Shane sneered. “Dude’s from Connecticut.”
“Yeah, but he lives in Mooresville now. Just like Dale did.”
“He ain’t Dale.”
“Well, no. But he’s really himself. And he doesn’t he look nice in his racing gear? Are you sure you don’t want him?”
“Huh. As often as Nadeau wrecks, it’d probably be bad luck to have him stand up for people getting married.”
Karen sighed. “You’re just making excuses, Shane. He seems like a great guy. I can go ask him. That is, if you promise to be nice to him.”
“Whaddaya mean, be nice to him?”
“Well, you know. In the ’99 race here at Bristol, when they gave Jerry Nadeau that two-lap penalty for spinning out Dale Jarrett when he didn’t even mean to, and then on the last lap of the same race Dale spun out poor Terry Labonte and won the race, and NASCAR acted like nothing had happened. And you said that Earnhardt ought to be able to do anything he wanted just because he was Earnhardt. You just better not throw that up in poor Mr. Nadeau’s face and make him feel bad, that’s all, Shane.”
Shane weakened for a moment, glancing over at Jerry Nadeau who was smiling and chatting with an assortment of bridal couples, then his mulish frown returned, and he said, “No. I don’t want anybody, then. Just an empty space. Dale can be beside me in spirit.”
Karen nodded. “Yeah, hon. I’m sure he will be.”
She scanned the crowd again, this time hoping for a glimpse of people she actually knew, but no one had turned up yet. She had left her mother and the Wiccan Friends of the Goddess contingent sleeping late in their tents back at the campground. They hadn’t been able to find other accommodations, because on race weekend every motel for fifty miles around is booked solid months in advance, so they had spent an uncomfortable night in close quarters with sleeping bags, Mrs. Tickle’s homemade wine, and multi-generational girl talk, to which Karen had contributed very little. Somehow, there didn’t seem to be much you could say to a bunch of women who averaged 2.2 husbands apiece when you hadn’t even managed to bag one yet officially, and she certainly didn’t want to hear any advice from them on the subject of marriage. There was something deeply depressing about being lectured on grounds for divorce and alimony strategies the night before you were going to stand up and vow “ ’til death do you part.”
She wondered what they were going to wear to the wedding. Quite ordinary clothes, probably. Most of the Friends had nice jobs as librarians or professors or realtors, and they tended to clean up pretty well when they wanted to, so she doubted whether the rayon robes with sequin-and-glitter constellations would figure into their wardrobes for the ceremony. Of course, if they did wear them, she didn’t suppose it would matter, what with all the square-dance outfits and racing gear in evidence. As long as they didn’t come sky-clad. Please, Lord…Please, Dale…don’t let them come sky-clad, she thought.
Karen thought she herself looked within hailing distance of normal, anyhow. She had steadfastly refused Shane’s urging to wear the feminine version of the Dale man-in-black outfit, and instead had opted for a more traditional look, although not the white satin gown she’d yearned for. Even she had to admit that the Barbie bridal dress would be ludicrous in the center of a racetrack when the other half of the wedding party was dressed in boots and jeans. In the spirit of compromise that she felt should accompany any venture into marriage, she’d accepted the help of the Friends of the Goddess seamstresses, who had found a bolt of white washable silk at JoAnn Fabrics and fashioned her a Greek tunic with handkerchief hems and a silver cord belt. Lace-up Roman sandals completed the outfit that she felt was cool in both senses of the word. She resolved to purge from her memory Mrs. Tickle’s laughing assessment of the couple: “Xena the Warrior Princess Marries Tim McGraw.”
“Are you nervous?” One of the cowgirl brides asked her. “I sure am.” Sweat poured down the woman’s cheeks from damp red hair squashed under an aqua cowboy hat.
Karen nodded. “I just hope it goes okay. After all, you only do this once.”
A passing square-dance bride overheard this remark and giggled. “Don’t count on that, sugar!”
Karen tightened her grip on the Sharpie bouquet with the handkerchief and the little tube of sunblock tucked into its depths. “My intended is over there sulking because he wanted Dale Earnhardt to be his best man.”
The cowgirl raised her carefully tweezed eyebrows. “Dale Senior? He’s a little late for that, isn’t he?”
“Well, not the real Dale Earnhardt. And not even Junior. But Shane was such a huge fan of the Intimidator that he wanted some reference to him in the wedding.”
“I hear you,” said the cowgirl. “My intended cries every time he watches a race these days, he’s still so tore up about Dale.”
“Shane hasn’t even watched a race since Dale died at Daytona. This will be the first one he’s seen since then. He says it hurts too much. In fact, this year I-well, never mind. But Shane heard there’s an impersonator on the circuit who’s the spitting image of Earnhardt, and he was hoping the fellow would show up today and stand in for Dale.”
The woman laughed. “Well, that impersonator probably has to be careful about when and where he shows up, because if the folks at DEI catch him at it, I reckon they might arrange for him to actually meet Dale.”
“Here’s our girl!”
Karen stiffened at the sound of a bugling drawl from ten yards away. Moments later she was engulfed by a horde of Friends of the Goddess, redolent with perfume and sunblock and all talking at once while Miss Welchett circled the group snapping off shots with her digital camera. To Karen’s immense relief none of the Friends had come sky-clad. They didn’t even look like a unified group. Mrs. Tickle and Karen’s mother wore straw hats and chintz-patterned summer dresses, while several of the other ladies had chosen pantsuits topped by gauzy chiffon big shirts or the sort of outfits they wore to class, and the rest were in muumuus that made them look like a succession of upturned ice cream cones.
“Have you got the four things, Karen?” asked her mother.
“Umm…four-” Karen’s startled mind refused to come up with any list other than the Wiccan standby: earth, water, wind, and fire.
“You know!” prompted Miss Welchett, still clicking the shutter. “Something old, something new…”
“Oh.” Karen shrugged. At least they were staying mainstream with their pagan superstitions. “Well, the dress is new, the underwear’s old, and I borrowed Mom’s earrings. I can’t think of anything blue, though.”
“Your aura,” said her mother. “Your aura is blue today. So you’ll be fine, dear. At least, I hope so.”
“ ’Course I will.” Karen gave her mother a quick hug, and hurried away before she was made to listen to the usual speech about the uncertainty of human relationships and the unreliability of men and the Never Give Up Your Day Job maxim.
The rest of the morning went by for Karen like a slide show on fast forward, forever to be remembered as a series of still images following in rapid succession accompanied by the aroma of gasoline, drooping flowers, and by canned wedding music and hugs from well-wishers and strangers. Shane’s dad hadn’t bothered to show up, but he moved around a lot so they weren’t even sure he’d received his invitation, but Shane’s mother was there in a pink linen dress that would have made her look young enough to be a bride herself if she didn’t look so tired and nervous. Shane’s grandmother had come wearing her best navy blue church dress and a Dale Earnhardt hat to get into the spirit of the occasion.