Bill Knight nodded. “I’m not surprised. I had a similar experience in New Hampshire with a lawyer of my acquaintance, I’m ashamed to say. Cultural stereotyping was never kind. These days it is also most unwise.”
“You didn’t see Justine while you were wandering around, did you?” asked Bekasu.
“No. She’s still with Matthew, isn’t she? I expect he’ll keep her out of trouble.”
“It would take a straitjacket to do that.”
Ratty Laine had tired quickly of the noise and fumes of the racetrack, and especially of the humid heat of South Carolina, which might be all right at the beach, but in street clothes he much preferred the cool sanctuary of his air conditioned bus. Races lasted about three and a half hours, Harley had told him, and then he had to get his charges back to their hotel for the last night of the tour, before tomorrow’s drive to Charlotte. He was studying the map, just to make sure he knew where they were going. The tour was more interesting than he’d thought it would be, although he doubted he’d remember much of it after a couple of weeks. There was a Civil War battlefield tour coming up, and then Lee would again mean “Robert E.” rather than “Richard Petty’s dad.” Maybe he ought to make some notes in case Bailey Travel decided to offer this tour again, though. He just wished that bus drivers got as much respect and pay as stock car drivers.
A sudden tapping on the glass pane in the door made him look up, and the bundle of maps slid to the floor as Ratty found himself looking into the face of Dale Earnhardt.
Dr. Toby Jankin’s initial delight at seeing an old girlfriend had given way to the Justine-shaped headache that he now remembered as an integral part of the relationship. He tried again. “Justine, you are not this boy’s guardian. I cannot run medical tests on a minor without permission from his parents. Well, not his parents,” he hastened to add, forestalling her objections. “You said he’s a ward of the state. His social worker, then. Somebody has been appointed his legal custodian, and I can’t treat him without their permission.”
Justine’s mulish expression did not change. “I’m not asking you to do brain surgery, Toby. I just want you to take a look at him. You can do that, can’t you? I can pay you whatever it costs.”
He sighed. Trust her to act as if money were the problem and blithely ignore national laws about the treatment of minors. Justine never asked for much. Just her own way 24/7. People usually found that it saved time just to give in at once. But there was a limit to the number of rules he could break without exchanging his medical practice for a ferret farm. He was on her side, really. She meant well, and for all he knew she might even be right, but there were laws that had to be observed-or at least nodded at.
He tried again. “Look, Justine. Let’s go talk to the boy. He probably has his social worker’s card with him in case of emergency. If you call her and get her to fax an authorization, I’ll run some tests. But it’s Sunday, so I doubt you’ll be able to locate her.”
It had been a silly thing to say, really, he thought as she swept from the room calling for Matthew. Of course Justine could locate a social worker on Sunday afternoon. It would only mean that she might have to inconvenience a few more people on the path to getting her own way; that would be only a minor obstacle, an hour’s delay at most. He might as well find a treatment room and get the instruments ready. She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed was back in his life.
Eight miles back to Darlington, racing the race itself, because if Harley didn’t get back to the parking lot before the checkered flag, he would find himself in a two-lane blacktop parking lot that stretched for miles. Why was he even doing it? Any sane person would drive around Florence for an hour, maybe get a burger, and then report back that he had been unable to locate the elusive Impersonator. Maybe it was because Bill Knight was a minister, and Harley’s Bible-belt upbringing had left a residual fear of lying to clergymen. He felt that such treachery might jinx his already tenuous chances of getting a miracle of his own-that is, a ride. Besides, he might as well tell Ratty where the medical center was, in case Ray Reeve had forgotten the name of the place.
Harley glanced at his watch. He had maybe half an hour before the Black Lady would declare a new champion in the Southern 500. At least he was heading in the opposite direction from the departing cars, so there wasn’t much traffic to hinder his reaching the track. Nobody in Darlington ventured out grocery shopping or Sunday sight-seeing on race day. Now if he could just get in and out before the stampede started.
The bus was parked across the road from the Speedway, directly opposite the Stock Car Museum with its portraits of Dale Earnhardt and Richard Petty painted near the entrance. Harley pulled in next to the bus, as close as he could get to the parking lot exit. He didn’t want to end up trapped here. He saw that the bus motor was idling. Ratty and his air conditioning. He’d better tell the driver what had happened before he began the exercise in futility.
Harley tapped on the window, waited while Ratty cranked open the door, and then bounded up the steps so as not to let out all the cool air. The radio was on, and Ratty was listening to the broadcast of the race, probably as a warning of departure rather than because he cared who would win.
“Hey, Ratty,” he said. “We got a situation.”
“You’re telling me,” grunted the driver.
“Oh, you know? Ray told you about Arlene? Where is Ray?”
Ratty shrugged. “Still watching the race. I haven’t seen him. What do you mean ‘where’s Ray?’ What about the rest of the flock?”
Harley explained about Arlene’s heart attack and how everyone but Ray had gone along to the medical center to be there with Jim. “McLeod Medical Center,” he said. “It’s in Florence. I wrote down the directions for you.”
Ratty glanced at the hastily scribbled notes on a paper bag. “You drove all the way back here to give me that?”
“No. The reverend sent me on a damn fool errand. Poor Arlene’s mind is AWOL again, and she’s asking to see Dale, so they got the bright idea to send me back here to try to find the Impersonator, and take him to the hospital to ease her mind. In this crowd. And him dodging security left and right. It would take a damn miracle to find him!”
Ratty nodded. “I guess it would at that,” he said. “A miracle. Fortunately, Dale seems to be ready to oblige you with one.” He nodded toward the back of the bus.
In the very back row, a scruffy little man with a ragged moustache and black sunglasses waggled his fingers at Harley.
Up close the spell was broken. The resemblance was good enough, thanks to the moustache and the shades, but the little man lacked the presence of the Intimidator. About forty million dollars short on confidence, Harley thought. That was how the fellow had ended up on the bus in the first place. In a voice that sounded more like Georgia than Kannapolis, the Impersonator told Harley how he had just managed to get out of the Speedway with the security people hustling through the crowd in hot pursuit. He’d hidden behind a car and seen the posse heading off toward the area where his own Chevy was parked. Not wanting to risk going that way and getting caught, he had set off in the opposite direction where he’d run straight into a bus with the words “#3 Pilgrimage” emblazoned on the side. He figured if anybody would help him, it would be these folks, so he’d knocked and, sure enough, the driver let him in.
He had been planning to hide out in the back of the bus until the coast was clear, but then Harley had showed up in need of a good deed for a gravely ill Earnhardt fan, and the Impersonator thought it was his duty to obey the summons.
He wouldn’t tell Harley his real name. You couldn’t be too careful, not with DEI after your hide and lawyered to the gills. He told Harley to call him R.D.-for Ralph Dale, Earnhardt’s given name.
All this was explained on the drive back to Florence. The race was in its last ten laps when Harley had discovered him, so they wasted no time getting back into Harley’s car and peeling out of the parking lot, with Ratty wishing them Godspeed and promising to follow as soon as Ray
Reeve turned up. When they were well clear of the Speedway, Harley turned on the radio in time to hear Jeff Gordon proclaimed the winner of the 2002 Southern 500. He didn’t feel much like talking after that.
“Where have you been?”
Justine faced the circle of anxious faces with her usual cheerful obliviousness. “Hey!” she said. “Matthew and I had some business to take care of. How’s Arlene?”
After an awkward silence, Bill Knight said, “We’ve all been praying. But, as poor Jim said, it’s hard to know what to pray for. Arlene has Alzheimer’s, you know, and it might be merciful if she were allowed to go now in peace.”
“We’re still waiting,” said Bekasu. “It’s getting dark. I guess the race is over, and Ratty will turn up eventually and take us on to the hotel.”
“Well, I would ask Toby to give us a ride, but he’s on duty tonight, and besides I’ve already imposed on him enough.”
Bekasu looked up at her sister. “Toby Jankin? You’ve been bothering doctors, Justine?”
She nodded. “Good thing I did. I got him to examine Matthew here, ’cause I figured medical care for orphans must be pretty dismal. Anyhow, guess what?”
“Wait,” said Bill Knight. “Aren’t there regulations about treating minors?”
Justine waved away his objections. “Taken care of. Called New Hampshire. Told her I was you, Bekasu. It’s amazing what judges can get people to do.” She smiled at her stricken audience. “Well? Don’t y’all want to know what he found?”
Still bereft of speech, they nodded.
“Well, Matthew’s sick all right. Guess what he’s got, though? Mononucleosis. A little time, a few pills, and he’ll be good as new. Toby says it’s not unusual at all for doctors to misdiagnose mono as leukemia in kids. Similar symptoms, I guess. Or maybe it’s all those three-day shifts they make the residents pull. Scrambles their brains, I think. It’s a wonder anybody ever gets out of one of these places alive-”
“Shut up, Justine.”
She subsided. “Well,” she said, sitting down and helping herself from an open bag of Skittles. “That’s half of Matthew’s problem solved. Wish I could do something about his mom, but that’s not happening. So Matthew is going back to Canterbury with you, Bill, and if he doesn’t find a family he likes in six months, he’s going to call me and I’ll spring him from the Children’s Home. Right, Matthew? ’Cause in the human race, buddy, I’m your drafting partner.”
Matthew, who had been sitting next to the muted television playing with his Game Boy, looked up at Justine and nodded wordlessly. If Terence Palmer had been present, he would have recognized the hunted look of a young man cowed by the Mother Goddess.
Harley Claymore hated hospitals. He’d had about all he could take of this one. He had managed to make it back with the Impersonator by dusk and escorted the fellow upstairs to where the Number Three Pilgrims had taken over the waiting room. But after a few cups of coffee that tasted like battery acid, he had come out to the parking lot to smoke cigarettes and commune with the darkness. The building and the cars were just shapes against the night sky. He could be anywhere.
He supposed the bus would be along whenever Ratty managed to fight his way through the traffic. He was glad to be out of that waiting room with its smell of disinfectant and stale donuts. And the pervasive air of grief. They didn’t think Arlene was going to make it. He was sorry about that, but at least she’d get to see her hero before she went. Maybe it was a blessing to be so addled that you could have illusions at the end of life. Harley had a feeling that he would go out someday, cold sober and knowing just how alone he was.
He studied the red glow of the cigarette in the darkness, glad to be alone again, relieved at the prospect of turning the Number Three Pilgrims loose tomorrow. He had nowhere to go, but at least after tomorrow he didn’t have to worry about anybody but himself.
“Evenin,’ Harley,” said a soft voice in the darkness.
He jumped at the sound of his name. A man in a white Goodwrench firesuit and opaque sunglasses stood a few feet away from him, leaning against the hood of a car. In the darkness he was little more than a shadow, except for that white suit.
“Hello,” said Harley. “That was a great thing you did in there, man.”
A shrug. “Well, I owed a kid a miracle.”
“Huh? Oh, they must have told you about young Matthew. That’s about the only good news, though. ‘Owed a kid a miracle.’” Harley smiled. “Good one. Dale’s lucky penny, cemented to the dashboard of his car.”
“S’right.”
“But bringing some comfort to poor Arlene was a good deed, man.”
“Well, one of the ladies up there said it best, I think. Believing is seeing. But, hey, blessed are they who don’t believe and yet still see.”
Harley was too tired to work out that one. Bad coffee and too many cigarettes were making his head hurt. “You want me to take you back to the Speedway for your car?”
“Somebody’s picking me up.”
Something in the quiet voice caught Harley’s attention. He didn’t hear the Georgia accent anymore. He heard pure Iredell County, soft vowels over stainless steel. “Are you the Impersonator?” he blurted out before he could feel foolish for asking.
In the darkness, a chuckle. “Oh, son, I always was. I dropped out of school in the ninth grade, and a million people were wearing my face on tee shirts. I always felt like he was somebody I played in public. I did the driving. He did the handshakes and the autographs. The driving was the best part, though. The rest just happened along the way.”
“And then one day you’re a legend, and people are putting wreaths on speedways to commemorate you.”
“Well, to commemorate something. They didn’t know me from Adam.”
Harley smiled. “They’re leaving wreaths for Adam, too, man.”
“I don’t know what they wanted. I just wanted to drive.”
“Yeah,” said Harley. “Me, too. You know I wrecked a while back. But I want to get back in the show.”
There was a pause so long that Harley decided he didn’t want to hear the answer, but then there was a sigh, and the man in the blackness said, “Sooner or later, you gotta move on.”
“You’re one to talk,” said Harley.
“Just don’t be writing checks that your body can’t cash.”
Harley nodded. Giving that advice was easier than taking it. “Listen,” he said. “About Mrs. Powell. Is the old lady going to make it out alive?”
The man shook his head. “None of us makes it out alive, son. The trick is knowing when to die.” He raised a hand in farewell. “Well, I gotta go. My ride’s here.”
Harley turned to see an old beat-up car waiting near the entrance to the parking lot. He didn’t know why he’d expected to see a black Monte Carlo, Goodwrench logo and all, but the old clunker idling under the light was an early nineties Lumina, two tone. Yellow and some darker color that he couldn’t quite make out in the dim light.
“That’s your car?”
The reply was a grunt. And then: “I own it. I don’t drive it. You take it easy, Harley. See you down the road.”
The man turned and walked toward the idling car. He climbed in the passenger seat, and the Chevy took off with a roar and a squeal of tires. They were out of sight in seconds, and it was only then that Harley realized what the second color of that old ’94 Lumina must have been.
Butt-ugly, lemonade pink.
Chapter XX
Checking Out
Harley’s umpteenth cigarette had burned low. He was enjoying the warm solitude of the parking lot. He just wished the clouds would roll on by so that he could see the stars. He probably ought to go back to the stuffy little waiting room, but there were hardly enough chairs to go around, and now that Ratty and Ray Reeve had joined the throng, there would be even less room than before. He’d exchanged a few words with Ratty there in the parking lot, and he’d remembered to get him to unlock the luggage compartment so that Harley cou
ld transfer his gear to the trunk of his car.
He tossed the butt of the spent cigarette onto the asphalt and ground it in with his heel. Maybe he ought to see about his luggage now. They could be coming out any time. He lifted the metal door to the luggage compartment and began pushing suitcases aside in search of his belongings. He found his firesuit and driving boots. How could he have been stupid enough to bring those? What did he think? That Tony Stewart was going to get sick before the race and they’d ask Harley to take the wheel? With a sigh of disgust at his own folly, he slung the gear into the open trunk of his car, and felt around in the hold for his duffel bag.
Instead his hand closed on the end of a narrow cardboard box. There beside his duffel bag was one last wreath box, the final Earnhardt memorial. He slid part of the way in and emerged holding the wreath box, which he set on the pavement beside the bus. In all the excitement of the afternoon race and then Arlene’s heart attack, no one had remembered the wreath ceremony for Darlington.
He pushed the knob to illuminate his watch face. Nearly ten o’clock. The Number Three Pilgrims were inside the hospital now, keeping Jim company and waiting for word on Arlene. Even without the hospital vigil, it would have been a long day, and they’d be wanting to get back to the hotel soon. Tomorrow Ratty would rout them out early to take them back to the Charlotte airport to pick up their cars or to catch flights for home. He didn’t suppose any of them would want to drive back to the deserted Speedway to leave Dale Earnhardt a wreath, even if he’d earned it.
“They’ve forgotten all about it,” said a voice in the darkness.
Harley had to clutch at the wreath to keep from falling over. He turned to see Bekasu Holifield standing there in her sensible suit and her high heels, but now with the Winged Three cap mashed down over her dark hair.
He nodded toward the hospital entrance. “Are they coming?”
St. Dale Page 32
