Blind Spot

by Chris Fabry

  Every year an ice sculpture of a boll weevil is made, and a snow machine sprays slush on the grandstands at the “Coffee County Speedway,” a three-quarter-mile racetrack. Young and old travel to the race on foot and tractors, and there’s even a school bus competition. But the premier event is the Saturday night Legends race called the Snow Boll. Cars from 25 states qualify in the afternoon, and the excitement builds to a crescendo as the sun goes down.

  Everyone’s favorite driver is a local 63-year-old furniture salesman who does TV commercials in his racing suit and helmet, sitting on one of his patented “comfortable recliners.” However most of the entrants are younger.

  This year the pole-position and second-place drivers were kids of current NASCAR drivers Butch Devalon and Dale Maxwell, and it was clear that the rivalry of the fathers had been visited on their offspring.

  After the National Anthem, sung by the First Baptist Church choir, the cars revved their engines, and the race began. Some of the drivers, like the furniture salesman, were content to stay in the back of the pack, but it was obvious from the moment the green flag waved that there were two who were serious about winning the Boll.

  Car #13, Chad Devalon, zoomed around the track, a good four car lengths ahead of #76, Jamie Maxwell. The two had led every lap of the race.

  A man in black jeans with a black jacket and #13 on both shoulders hooted, “You got it, Chad! Pour it on, buddy!”

  A female fan approached with a folded T-shirt and a Sharpie.

  “Not now, darlin’; I’m watchin’ my son,” the man said. Then he yelled, “Take it to ’em, Chad!”

  Each time he yelled, the people around him inched away. The tension seemed to float through this roped-off section like bad exhaust through a garage. He pumped a fist in the air and rattled the chain-link fence with the other hand.

  Several rows away, studying the race like a hawk watches a field for movement, a woman with long red hair focused on #76. Anyone who knew racing could tell she was studying the line of the car as it settled into the black groove of the track—the best path for the fastest speed. As the car rounded the far turn, the woman’s body swayed, as if a part of her were in the car. “Come on, Jamie,” she whispered through clenched teeth.

  Beside the woman was a small boy with darker skin than hers, brown eyes as big as saucers, and a NASCAR hat pulled low. He rolled his eyes and frowned as Butch Devalon yelled again. The boy looked up at the man next to him, who was scrolling through messages on a cell phone. “Which is worse, Dad? Driving against him or sitting near him during a race?”

  The man smiled. He had an understated MM on his hat and a tanned, weathered face. “Not sure. Both are pretty frustrating.”

  “Punch it, Chad!” Butch Devalon hollered. “Take it!”

  The nearest car to the two leaders was #88, driven by a local kid who barely fit into the car. His helmet looked tight, pushing his cheeks out like a chipmunk’s with a full winter’s worth of stored nuts.

  The announcer’s voice blared over the loudspeaker. “Ten laps to go and Chad Devalon has a slim lead over Jamie Maxwell.”

  Cheers went up around the stands as the names were called. These two were only in high school, and they already had a following.

  The announcer ran through the rest of the field, with the furniture salesman getting the biggest applause.

  “Here comes Jamie,” Kellen said to his dad.

  Jamie’s dad looked up from his phone to the first turn, where #76 moved to the inside and shot past #13. He smiled and whistled as the crowd responded.

  “Come on, Chad!” Butch Devalon shouted. “Show us what you can do!”

  The smells of engine oil, gasoline, and exhaust hung in the air, mixed with corn dog batter and chicken. The moon rose over the horizon like a white face looking down on the race from the best seat in the sky.

  The #76 driver wore a yellow fire suit a couple of sizes too big and an orange helmet marked and scarred from use, as if both were hand-me-downs. In car #13, the driver wore a black helmet that reflected the track lights like a shiny mirror.

  With six laps to go, the #13 car bumped the leader in turn two, but #76 gained control and, it seemed, more speed and shot into the straightaway confident.

  Butch Devalon cursed and didn’t seem to notice the angry stares around him.

  “Jamie’s gonna do it, Dad!” Kellen said.

  Jamie’s mom bounced on her seat, balling her fists and smacking the fence just in front of her. “Come on, Jamie!”

  The two cars ran inches apart, screaming around the turns, and the crowd roared. The white flag came out as they approached the start/finish line.

  People stood and moved closer to the fence, grabbing on, straining to see, whooping and yelling and pumping their fists.

  “Looks like he’s gaining ground,” Jamie’s dad muttered to Kellen.

  Butch Devalon shook the fence and yelled, “You got it! Now take it, Chad!”

  The cars ran like mirror images around the first two turns. In the backstretch, #13 went low and tried to pull even, but #76 followed down, blocking the move. Into turn three, #76 followed the groove perfectly, accelerating into turn four and shooting out like a bullet.

  It looked like #76 had a lock on the finish line until #13 also shot forward and low, barely pulling up enough to reach the back end of #76, then swerving right, clipping the back of #76 and sending the car into a slow spin. White smoke rose from the tires, and #13 swerved left and crossed the finish line as the checkered flag flew.

  The #76 car spun completely around and veered onto the infield, creating brown marks in the grass. When it came to a stop, the driver slammed the steering wheel with both fists and spun the tires.

  The crowd groaned, stunned by the move, but Butch Devalon pumped his fist in the air and cheered. He looked down at Jamie’s family and flashed his patented smirk as #13 took a victory lap, then spun in the infield grass near where #76 had stopped.

  “That’s dirty racing,” someone said behind Jamie’s mom.

  “Just like his daddy,” another said.

  “Uh-oh,” a man said, pointing. “Looks like there’s gonna be a fight!”

  The #76 driver had almost climbed out of the car and was pointing at the #13 driver. Chad Devalon just waved at the crowd, half of them booing him, and took off his black helmet. When he saw the other driver coming, he put the helmet under his arm and gave a smirk frighteningly similar to the one his dad had given the family.

  “What’d you say?” Chad said, one arm out, as innocent as a baby. He was taller than the approaching driver but not by much.

  The orange helmet came off and a ponytail fell. “You did that on purpose and you know it!” Jamie Maxwell yelled.

  “Hey, it’s just one of those racing things,” Chad said, moving back toward his car. “If you can’t take the heat, don’t get on the track.”

  “I can stand the heat. I can’t stand a cheat.”

  Chad shook his head. “Face it, Maxwell. You’re just like your old man. You don’t have what it takes to be out here.”

  By now the section for fans had opened, and people poured onto the track, led by Butch Devalon. “Better get her away from my son, Maxwell. Hate to see that pretty little girl of yours get a black eye.”

  “You should teach your son not to drive dirty!” the boy yelled back.

  “Kellen, that’s enough,” Jamie’s mother said. She called her daughter over to them.

  Jamie was near tears, but she steeled her face and fought them back. “I can’t believe he did that.”

  Jamie’s dad patted her shoulder and walked with her, inspecting the damage to the car. “You gotta learn to just walk away. You can’t waste your rep on a guy like that.”

  “Hey, Maxwell,” Butch Devalon called. He was signing T-shirts and leaning against his son’s car. “You should have her stop driving and start babysitting. You could use the sponsorship.”

  “See what I mean?” Jamie said. “It’s hard not respon
ding to that.”

  Jamie’s father wiped his forehead and knelt on the ground by the car’s mangled rear end. He nodded to the fans streaming onto the infield. “You see all those people? You never know when one of them will turn out to be a scout. And one slipup, one time that you let your emotions get the best of you, and you can bet somebody’ll get it on video, and then it’s all over.”

  “His reputation doesn’t seem to be bothering him,” Jamie said, nodding toward Butch Devalon.

  “It’s gonna catch up with him one of these days,” Jamie’s dad said. Several girls were running toward Jamie’s car. “Now shake it off and go say hi to your fans.”

  Jamie took a deep breath and blew it out.

  The girls held out scraps of paper, and one of them said, “I just know we’re gonna see you racing someday in NASCAR.”

  “I hope so,” Jamie said.

  Butch Devalon walked by and the girls swooned, pushing their paper in his direction. He ignored them and looked right at Jamie. “Not half bad for a girl,” he said. “Now you gotta learn how to finish.” He faced Jamie’s dad. “But you’ll have to get a new teacher if you want to do that.”

  Jamie wanted to turn back and tell him off, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. Tomorrow she would. Some snappy comeback that would put the guy in his place. But nothing came now. She was too mad about what had been taken away.

  Chapter 2

  Driving Rain

  JAMIE MAXWELL STARED out the window of the Chevy Suburban. She couldn’t stand to look at the car they towed, its back end mangled. She could probably get it fixed before the next race, but she couldn’t get this one out of her mind.

  Her mom had only opened her mouth when Jamie shot back, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “It was all I could do to keep from decking that guy,” Kellen said. “I could have beat him up, you know.”

  Jamie smiled. Her little brother sticking up for her always made her smile. He was a major pain most of the time, annoying the rest. But he had a cute way of getting under her skin. She pictured him standing on tiptoes, reaching up to hit Chad.

  A driving January rain fell sideways through the beam of the headlights. They had planned on staying the night just outside Montgomery, but with all the tension in the car, no one felt like sleeping, so they decided to drive the eight hours home.

  The headlights flashed on the rippling surface of a lake by the road. Perfect weather for the way I feel.

  “That’s exactly what Chad wanted,” her dad said over the swish-swish of the windshield wipers.

  “What do you mean?” Kellen said.

  Her dad looked over at her mom, who shifted in her seat, stretching her arms and yawning.

  “Kids like Chad are taught to win at any cost,” her mom said. “When they can’t win, they just try to tear down the competition. Any way they can.”

  “Like that election you were talking about, Dad?” Kellen said.

  “What?” Jamie said, scrunching her face and giving Kellen a look. “What’s an election got to do with—?”

  “Dad said the guy running for senator a few months ago didn’t have any ideas. He just tried to . . . say bad things about his opponent so people would vote for him. It’s kinda like that, isn’t it?”

  “Only Chad didn’t just use words,” her dad said. “He could have really hurt somebody.”

  “Then why don’t they do something about it?” Jamie muttered. “It’s not like this is the first time.”

  Her mom sighed as their tires splashed in potholes. “Chad has talent. He’s a good driver with quick reflexes and a fearless attitude. But he knows you’re better. And if he can get you mad and make you start throwing punches—” she glanced at Jamie—“which I know you would never do, he can take you out without having to beat you on the track.”

  “Can’t drive NASCAR with a temper,” Kellen said. “That’s what you say all the time, isn’t it, Dad?”

  “You got that right,” her dad said. “You have to keep your head, control your anger—”

  “Can we talk about something else?” Jamie said. “Like those meetings you two are always going to?”

  Her dad gave her mom a look and reached forward. “Let’s just listen to the radio.”

  A soft country song played—something about dreams dying and a love lost. The biggest problem Jamie had with Chad Devalon was not that he was mean on the track but that she felt something for him inside—and she hated herself for it. Why couldn’t she get interested in some of the guys at her youth group? Why did she have feelings for such a jerk?

  Because he was cute. That had a lot to do with it.

  The only time she forgot about her troubles was when she was on the track. There, with the helmet on and the shield down and the buzz of the engine behind her, she was locked in another world. When she was there, the meanest teacher, the worst prima donna at school, and all the teasing by the other kids about being a girl in a guy’s world couldn’t touch her.

  Jamie could understand why her dad spent so much time at the garage and in preparation for the season. It was her dream too. Her goal was to be the first female cup winner in history.

  She put her head against the window and let the sound of the road lull her to sleep.

  When Jamie woke up, lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the green sign that said “Velocity, NC. Population 6,495.” They pulled up the gravel drive and parked in the open barn, out of the weather.

  “We’ll unload later,” her dad said. “Everybody get inside and get some sleep.”

  Kellen hopped out first and stumbled toward the house.

  The barn still had the smell of hay in it, but there hadn’t been a horse or cow here since the Maxwells had bought the place.

  “Jamie, how would you feel about watching your brother tomorrow night?” her mother said, yawning.

  Jamie rolled her eyes. “Where’re you going this time?”

  “It’s our last class.”

  “What class? What are you guys doing?”

  Her mom smiled and cocked her head at Jamie, the falling rain behind her, her face silhouetted in the overhead light.

  “Oh, all right,” Jamie said. “But I want combat pay.”

  Chapter 3

  Social Worker

  THE TRAILER PARK SAT NEAR the Apalachicola National Forest, about 30 miles from the Gulf of Mexico, but to Tim Carhardt, the gulf felt as far away as the moon. Florida was the place all the retirees from up north came when it got cold, but not many chose this trailer park in Tallahassee. Tim couldn’t blame them.

  He ambled along the dusty road with his frayed backpack slung over his shoulder, kicking at rocks, watching school buses kick up more dust along the road. It was nearly a mile walk home, so he should have taken the bus, but getting there later was better than sooner. And Tim hadn’t exactly become the most popular kid in the neighborhood. He’d actually tried to stay away from them. When he heard laughter behind him, he headed into the forest just far enough to let the kids on bikes pass.

  Tim had been through a lot of changes in the past few months. He’d gone from being full-time on the road with his dad to full-time in school and living with distant cousins. They weren’t distant enough.

  His dad had done his best with school, but the way they both figured it, Tim had spent so much time around cars and motors that his future was there, so why fight it?

  “As long as there are cars, they’re gonna break down,” his dad had said. “And then they need to be fixed. Job security. Whether it’s with a crew like this or in some shop, you can do this the rest of your life.”

  Except the rest of his dad’s life hadn’t lasted long. At least not as long as Tim had hoped. Funny how he’d thought his dad would always be around.

  A bunch of people had come to the funeral back in October, and there had been talk of some kind of benefit race for Tim that never happened. A few drivers, including the Overton crew, had given money to a fund, but Tim hadn�
��t seen any of it. The media probably would have covered it more if they’d had video of the crash. The pit camera had cut out right before the accident. Go figure.

  A nice car was parked near the trailer, right next to the wooden porch with all the peeling paint. Tim had seen the car before, but he couldn’t place it. He stared at the license plate, but it wasn’t until he looked in the backseat and saw two boxes of shoes and a weird-looking hat that it clicked.

  Social worker.

  The screen door squeaked, and his cousin Tyson’s wife, Vera, stepped onto the porch with the woman. “Here he is now,” Vera said with a drawl. Vera didn’t pay much attention to Tim except when he was opening the refrigerator. She put sticky notes all over the food she didn’t want him to eat, which was pretty much everything in the fridge except the milk.

  “You walk all the way from school?” the social worker said. Her name was Lisa. He remembered that. Nice smile. Perfect skin. Tiny glasses that made her look older than she was. Probably in her 20s. Her voice was confident, and she walked like she owned the place, sticking out her hand for Tim to shake. She wasn’t from the South—you could tell that by the way she talked.

  “He doesn’t like riding the bus much,” Vera said.

  Lisa stared at him. “You want to take a walk?”

  Tim looked at her open-toed high heels. “You won’t get very far in those around here.”

  She smiled, kicked them off, and pulled some Crocs out of her backseat. “You want to leave your backpack?”

  Tim shook his head. “Not heavy.”

  They walked down the road by the trailer park and onto a path leading to a playground at the edge of the forest.

  “Why don’t you ride the bus?” Lisa asked.

  “I like walking.”

  “What about school? You like it there?”

  Tim shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess.”

  “I talked with a couple of your teachers, and they said you were pretty quiet most of the time but that you’re really smart.”