Bill Knight shook his head. “You mean, people drive all the way here in RVs and then don’t even attend the race?”
“Oh, well, sure they watch it,” said Jim. “A lot of folks bring televisions hooked up with big old extension cords and set them out on picnic tables outside the campers. Then a whole crowd can bring their own lawn chairs, gather around the TV, and watch the race for nothing. From the campground, you can hear the crowd cheering and the roar of the engines from the race track over the way, so it just makes it much more exciting than sitting home in your den watching it.”
“I bet you get a better view off the television than you would in the grandstands,” said Justine. “Close-ups and replays and all.”
Jim nodded happily. “It’s the best of both worlds. Living room reception and lots of folks to celebrate with.”
Arlene turned back from the window with a vacant smile. “Jim, that looks like Bristol out there!” she said.
Her husband patted her hand. “Sure is, baby,” he said. To the others he added, “This trip is our forty-seventh anniversary celebration.”
“Forty-seventh?” said Cayle. Then she looked again at Arlene’s blank eyes and her tentative smile. “Why, I think that’s wonderful,” she said.
“Well, Arlene thought the world of old Dale.”
“Dale!” Arlene brightened at the sound of the name. “Is Dale racing today?”
Jim smiled and patted her hand again, but no one else seemed to have heard her.
Ratty Laine maneuvered the bus into the designated parking area in the shadow of the towering coliseum that was the Bristol Motor Speedway, with the word “Bristol” spelled out in giant red letters on a vertical stack of blocks down the side of the grandstand supports. The bus turned into the Speedway road and into the parking lot adjoining the grandstand, where a billboard-size visage of Dale Earnhardt scowled down at them from the wall near the entrance. The boldly colored silhouette painted on the upper wall of the massive structure proclaimed the location of the “Earnhardt Tower,” the newly constructed upper tier of seating built to accompany the existing grandstand sections named in honor of other legendary drivers: the Allisons, David Pearson, Darrell Waltrip, Junior Johnson, Cale Yarborough, Richard Petty, and Alan Kulwicki. The Earnhardt image was a familiar one: the black cap, wire-rimmed sunglasses, the bushy moustache, and the steely stare that made you want to step aside even if he wasn’t headed in your direction.
Harley stared up at the image, sure that he could detect a smirk on those painted features. Lost your ride, boy, the Earnhardt totem seemed to sneer at him. He pointed out the windshield toward the scowling face. “There he is, folks,” he said into the microphone. “The one and only Dale Earnhardt, haunting the place in death just the way he did in life.”
“I’ll bet he’d be right pleased to be remembered,” said Jim.
“I’ll bet he’s pissed that Darrell Waltrip’s section is bigger than his,” said Harley.
Ratty Laine pulled the bus into one of the grassy parking areas behind the Speedway. “Are y’all going to lay the wreath now?” he asked.
Harley was already on his way out the door of the bus when the question caught him in mid stride. “Say what?”
“The wreath. Mr. Bailey at the travel company told me that the folks on this tour were going to lay a wreath at every Speedway we stopped at. In memory of Mr. Earnhardt. I got ’em all stacked in cardboard boxes in the luggage hold, but I put the one for today up in the overhead luggage rack.” He nodded at a white box above Harley’s seat. “You all gonna do that now?”
The phrase “might as well get it over with” was hovering on Harley’s lips, but then he remembered the stern face of Harry Bailey, so he composed his features into an expression of earnest solemnity. “Certainly,” he said. “It’s only fitting that we should pay our respects to Dale first.” He went back up the steps and pulled down the box from the luggage rack. “We’re going to lay this tribute wreath now,” he called out to the Number Three Pilgrims. “Photo opportunity. Bring ’em if you got ’em.” To Ratty Laine he murmured, “Where the heck are we supposed to put this thing?”
The pilgrims stood on the pavement beside the bus in a respectful silence while Harley slit open the box. The wreath of silk flowers mixed white carnations and red rose buds in a design shaped to resemble a wheel. The black ribbon stretched across the face of it bore the message: “Dale Earnhardt: Victory Lane in Heaven.”
“Oh, dear,” murmured Bekasu.
Bill Knight gave her an understanding nod. “Grief does strange things to people,” he said. “You see it at funerals. Whatever we say we believe in times of sweet reason, grief strips all that away and the pain reveals what we really do feel, deep down. Many people think of heaven as a place where they can do what made them happiest.” He thought of tombstones. In recent years, the angels and lambs of Victorian times had given way to an almost Ancient Egyptian preoccupation with the survival of the self. He had seen tombstones depicting skiers in midjump; leaping bass adorning the monument to a fisherman; and more than one set of checkered flags, signaling the arrival of a racing fan into the Hereafter. Nothing surprised him anymore.
“They’re every one of ’em different,” Ratty Laine announced to no one in particular. “I peeked in all the boxes.”
“I think we ought to take turns carrying the wreath,” said Cayle. “ A different person at each Speedway. That is, if you don’t mind, Harley?”
He blinked at her in astonishment. Surely they didn’t expect him to parade through the Bristol Motor Speedway crowds carrying a gaudy funeral wreath in memory of Dale Earnhardt, did they? He looked at their solemn faces. Apparently, they did. Harley summoned a wan smile. “Why, I couldn’t deprive you folks of this chance to pay your respects,” he said. “Anyhow, I believe Dale would rather have a pretty lady bringing him flowers than a beat-up old racer. You notice they never have guys handing out the trophies after a race.” He presented the wreath to Cayle Warrenby.
She held the tribute out straight-armed, and looked back at her fellow travelers. “But where shall I put it?”
How about on the top of Kevin Harvick’s car? thought Harley. They took care not to publicize the fact, but Harvick had taken Dale’s ride at Richard Childress Racing, and the cars he had driven last season-repainted of course, and with a different, less sacred number, would have been Earnhardt’s Monte Carlos, if he had lived to finish the season.
“On the drivers’ message wall,” said Jim Powell. “Bristol always has a wall where fans can leave messages to their driver of choice. I don’t know if they’ll have a section for Dale, since he’s not racing today, but we could check. I reckon a wreath could go right against the wall where the messages go.”
Yeah, thought Harley. Dale will be sure to check there for his messages.
Cayle turned to him. “Would that be all right?”
Harley shrugged. He hadn’t noticed any Earnhardt tributes on display as they drove by, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t still a shrine somewhere around. Or ten. Earnhardt had been dead a year and a half, but there were still thousands of mourners who’d fly the flag at half-staff for him if they could. In the camping area, there were probably a dozen makeshift memorials to the Intimidator. If there wasn’t a formal shrine-and why would there be? He hadn’t died here-then the BMS official message wall would be as good a place as any to leave the wreath. “The message wall it is, then,” he said, leading the way.
They marched up the hill from the parking area, with Cayle proudly holding up the wreath, leading the others along in a way that made Harley want to hum “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” People passing by stopped to look at the procession and a couple of Earnhardt fans took a picture of the wreath. One burly, bearded man with a leather vest over his black tee shirt stared for a few seconds at the tribute wreath and fell into step beside Harley. “Y’all mind if I come, too?” he said in hushed tones that suggested he was crashing a funeral. “Never really got to tell him good-bye.”