Over the Wall

by Chris Fabry

  Chapter 24

  The Feed

  JAMIE HOPPED ONTO THE COUCH with wet hair just as the race began.

  They heard Scotty’s and her dad’s voices from the satellite feed as well as the special in-car camera feed in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. It cost more, but her dad had decided it was worth it for the family to be able to watch the races from his perspective anytime they wanted. The rest of the screen was the network feed of the race.

  When the grand marshals said the famous words, “Gentlemen, start your engines!” her dad put his right hand up in an L and then pointed to the camera.

  Her mom mimicked the move and whispered, “I love you too, sweetie.”

  “This is almost enough to make me sick,” Jamie said, laughing.

  Jamie and her mom watched the race unfold, listening to the communication between driver and crew members. Jamie screamed at every opening, urging her dad to take them, sometimes jumping up to the TV and pointing at spots where she thought he could pass.

  When a caution sent them to pit road, Jamie clapped. “Now! Come on, just take right side tires! Get back on the track!”

  Her dad picked up four spots from a quick pit stop and was sixth when the green flag came out again.

  “This is great!” Jamie squealed.

  “It’s a long race, but he seems to be doing better.” Her mom moved closer to the TV each time the pit area was shown, and Jamie guessed she was looking for Tim.

  Another caution came out on lap 77 for debris on the track. The leaders made their second pit stop of the day, and it was a race back to the track. Watching the crews jump out on the cars was nerve-racking for Jamie. She knew how many races were won or lost simply because a lug nut wouldn’t go on or come off.

  “Come on! Come on!” she said, pacing.

  “He’s coming out,” her mom said.

  The #37 car, in the lead before the pit stop, hit the exit just before her dad.

  The announcer said, “. . . and what a great pit stop for Dale Maxwell in the #14 car, moving into second place now.”

  The camera showed the Maxwell crew clapping and slapping high fives.

  “I owe you guys one,” her dad said on the radio.

  “Great job, everyone,” Scotty said.

  The announcer made a comment about some adjustments to the #37 car, and Jamie got excited again. “I know what Dad has to do,” she said. “Since #37 is real tight, he’s vulnerable low. Dad has to go into the turn high and drop down and he’ll have the lead.”

  In the 99th lap, that’s exactly what happened. In turn one, #14 went high, dropped to the bottom, and shot underneath #37 into the straightaway for the lead.

  Shots of the crowd waving and cheering flashed onscreen, but Jamie and her mom barely noticed because they were screaming and hugging each other.

  Two laps later, another car spun out and flew across the grass on the infield.

  The yellow flag came out, and Jamie’s dad said, “Just in time. I need four new tires, guys. I’m not giving up this lead, so let’s make this a good one.”

  The onscreen clock counted up as Cal jumped on the right side of the car and the tires came off.

  Jamie watched, her mouth agape, in awe of the way the team worked. She’d had a crush on Cal since she was 14 but not because he was so attractive—which he was. He was also the nicest guy on the team, and he helped out with some of the midweek youth activities at the church.

  Jamie’s hands perspired, and she rubbed them against her shorts and bit her lower lip.

  Her mother kept a hand over her mouth, staring at the upper right-hand corner of the screen as Jamie’s dad got a quick drink of Gatorade and tossed the bottle out the window.

  “Dale Maxwell comes out of the pits first,” the announcer said. “The pit crew got him out of there in 14.2—not too shabby.”

  “Yeah, they’re really firing on all cylinders now,” the commentator said. “And Dale sure looks like he’s driving with new life. Maybe he got something extra in that chapel service today, huh? Maybe a little extra power?”

  “We’ll see if he can hold this slim lead. . . .”

  Chapter 25

  Chasing the Leader

  TIM WALKED DOWN PIT ROAD, careful not to get in anybody’s way. Several cars had already been taken to the garage, and their pit boxes had been removed. One driver who was involved in a nasty crash had been taken to the infield care center, and Tim watched as the man’s wife, sparkling with lots of jewelry (even her sunglasses had diamonds), was escorted to the center.

  The sun baked him, but he wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. The sounds and sights sent a surge of excitement through him, and he felt like this was what he wanted to do—to race like Dale Maxwell, just like his dad had wanted to do.

  The race continued without another yellow flag until lap 304. Dale was in third place when he entered the pits. With four new tires and a full tank, he roared back to the track in a jam of cars.

  Tim switched to the race coverage on the radio. The guys in the booth were saying this might be the last pit stop. “And it looks like Dale Maxwell just took control of this race, boys. He’s driving like the old Dale.”

  As Tim switched the radio back, he wondered what that meant. What was different with Dale now? Cars followed the pace car until it finally trailed off. Tim rubbed his hands together as the green flag flew and the engines roared past the starting line.

  “This one is ours, guys,” Dale said.

  They had gone 324 laps around the 1.5 mile track, only 14 miles from the finish of the 500-mile race, when a black car, #13, blew through the pack and into second position behind Dale.

  “Oh no,” Tim muttered.

  “Stay low. Stay low,” Scotty said. “You got Devalon coming up high. He’s swapping paint with just about everybody behind you.”

  The radio clicked twice.

  “Right behind him is #27.”

  The radio clicked again.

  Tim knew that #27 was Butch Devalon’s teammate. They would try to push Dale and overtake him if they could.

  “Come on,” Tim mumbled.

  “You got ’em, Dale,” T.J. said. “Just stay in the groove.”

  Tim remembered the first year #27 raced for the cup. His father had said the guy didn’t deserve to race at the top level. “Last year he hit everything on the track but the lottery.” The memory made Tim smile.

  Dale stayed low around the track with the two Devalon cars right behind him. When the white flag came out, signaling the last lap, #13 and #27 were side by side, following Dale by less than a car length.

  “One more, Dale,” T.J. said. “You can do it.”

  Dale came up on a slower car in the middle of the track just before the first turn.

  “Stay low. Stay low,” Scotty said. “Coming up on the right is #13. At your bumper.”

  They hit the turn, and Tim watched Dale sail around the corner and into the backstretch. He lost him in the line of haulers and RVs, so he instinctively looked at the stands and all the eyes riveted on the three cars. He looked at the computer screen, but crew members were bunched up in front of it. He moved to the wall as the lead cars screamed into turns three and four. Tim glanced at the starter, who grabbed the checkered flag and held it like it was a life vest in a hurricane.

  “Go high,” Scotty said. “Stay high. Stay high. . . .”

  A plume of smoke rose from the back turn.

  Chapter 26

  Thrilling End

  JAMIE AND HER MOM held on to each other in front of the TV. The announcers’ voices rose as the racers neared the end of the 500th mile. Jamie could hardly watch, but there was no way she was not going to watch.

  “The big question is, can Dale Maxwell pull it out?” the commentator said. “Can he beat a faster Devalon team breathing down his neck?”

  “They’re in turn three, Butch Devalon coming hard—Oh!—”

  “He clipped him!”

  “Can you believe tha
t?”

  “No!” Jamie screamed at the TV.

  “He’s into the wall hard on that one,” the commentator said. “It looked like Butch was going to try and slingshot out of there, and when Dale moved down to block, he got into the #27 car. That’s a shame.”

  “Butch Devalon avoids the crash and takes the checkered flag in a thrilling end to this race at the Texas Speedway.”

  Jamie and her mom fell onto the couch together, the air coming out of the entire room. “I can’t believe he did that.”

  The replay showed that as Dale moved down, Devalon had nudged his teammate into Maxwell. There was discussion about whether it was on purpose.

  “And here are the official results. . . .”

  Jamie’s heart fell. Her dad had gone from winning the race to finishing 23rd. The looks on the faces of the pit crew said it all. Cal slammed his gloves onto the pavement. T.J. leaned back in his chair and shook his head. Worst of all, the in-car camera had gone out at the crash impact.

  The TV coverage was ending, and Butch Devalon was doing his little victory dance that looked to Jamie like a duck trying to get out of a cold pond. Just before they cut away, the camera focused on the #14 car and the driver, not moving inside the car.

  Chapter 27

  Finger-Pointing

  TIM STOOD at the infield care center door, watching the Devalon car being pushed to the garage. NASCAR would take the engine apart piece by piece and inspect it to make sure there was nothing funny about it.

  A few yards away, a camera crew encircled Butch Devalon, and Tim could hear him babbling on. “It was a great race, and I hate like the dickens to see Dale taken out of it like that when he’d been leading for so long,” he said. “I take my hat off to him. He took a big chance staying out there, and it almost paid off for him.”

  “What happened at the end?” a reporter said, shoving the microphone back at Devalon.

  “I got a little antsy there trying to get past him. What I wanted to do was go way low and let my teammate go high and see if either of us could get a clear shot at the finish, but we kind of bunched up. It was just one of those racing things.”

  The reporter asked another question, but Devalon held up a hand and looked straight into the camera. “Before I go on, I want to dedicate this race to my son, Chad. A lot of you know he got into a wreck on a track back home this past week, and he was pretty banged up. So this one’s for you, Chad. Woo-hoo!”

  “How does it feel to be leading the points race at this stage of the season?” another reporter said.

  “Oh, we got a long way to go, but I’d rather be leading than chasing anytime—that’s for sure.”

  Tim turned away and walked around the building. On the other side was a concessions stand, and the people were packing up and locking coolers. His stomach growled and ached. He’d been so focused on the race that he hadn’t eaten anything.

  A commotion behind him made him turn to see Dale walking out of the back of the building and into a gauntlet of reporters. He had a white bandage around his left hand and walked a little slowly, but he looked okay to Tim. T.J. was there waiting and spoke with Dale.

  The reporters shouted questions at Dale until they surrounded him and made him stop moving, but he still craned his neck above the cameras and microphones, looking for something. Or someone. When he saw Tim, he waved and gave him a thumbs-up. He turned to T.J. and said something.

  The crew chief got out of the pack and came over to Tim. “Dale wants you to stay right here until he’s done with these people, okay?”

  “Yes, sir. Is he okay?”

  “I think he’s all right, but I’ve never seen him this mad before.”

  “You weren’t moving out there, Dale,” a reporter asked. “What happened?”

  “Well, you hit the wall as hard as I did and you’ll find out. I guess the reason I didn’t move was a mixture of shock and disbelief about what had happened. And there wasn’t a whole lot I could do but just sit there and watch the guys pass me.”

  “Talk about that final turn, Dale. Did you think you had the finish line?”

  “Yeah, I knew we had a good car today, and I just wanted to punch it out of that fourth turn there, but it didn’t work out like I wanted.”

  “Devalon said it was one of those racing things. Do you agree with that?”

  Dale pushed his hat back a little and scratched at his hair. “Yeah. I suppose it was.”

  “What do you want to say to Devalon?” another reporter said.

  “I don’t know that saying something is what I would do right now. And if I did, I’d probably have to ask forgiveness for it later.” Dale smiled. “Thank you, guys. I need to get back to my team. They did a great job out there today, but I couldn’t finish it the way I wanted. Excuse me.” He pushed his way through the crowd and waved at Tim to catch up with him.

  Soon the media members left, and it was just Tim, Dale, and T.J.

  “You okay?” Tim said.

  “Yeah, I just need to get to a phone and call my wife.”

  “Here you go,” T.J. said, handing Dale a cell phone.

  Dale dialed as he walked, passing other crews and drivers who tried to encourage him.

  “Tough luck out there today, Dale.”

  “Nice race, Maxwell.”

  “You’ll get him next week, Dale.”

  He waved and tried to smile, but Tim could tell he’d been wounded and not just on his body.

  “Honey, it’s me. . . . No, I’m all right. Jammed my left wrist a little when I hit the wall. . . . Yeah, it was disappointing to say the least. . . . No, I haven’t seen him or talked to him, and I can’t say that I want to. . . . He’s right here with me. We’ll head to the airport and be back there early this evening. . . .”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Tim saw someone in a black fire suit heading toward them. He came up behind Dale as a lone camera guy followed.

  Dale turned. The look on his face when he saw Butch Devalon was priceless, if you’re willing to pay for a look that makes dogs cower and little children run away. “Hang on a minute, honey,” Dale said, putting the phone away.

  “Dale, I want you to know—”

  “No,” Dale interrupted, pointing a finger at him.

  The red light on the camera glowed, and several people came out of a nearby hauler to watch.

  T.J. touched Dale’s shoulder, but Dale shook him off. “Everything you needed to let me know you showed me on the track. I’m done with it, Butch.” Dale clenched his teeth, and it looked like he wanted to say something else, but he turned and walked away.

  “Dale, don’t act this way,” Devalon called after him. “That could just as easily have been me in the wall out there.”

  Dale stopped, but T.J. put a hand on his back and pushed him forward. “Keep walking. Cameras are rolling. Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter 28

  New Room

  TIM COULD TELL that Dale was stiff as he tried to get comfortable in the airplane seat. They didn’t talk much on the way home, though Tim did find out how many backup cars they had in the garage and that it wouldn’t be a problem to be ready for Phoenix next weekend because that was a one-mile track, and they were going to use a different car anyway.

  “Did you want to punch Devalon when he came up to you?” Tim said.

  Dale got a far-off look on his face. “Tim, I try to live my life like Jesus did, but I tell you what, I felt like turning old Devalon’s tables over on him and getting out my whip.”

  Tim didn’t know whether to laugh or not. “I don’t understand.”

  Dale told him some story about Jesus getting mad at people who were selling stuff in a church. Although Tim didn’t follow the whole thing, it made sense. Jesus got mad at people and he was perfect, so getting mad was not the problem. Hauling off and punching somebody or yelling bad words at them was.

  /////

  The Charlotte airport was a lot like the other airports Tim had been in over the past few days.
They got their luggage and took it to the car. Dale drove north, first on the Billy Graham Parkway, then on a couple of other roads.

  “Velocity is not all that big,” Dale explained, “but it’s a nice place to raise a family.”

  Dale told Tim about Kellen and how much he looked forward to having Tim live with them. He said Jamie was going through a phase and planned on attending a driving school soon. “I wouldn’t expect too much from her the first couple days.”

  “Are you saying she’s going to be mean?” Tim said.

  “Mean isn’t the word. Just kind of moody at times. I think growing up is hard for all of us, and her mother and I are trying to help her do that. What I’m saying is, if you find it hard to connect with her, as my wife likes to say, it’s not your fault.”

  /////

  Mrs. Maxwell was waiting outside under the porch light when they arrived home. She was a pretty woman with long red hair. She had a thin build and a nice smile. She hugged her husband, not too hard, and shook Tim’s hand. “I’m glad to finally get to meet you, Tim. Did you enjoy the race?”

  “It was a whole lot of fun until the end,” Tim said.

  “My feelings exactly,” Dale said.

  The screen door swung open, and a kid in pajamas came running outside carrying two baseball gloves. “Is this him?”

  “Tim, this is Kellen,” Dale said.

  “Mom said I have to go to bed soon because I have school tomorrow, but we could probably get in a few minutes of catch,” Kellen said in one long breath.

  “Kellen, Tim has had a long day,” Mrs. Maxwell said.

  “I’d like to throw a little,” Tim said, “but it’s kind of dark. How about tomorrow?”

  “Good idea,” Dale said. “Why don’t you take Tim and show him his room?”

  “Okay,” Kellen said.

  Dale hugged his son, and the boy kind of rolled his eyes. “You make it out of the race okay?”