen want to stay at his place for the rest of their honeymoon, they’re welcome. His place is on the beach. I thought Karen would love that. I just spoke to them and they want to go.”

  Terence blinked. “Stay with your husband?”

  She blushed. “Well, Richard won’t be there. He said he might like to come back to North Carolina for a while. So we’re going to take on the McKees as a project, I suppose.”

  Terence nodded. “I’ve been thinking about them, too. And about my dad. You know you asked me what I wanted to do with all the art pottery in my father’s house? Well, I think I’d like to send it to that auction house in Asheville, and put the money in a trust for the McKees. That way my dad would get to send someone on to NASCAR, even if it isn’t me. I think he’d have liked that.”

  “I think so, too. I think Tom would be proud. Do you want to come with us?”

  “With you?”

  “We’re going to leave the tour. Shane wants to see that goat, bless his heart, and Karen wants to spend part of her honeymoon at the beach.”

  “But how will you get home?”

  “Didn’t I mention it? Richard has his own plane.”

  “At all the other tracks we’ve reminisced about Dale’s past races,” said Harley. “And I know that now that we’ve reached Daytona there’s one tragic race that looms large in your minds. His last one: 2001. But I just want to remember another race that Dale drove here. You know he tried from 1979 to 1997 to win the Daytona 500 and never made it. But he loved racing. Somebody-I think it was Rusty-said one time that if NASCAR had ever announced that they were going to hold a race, but no crowds were going to turn up, no prizes would be given, and they were going to charge five bucks for drivers to run on an empty speedway, Dale Earnhardt would be the only fellow to show up. He just flat loved driving, win or lose.

  “That’s why the story I’d pick to tell here is not the 1998 Daytona 500, which he finally won, but the one before that-1997.”

  “Wonderboy won that year!” said a scowling Ray Reeve. “Why do you want to talk about that?”

  “You’re right, Ray. Jeff Gordon did win in ’97, but that isn’t my point. See, that was the year that Earnhardt had his bad luck a little earlier than usual. Most of the time he managed to have his disaster on the very last lap of the 500-mile ordeal-within spitting distance of the finish line if possible. I swear, it was like God’s thumb-well, anyhow, in ’97 the curse hit a little early. He barrel rolled the black number three on the back straightaway, which ended his chances of a win that year. He wasn’t hurt, though. Shaken up, of course, but he crawled out of the car and walked to the ambulance under his own steam. They were supposed to take him to t
he track clinic to get looked at, but while he was sitting there in the back of the ambulance, Dale got to thinking about his car, and he decided that it was upright and therefore still able to be driven.”

  Bekasu’s eyes widened. “He didn’t!”

  “Oh, he did. He climbed out of the ambulance, went back to the Monte Carlo, and took off again. Didn’t have a hope of a win, of course, but he came in thirty-first. He loved being here. He loved it.”

  The tram tour began with the recorded voice of Bill France, Jr., the head of NASCAR, welcoming visitors to the Speedway. The little caravan of trams began on the top of the 480-acre Speedway with its view of the airport next door and the Hilton across the street, trundled through one of the tunnels leading to the infield, and began its circuit of the two-and-a-half-mile track, while the Speedway guide told anecdotes about Daytona, not unlike Harley’s performance on the Earnhardt Memorial Tour. He pointed out the 44-acre Lake Lloyd in the Speedway infield, where the Intimidator had won a fishing tournament with a 10.8-pound bass. Around the track they went, staying off the 31-degree banking where the racers actually drove, past the orange balls on poles which were actually observation towers for the spotters to crouch in. Past turn 4. That was where it happened. But the guide didn’t say so. When he mentioned Dale, it was the win, the fishing tournaments, the happy memories.

  “I guess I can understand them not referring to Earnhardt’s death on the tour,” said Ray Reeve, when the Number Three Pilgrims had assembled again in the parking lot, with yet another speedway pin affixed to hats and tote bags. “But they didn’t talk about Neil, either.”

  “I guess we ought to talk about Neil,” said Harley.

  Bill Knight saw the somber faces of the others. “Neil?”

  “Yeah,” said Cayle softly. “Dale Earnhardt’s best friend. The other guy who died on turn 4.”

  Harley thought this was a sadder story than Dale, but you couldn’t stand there at Daytona talking about grief and loss and not mention Neil. So he told them. Neil Bonnett had been a pipefitter back in Alabama, before he decided to become a race car driver. He was part of the Alabama Gang with the Allisons. If there were any ghosts in the voices at Talladega, they should have been telling Neil to slow down and be careful. Not that he’d have listened. Neil and Earnhardt were the Butch and Sundance of motor sports, for what? Fifteen years or more? They competed on the track. They tried to catch the biggest fish or shoot the biggest buck in the woods. They were either the most macho pair who ever lived or else neither one of them could spell death, because they went at everything full tilt. They both went into the wall more than their share of times, but Earnhardt got away with it. Neil didn’t. He’d come out of the wrecks with broken bones, injuries that would sideline him for weeks. One multicar crash at Darlington in 1990 gave him a head injury that wiped out his memory for months. So he retired. Became a TV announcer. But life in the slow lane didn’t suit him, and he was itching to get back in the show. So Earnhardt helped him out. Got him a job test driving the Monte Carlos that would replace Earnhardt’s Lumina beginning in 1994. So Neil started driving again, and if he was driving, he might as well be racing. A farewell tour for a 46-year-old daredevil who already had enough money to stop taking risks. Five races in the 1994 season, just to go out in style. But in a butt-ugly car: a garish pink and yellow Country Time Lemonade Lumina. Car owned by Earnhardt. The farewell tour would begin, of course, with the first race of the season: the Daytona 500.

  Only he never made it to the race. On February 8, 1994, in a practice run, Neil Bonnett crashed in turn 4 and died. Some people say Earnhardt never got over it, but he drove in that year’s Daytona 500, and he came in seventh.

  Ten years and seven days later, he would also die at turn 4 at Daytona.

  Harley’s voice trailed away. He didn’t trust himself to say anything else. He had known Neil.

  Nobody said anything. Not even Justine, who wiped a tear away with the back of her hand, but did not speak. The others looked at the ground, doubly solemn now.

  “Okay,” said Harley. “Anybody have anything they want to say?”

  Nobody did.

  “Then let’s say our good-byes. Speaking of goodbyes, four of our group are getting off here. The newlyweds and Terence and Sarah have had a change of plans, so make sure you take time to wish them well at dinner tonight before they head off down a different road.”

  Shane stood there holding the wreath, trying to think of something to say. He was excited about the prospect of a new future that might someday bring him back here, but saddened, too, at the memory of the loss of his hero.

  “This place is so…what’s that thing Lincoln said in the Gettysburg address? So consecrated, that what we say here has to be special. I didn’t write a speech or anything, but I can’t just say any old thing. Not here. I thought about a poem that Karen put on a quilt for me last year, but then I remembered something even better. Hey, Karen, what’s that thing your mother’s club says sometimes? The ‘bright flame’ thing they say?”

  Karen blinked. “Well, it’s an old Gaelic prayer, Shane. I don’t remember all the Gaelic. Besides, it’s a prayer. Well, not a prayer, I guess. I think it’s actually addressed to a guardian angel, but still.”

  “To an angel. That’s it. But it says what I want to say. You know it in English. Just say it in English. Please.”

  Karen glanced doubtfully at Rev. Knight, as if she expected him to pronounce it blasphemous to utter a prayer at a speedway, but he simply smiled and looked eager for her to begin. There was nothing for it, then. She hoped she wouldn’t get so nervous she’d forget the words. Probably not. She’d told Shane about the college letter, and now that he had the chance to go somewhere, too, he was okay with that. They were finally checking out-which is what NASCAR drivers say when they’re making a burst of speed to leave the rest of the field back in the dust.

  She nodded for Shane to place the wreath at the foot of the Earnhardt statue, and then she said:

  “Be thou a bright flame before me,

  Be thou a guiding star above me,

  Be thou a smooth path below me,

  And be ever a kindly shepherd beside me,

  Today, tomorrow, and forever.”

  “For Dale,” said Shane, touching the wreath.

  “And for Neil,” whispered Harley.

  Chapter XIX

  The Lady in Black

  Darlington Raceway

  “Are we there yet?”

  Nobody said “Shut up, Justine,” for a change, because they had all been thinking more or less the same thing for many a mile. Harley supposed that putting together a ten-day bus tour that would encompass two NASCAR races was quite a feat, and that you could not in good conscience skip Daytona on a tour devoted to Dale Earnhardt, or on any NASCAR tour for that matter, but the distances involved were still brutal. It was one thing to drive 500 miles around an oval track in an afternoon at 180 miles per hour, and quite another to dodder along I-95 at considerably lower speeds for the nearly 400 miles between Daytona Beach, Florida, and Darlington, South Carolina. Rest stops. Food stops. Stretch-your-legs breaks. Four hundred-plus miles from the Atlanta Speedway to Daytona, and then turn right around and go almost that far again to get to Darlington.

  At least they’d had two days for the last leg of the journey. They visited Daytona on Friday, and they’d had until Sunday to reach Darlington. So they’d stayed Friday night in Daytona, and taken their time on Saturday heading north again to Darlington. Harley thought that he would have been less tired if he could have made the trip in a Monte Carlo alone, nonstop, but coddling a group of strangers over more than a thousand miles in a week made him feel like he’d walked the whole distance in wet boots.

  He thought about all the fools who considered racing monotonous. Had they ever driven I-95?

  The bus was quiet now, not only because four of the Number Three Pilgrims had gone their own way in Florida. Harley didn’t take it personally. It had been a long trip, and the
itinerary could use a little work. The remaining passengers were feeling the effects of the long haul, which meant there was much less banter than usual. Everyone read or slept, just wishing for the traveling to be over. They were subdued by the visit to Daytona, too, of course. Someday maybe-a few races down the road-the Speedway would again be just another place to race, but right now it was still haunted by the image of the Intimidator’s last race, and it had saddened them all to be there. Despite the punishing distance of this last leg of the journey, Harley was glad that the tour had not ended in the sadness of Daytona, but with the pageantry and excitement of a race day in Darlington. Of course, they might someday look back on that race with regret and nostalgia if the fools in charge of NASCAR ever made good on the threat to take the Labor Day race away from Darlington, but for now it was an exciting time in a happier place, and for all their sakes he was glad.

  “The Darlington Motor Speedway is called the Lady in Black. Everybody knows that.” Harley began his spiel by stating the obvious, but then he noticed Bill Knight’s smile of disbelief. “Okay, maybe not everybody knows it, but certainly anybody who follows motor sports. Would one of you like to tell the reverend how Darlington got its nickname?”

  “It was the first track to be paved,” said Jim Powell.

  “The Lady in Black,” said Arlene with her vacant smile. She rested her head on Jim’s shoulder, and he smiled back and patted her hand.

  “Are you going to spout all those numbers at us now?” asked Justine wearily.

  “Nope,” said Harley. “You’re going to be sitting through a race there, so I guess you can work it out for yourselves. The information will be in the program, I expect. But I have driven here, so I might have some useful points to make.”

  “Fire away, Harley,” said Matthew, who was sporting a new Earnhardt windbreaker bought for him at the Daytona gift shop by Bekasu.