He cleared his throat and began again. “Rockingham. Technically, it is the North Carolina Motor Speedway, but you’ll hear Sting called ‘Gordon’ oftener than you’ll hear the Rock called by that long-winded title. It dates back to the 1960’s, and is located in Rockingham-hence the nickname. They host the second race of the NASCAR season. This is the place for drivers to find out if they’ve corrected whatever problems they had in the race at Daytona. The second Cup race is held in October. The track is ninety feet over a mile long, and it’s hell on tires. The banking is slightly higher in turns three and four than it is in the first two. Well, you’ll see. Shall we head on over there?”
“I wish my father could have made this trip,” said Terence, settling back into his seat on the bus. “I’m having a good time, but he would have really loved it, wouldn’t he?”
“Well, he had visited most of these places before,” said Sarah Nash. “Rockingham and Charlotte were day trips for him. He only signed up on this tour as a lark, and maybe to relive some good memories of the old days. I think he’d be glad to see you enjoying yourself. If he’d have any regrets, it would be not getting to share this experience with you, so that you could hear his stories as well as the official NASCAR tales.”
Terence hesitated. “I know he was planning on making this trip with you, and so I’ve been wondering were you and he-?”
“An item?” She gave him a wry smile. “No. I told you. We were neighbors. And old friends. Besides, I have a husband, technically speaking.”
“You-?”
“There’s a quaint old term people used when I was a girl. Grass widow. You know it?”
“I think so. Someone whose husband isn’t dead, but has abandoned her?”
“Close enough. Richard didn’t abandon me, though. We just-came to a parting of the ways.”
Terence grunted. “Everybody does, in my experience.”
“Well, Richard and I stuck it out for thirty-five years. We built Nash Furniture together. Heard of it?”
“Is it expensive? My mother probably has.”
She smiled. “Reproduction colonial furniture in native cherry and walnut. Largely handmade by local craftsmen. Yes, it would set you back a thousand or so for an end table. Anyhow, about five years ago Richard wanted to sell the company and retire, which was fine with me-until he told me what he wanted to do with his newfound freedom.”
“What was that?”
“Move to Florida. Buy a condo or a McMansion in one of those million-dollar stalag communities, and play golf with the wine-and-cheese people in perpetuity.” She sighed. “I told him that if it was a choice between that and the back of Dr. Kevorkian’s van, I’d just take the van, thanks all the same.”
“He went without you?”
“He did. There were no hard feelings. We didn’t get a divorce-neither one of us wanted a feeding frenzy amongst the lawyers. Richard just took his half of the money and went south, and I stayed in our house near Wilkesboro, with my horses and my volunteer work.”
“So you and my dad really were just friends?”
“Sometimes it’s nice to have somebody to talk to over dinner. Tom used to like to watch NASCAR on television with me so that we could argue about it. He was a nice man. I miss him.”
“What would he have thought of all this?” said Terence.
“The tour?” Sarah Nash considered it. “Well, above all, Tom Palmer was a sensible man, but a reticent one. High as he was on Dale Earnhardt, I can’t quite see Tom making a speech over a wreath on some speedway. I think he might have made a few caustic remarks about all this, but he would have done it in private. I know that if people had carried on this way over Tom’s death, he’d have been mortified.” She smiled. “That may have been a pun. Mortified. I think Dale would have felt the same way; they were a lot alike.”
“And I never got to meet either of them,” said Terence.
“I think the question is: how are you enjoying this trip?”
“Uh-fine.” He honestly hadn’t considered it. “My mother always stressed that a true gentleman was at home in any company, and I try, but sometimes I feel that I’m just equally ill-at-ease in any company. Mother never had any patience with people who wouldn’t try the food in a foreign country, wouldn’t learn to speak the language. She called them barbarians. So I never waste time wishing I were somewhere else, or comparing one place to another. I’m along for the ride. But it’s great to see all the Southern speedways up close. It gives you a new perspective on the sport.”
“And on your father’s world.”
“Well, I suppose,” said Terence. “But it makes me wonder if I would have had anything to talk to him about besides racing.”
“Well, if you want to find out, maybe you ought to try to talk some more to some of your fellow passengers.”
Terence looked over at the rest of the group and shrugged. “And say what?”
The Number Three Pilgrims stood in the parking lot gazing up at the deserted Speedway. “It seems fitting to see the place empty,” said Ray Reeve gruffly. “More of a memorial, I guess.”
“You got that right,” said Shane McKee. “If you ask me, even when they’re racing here, the place is empty.”
Lord, here we go again, thought Harley. They’d end up passing around the handkerchief yet. To derail the wake, he held up his hand for silence. Think of something to say about Rockingham. “This place has changed some since I last drove it,” he said. “Four years ago, when they took the word ‘motor’ out of the speedway name, they added a new high-rise grandstand over there between turns 2 and 3. I guess that’s why they expanded the parking area. To me, though, the biggest change was in pit road. The Rock used to have pits on both sides of the track, but when they remodeled in ’99 they put all forty-five pit stalls on the front stretch. It’s a nice little track. Hell on tires, though.”
“I kind of miss the mountains surrounding the Bristol Speedway,” said Cayle. “It was such a pretty setting.”
“Well, you may see those mountains again in a day or so,” said Harley.
Justine seized the Rockingham memorial wreath before Ratty could get it completely out of the luggage compartment. “This is the best one!” she cried, holding it aloft. Smaller than the two previous tributes, the wreath was fashioned in the shape of a heart, using white silk dogwood flowers, a symbol of North Carolina, as Justine had informed them. Earnhardt’s trademarked number 3 was picked out in the center of the heart in smaller flowers dyed black.
“Cayle, you ought to do this one,” she said. “Since it’s the next stop after Mooresville.”
“I wouldn’t know what to say,” said Cayle. “I tried to tell him I was sorry it happened when-you know. But I’m no good at making speeches. You could help me. And we could get Matthew to carry it for us.” Justine handed the wreath to the boy, and the trio wandered off in search of a suitable place to leave it, while the rest of the pilgrims trailed behind at a respectful distance.
Bekasu caught up with Bill Knight again. “I’ve been thinking about that sainthood business,” she said. “You know, people have been trying to make Elvis into one for years.”
“I know. I have a clip file on Elvis phenomena. The people who claim to see his face in cracks in the ceiling plaster, or to get advice from him in dreams. There’s even a story claiming that there were strange lights in the sky the night he was born.”
“UFOs,” said Bekasu, and they laughed. “But, seriously, I wonder if there’s anything like that about Earnhardt?”
Bill Knight hesitated. It had been on the tip of his tongue to say that it was too soon for the legends to spring up. He wanted to tell her that the gospel of St. Luke-the only one of the four to mention angels and the Star of Bethlehem-had not been written until a hundred years after the crucifixion. That was the sort of remark you had to be careful making if you were a minister, though. Even people who didn’t believe expected childlike faith from the clergy. Instead he told her, “It’s early days yet. Remember that Elvis died in ’77, so there has been more time for the legends and myths to take root. Just wait a couple of years. There’ll be sightings.”