The Art of Racing in the Rain

by Garth Stein

  “I completely understand your point of view,” he said.

  Trish looked surprised.

  “I understand that you love Zoë and want to make sure she grows up to be as wonderful a woman as Eve was. I understand that.”

  “Thank you for understanding,” Trish said.

  “I know that I’m far from perfect. I admit I’ve messed up a few times, and I can see how that would make you skeptical of me as a parent.”

  “Yes, well—”

  “But, Trish, you have to believe this: I love Zoë more than anything else in this entire world. I love her as much as you and Maxwell loved Eve. I really do. And I would never do anything to hurt her, put her in danger, or make her suffer for even an instant. You could never find a better champion of your granddaughter than me if you spent all of eternity looking. Please, Trish, don’t take her away from me.”

  Trish didn’t look up from her coffee, but I glanced at her. Tears hung on her lower lids.

  We paused a moment, and then we turned and walked away briskly, and Denny’s gait seemed lighter than it had been for years.

  “I think she heard me,” he said. I thought so, too, but how could I respond? I barked twice.

  He looked at me and laughed. “Faster?” he asked.

  I barked twice again.

  “Faster, then,” he said. “Let’s go!” And we trotted the rest of the way home.

  Chapter Fifty

  The couple who stood in the doorway were entirely foreign to me. They were old and frail. They wore threadbare clothing. They toted old fabric suitcases that bulged awkwardly. They smelled of mothballs and coffee. Denny’s parents had come to visit at last.

  Denny embraced the woman and kissed her cheek. He picked up her bag with one hand and shook the man’s hand with the other. They shuffled into the apartment and Denny took their coats.

  “Your room is in here,” he said to them, carrying their bags into the bedroom. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  Neither of them said a word. He was bald except for a crescent of stringy black hair. His skull was long and narrow. His eyes were sunken like his cheeks; his face was covered with a gray bristle that looked painful. The woman had white hair that was quite thin and left most of her scalp visible. She wore sunglasses, even in the apartment, and she often stood completely still and waited until the man was next to her before she moved.

  She whispered into the man’s ear.

  “Your mother would like to use the washroom,” the man said.

  “I’ll show her,” Denny said. He stood next to the woman and held out his arm.

  “I’ll show her,” the man said. The woman took the man’s arm, and he led her toward the hall where the bathroom was.

  “The light switch is hidden behind the hand towel,” Denny said.

  “She doesn’t need a light switch,” the man said.

  That’s when I realized Denny’s mother was blind.

  As they went into the bathroom, Denny turned away and rubbed his face with the palms of his hands.

  “Good to see you,” he said into his hands. “It’s been so long.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Had I known I was meeting Denny’s parents, I might have acted more receptive to these strangers. I had been given no advance notice, no warning, and so my surprise was completely justified. Still, I would have preferred to greet them like family.

  They stayed with us for three days, and they hardly left the apartment. For the afternoon on one of those days, Denny retrieved Zoë, who was so pretty with her hair in ribbons and a nice dress. She had obviously been coached by Denny. She willingly sat for quite a long time on the couch and allowed Denny’s mother to explore her face with her hands. Tears ran down Denny’s mother’s cheeks during the entire encounter, raindrops spotting Zoë’s flower-print dress.

  Our meals were prepared by Denny, and were simple in nature: broiled steaks, steamed string beans, boiled potatoes. They were eaten in silence. The fact that three people could occupy such a small apartment and speak so few words was quite strange to me.

  Denny’s father lost some of his gruff edge while he was with us, and he even smiled at Denny a few times. Once, in the silence of the apartment, while I sat in my corner watching the Space Needle elevators, he came and stood behind me.

  “What do you see, boy?” he asked quietly, and he touched the crown of my head and his fingers scratched at my ears just the way Denny does. How the touch of a son is so like the touch of his father.

  I looked back at him.

  “You take good care of him,” he said.

  And I couldn’t tell if he was talking to me or to Denny. And if he was talking to me, did he mean it as a command or as an acknowledgment? The human language, as precise as it is with its thousands of words, can still be so wonderfully vague.

  On the last night of their visit, Denny’s father handed Denny an envelope. “Open it,” he said.

  Denny did as instructed, and looked at the contents.

  “Where the heck did this come from?” he asked.

  “It came from us,” his father replied.

  “You don’t have any money.”

  “We have a house. We have a farm.”

  “You can’t sell your house!” Denny exclaimed.

  “We didn’t,” his father said. “It’s a kind of bank loan. The bank will get our house when we die, but we thought you needed the money now more than you would later, so.”

  Denny looked up at his father, who was quite tall and very thin; his clothes draped on him like clothes on a scarecrow.

  “Dad—” Denny started, but his eyes filled with tears and he could only shake his head. His father reached for him and embraced him. He held him close and stroked his hair with long fingers and fingernails that had large, pale half-moons.

  “We never did right by you,” his father said. “We never did right. This makes it right.”

  They left the next morning. Like the last strong autumn wind that rattles the trees until the remaining leaves fall, brief but powerful was their visit, signaling that the season had changed, and soon, life would begin again.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  So much information came out in the following days, thanks to Mike. He plagued Denny with questions until he answered. About his mother’s blindness, which came on when Denny was a boy; he cared for her until he left home after high school. About how his father told Denny that if he didn’t stay to help with the farm and his mother, he shouldn’t bother keeping in touch at all. About how Denny called every Christmas for years until his mother finally answered the phone and listened without speaking. For years, until she finally asked how he was doing and if he was happy.

  I learned that his parents had not paid for the testing program in France, as Denny had claimed; he paid for that with a home equity loan. I learned that his parents had not contributed to the sponsorship of the touring car season, as Denny had said; he paid for that with a second mortgage, which Eve had encouraged.

  Always pushing the extremes. Finding himself broke. And finding himself on the telephone with his blind mother, asking her for some kind of help so that he could keep his daughter; her response that she would give him everything if only she could meet her grandchild. Her hands on Zoë’s hopeful face; her tears on Zoë’s dress.

  “Such a sad story,” Mike said, pouring himself another soda.

  “Actually,” Denny said, examining his can of Diet Coke, “I believe it has a happy ending.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  All rise,” the bailiff called out, such old-fashioned formality in such a contemporary setting. The new Seattle courthouse, with its glass walls and metal beams jutting out at all angles, was lit by a strange, bluish light.

  “The Honorable Judge Van Tighem.”

  An elderly man, clad in a black robe, strode into the room. He was short and wide, and he had a wave of gray hair swept to one side of his head. His dark, bushy eyebrows hung over his small eyes like hairy caterpillars
; he spoke with an Irish lilt.

  “Sit,” he commanded. “Let us begin.”

  Thus, the trial commenced. At least in my mind. I won’t give you all the details because I don’t know them. I wasn’t there because I am a dog, and dogs are not allowed in court. The only impressions I have of the trial are the fantastic images and scenes I invented in my dreams. The only facts I know are the ones I gathered from Denny’s retelling of events; my only idea of a courtroom, as I have said before, is what I learned from watching my favorite movies and television shows. I pieced together those days as one puts together a partially completed jigsaw puzzle. The frame is finished, the corners filled in, but handfuls of the heart and belly are missing.

  The first two days were devoted to trial preparations. Denny and Mike didn’t talk much about those events, so I assume everything went as expected. Both days, Tony and Mike arrived at our apartment early in the morning; Mike escorted Denny to court while Tony stayed behind to look after me.

  On the third morning, there was a definite change in the air when Tony and Mike arrived. There was much more tension, fewer pleasantries, no joking around. It was the day the case was to begin in earnest, and we were all nervous. Denny’s future was at stake, and it was no laughing matter.

  Apparently, I later learned, Denny’s lawyer, Mr. Lawrence, delivered an impassioned opening statement. He agreed with the prosecution’s assertion that criminal neglect is a serious crime, but he pointed out that baseless allegation is an equally destructive weapon. And he pledged to prove Denny innocent of the charges against him.

  The prosecution led off their case with a parade of witnesses. One by one, they depicted a world in which Denny showed a callous disregard for Zoë’s care and well-being. How he abandoned the family at important times to pursue his passion for racing cars. How Denny hadn’t even been present at the birth of his daughter. Each convincing witness was followed by another even more convincing, and another after that. Until, finally, the grandmother, Trish, was called to take the stand.

  Early that afternoon—it was Wednesday—the weather was oppressive. The clouds were heavy, but the sky refused to rain. Tony and I walked down to Bauhaus so he could get his coffee. We sat outside and stared at the traffic on Pine Street until my mind shut down and I lost track of time.

  “Enzo—”

  I raised my head. Tony pocketed his cell phone.

  “That was Mike. The prosecutor asked for a special recess. Something’s going on.”

  He paused, waiting for my response. I said nothing.

  “What should we do?” he asked.

  I barked twice. We should go.

  Tony closed up his computer and got his bag together. We hurried down Pine and across the freeway overpass. He was moving very quickly, and I had a hard time keeping up. When he felt the leash go taut, he looked back at me and slowed. “We have to hurry if we want to catch them,” he said. I wanted to catch them, too. But my hips ached so. We hustled past the Paramount Theater to Fifth Avenue. We rushed south, zigzagging from WALK to DON’T WALK signals until we reached the plaza before the courthouse on Third Avenue.

  Mike and Denny were not there. Only a small cluster of people in one corner of the plaza, speaking urgently, gesturing with agitation. We started toward them. Perhaps they knew what was going on. But at that moment, the rain began to fall. The group immediately disbanded, and I saw Trish among them. Her face was drawn and pale. When she saw me, she winced, turned away quickly, and vanished into the building.

  Why was she so upset? I didn’t know, but it made me very nervous. What could be going on inside that building, in the dark chambers of justice? What might she have said to further incriminate Denny and destroy his life? How I prayed for some kind of intervention, for the spirit of Truth to step out of a passing bus and deliver a rousing speech that would set everything right.

  Tony and I took refuge underneath an awning; we stood tensely. Something was going on, and I didn’t know what it was. I wished that I could have injected myself into the process, snuck into the courtroom, leapt on a table, and made my voice heard. But my participation was not part of the plan.

  “It’s done now,” Tony said. “We can’t change what’s already been decided.”

  My legs were so heavy I could no longer stand; I lay on the wet concrete, and I fell into an unsteady sleep filled with very strange dreams.

  “It’s over.”

  My master’s voice. I opened my eyes. Denny was flanked by Mike and Mr. Lawrence, who held a very large umbrella. How much time had passed, I didn’t know. But Tony and I were both very wet from the rain.

  “That recess was the longest forty-five minutes of my life,” Denny said.

  I waited for his answer.

  “She changed her whole story,” he said. “They dropped the custody suit.”

  He fought it, I know, but it was hard for him to breathe.

  “They dropped the suit and I get Zoë.”

  Denny might have been able to hold off the tears if we had been alone, but Mike wrapped him in a hug. And that’s when Denny unleashed the years of tears that had been dammed up. He cried so hard.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lawrence,” Tony said, shaking Mr. Lawrence’s hand. “You did a fantastic job.”

  Mr. Lawrence smiled, perhaps for the first time in his life.

  “All they had was the grandparents’ testimony,” he said. “And some of it seemed so overblown. I could tell Trish was wavering. There was something more she wanted to say. So I went after her and she broke down. She said that up until now she’d been telling people what her husband told her to say.”

  The lawyer continued, “She said that Denny wasn’t a bad father. They had used an unfortunate event and blown it way out of proportion. Once they started, it snowballed and it was hard to stop. She said she just wanted things to go back to the way they were, with Denny having full custody of Zoë. She only asked that they be able to see their granddaughter as they did before. After that, there was nothing left to say.”

  So Trish saved Denny. I wondered where she was, what she was thinking. I glanced around the plaza and spotted her leaving the courthouse with Maxwell. She seemed somehow fragile.

  She looked over and saw us. She was not a bad person, I knew then. One can never be angry at another driver for a track incident. One can only be upset at himself for being caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  She gave a quick wave meant for Denny, but I was the only one who saw because I was the only one looking. So I barked to let her know.

  “You’ve got a good master, there,” Tony said to me, his attention still on our immediate circle.

  He was right. I have the best master.

  I watched Denny as he held on to Mike and swayed back and forth, feeling the relief, the release. Knowing that another path might have been easier for him to travel, but that it couldn’t possibly have offered a more satisfying conclusion.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  The very next day, Mr. Lawrence informed Denny that the Evil Twins had requested forty-eight hours to assemble Zoë and her belongings and spend a little more time with her before delivering her to Denny; he was under no obligation to agree.

  Denny could have been mean. He could have been spiteful. They took years of his life, they took all of his money. They robbed him of work and they tried to destroy him. But Denny is a gentleman. Denny has compassion for his fellow man. He granted them their request.

  He was baking cookies last night in anticipation of Zoë’s return, making the batter from scratch like he used to do, when the phone rang. Since his hands were covered with sticky oatmeal goop, he tapped the speaker button on the kitchen phone.

  “You’re on the air!” he said brightly. “Thanks for calling. What’s on your mind?” There was a long pause filled with static.

  “I’m calling for Dennis Swift.”

  “This is Denny,” Denny called from his cookie bowl. “How can I help you?”

  “This is Luca Pa
ntoni, returning your call. From Maranello. Am I catching you at a bad time?”

  Denny’s eyebrows shot up, he smiled at me.

  “Luca! Grazie, for returning my call. I’m making cookies, so I have you on the speakerphone. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No problem.”

  “Luca, the reason I called . . . The issues that were keeping me in the States have been resolved.”

  “I can tell by the tone of your voice they were resolved to your satisfaction,” Luca observed.

  “Very much so,” Denny said. “Yes, indeed. I was wondering if the position you offered me earlier was still available?”

  “Of course.”

  “My daughter and I—and my dog, Enzo—would very much like to join you for dinner in Maranello, then.”

  “Your dog is named Enzo? How appropriate!”

  “He is a race car driver at heart,” Denny said, and he smiled at me. I love Denny so much. I know everything about him, and yet he always surprises me. He called Luca!

  “I look forward to meeting your daughter and to seeing Enzo again,” Luca said. “I will have my assistant make the arrangements. It will be necessary to retain your services under contract. I hope you understand. The nature of our business, as well as the expense of developing a test driver—”

  “I understand,” Denny replied, plopping oatmeal and raisins onto the cookie sheet.

  “You do not object to a three-year commitment?” Luca asked. “Your daughter will not mind living here? There is an American school, if she would prefer it to our Italian schools.”

  “She told me she wants to try the Italian school,” Denny said. “We’ll have to see how it goes. Either way, she knows it will be a great adventure, and she’s very excited. She’s been studying a children’s book I gave her that teaches some simple Italian phrases. She says she feels confident ordering pizza in Maranello, and she loves pizza.”

  “Bene! I love pizza, too! I like the way your daughter thinks, Denny. I am so pleased I can be a part of your fresh start.”