“Well, we’ve had that already,” murmured Bekasu, looking around for Cayle. “I just wish I knew what to make of it.”
“You know the options as well as I do,” said Bill. “Either it was real or it wasn’t. If it wasn’t real, then it could have been a dream. It was late at night on a dark road. Cayle may have drifted off to sleep without realizing it. Or it could have been a hallucination induced by the panic of being stranded on a lonely road. If it was real, then it could have been someone dressed up as Earnhardt for-I don’t know-a costume party or a promotional gimmick. And then there’s that last possibility that we come to with great reluctance. That she really did see him that night, and that it really was him, somehow. A ghost, perhaps? Such sightings are not that uncommon, after all. Ultimately, though, it doesn’t matter. All through history there have been odd little events from time to time that no one could really explain, but they didn’t change the fabric of civilization. Sooner or later, people just shrugged and went back to business as usual.”
“But you don’t believe she saw him?”
Bill Knight shook his head. “Of course I don’t.”
Justine put her hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “How are you doing, hon,” she said. “We need to buy you sunglasses at the gift shop here. It’s real bright in this sunshine, and it’s going to get brighter as we head south. I don’t want you getting sick.”
“I’m okay,” said Matthew. “Just kind of tired.”
The two of them had walked a little ahead of the others, still looking for a likely place to lay the wreath, which Matthew insisted on carrying.
“You’re sick, aren’t you?” said Justine, lifting up her sunglasses to give him a searching stare.
“Yeah,” said Matthew. “That’s how come they let me come on this tour.” As they walked he told her about his father wrecking the truck, and how he ended up a ward of New Hampshire, and about getting taken to the doctor a couple of weeks ago when he kept saying he was tired all the time.
Justine frowned. “I can imagine the kind of medical care orphans get,” she said. “Have you been to a specialist?”
Matthew scuffed a pebble on the track with his shoe. “I don’t think so. Maybe when I get back.”
“Well, what kind of treatment-oh, never mind. I’ll see if your reverend friend knows any details. Listen, the next gift shop we hit, you just pick out anything you want and come find me. My treat. But make sure you get sunglasses, too, you hear?”
Matthew nodded. “Will they still have Dale Earnhardt stuff at Daytona?”
Justine smiled. “Honey, when you’re as old as I am, they’ll still have Earnhardt stuff at Daytona.”
The group had assembled now to the left of the North Grandstand, where a tunnel led into the track area at turn 4. Solemnly, Matthew placed the number 3 heart next to the passageway and stepped back.
Cayle twisted her hands and looked uncomfortable. She motioned for Harley and whispered, “I don’t know what to say. See, my car broke down outside Mooresville six months ago, and Dale came along and fixed it for me.”
Harley was silent for a moment, while he digested this. He knew there’d be nuts on this tour; he just hadn’t pegged the little blonde to be one of them. He whispered back, “Well, it was nice of Dale to fix your car for you. It sounds like something he’d do. Just don’t tell DEI about it. They’ll send you a bill for road service.”
She was on her own. Justine motioned for her to go first, and after another pause to collect her thoughts, Cayle said, “Hello, sir. I have to say I wasn’t a big fan of yours when you were alive. I was always a sucker for the cute ones. Rusty. Ricky. But seeing how many people were devastated when you died has really touched me. And of course, I want to thank you for what you did for me. A lot of people love you. I just hope you know that. And if there’s some reason that I was the one to see you, I wish you’d let me know what it was. Well-bye.”
Several of the listeners exchanged puzzled looks, but Cayle stepped back without any indication that she would enlighten them.
Justine had been standing very still beside the wreath, her eyes closed and her hands clasped in front of her. When Cayle finished speaking, she knelt down and spoke directly to the wreath, as if it were a celestial speaker system.
“Hey, Dale!” she said. “I don’t know if I can explain this so it’ll make sense, but I’m going to try. People I’ve known have died. My grandmother. A girl in sixth grade. People in car wrecks, and girlfriends from breast cancer. And I was always very sorry when they passed away. I felt bad for their families, and I was sad that they missed out on more of life, and sometimes I regretted something I’d said or done or not done, or I’d wish I could see them again. So I thought I knew about how it feels when somebody dies. But, Dale, when you died, it didn’t feel like that a bit.
“It’s not like that sweet sorrow you feel when an acquaintance passes on. It felt-well, this sounds stupid, but it felt just the way it did when my house in Myers Park got robbed. Like a fist in my chest. They stole my grandmother’s Gorham Buttercup silver tea set, and I knew I’d never get it back, and I was so angry I couldn’t see straight. I thought my throat would close up when I tried to talk into the phone to report it.
“And that’s just what it felt like when you died. Like somebody had taken something that belonged to me. It was my loss. My pain. I didn’t have to reach inside myself to feel sympathy for you or for other people. I couldn’t. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself. So I hope you’re in heaven, and that it’s everything you wanted it to be, and that your loved ones have found the strength to go on. But I’m still mad about losing you. You were my driver, my champion, and it’s personal. And heaven or no heaven, if I could make them send you back I would. Amen.”
Chapter XV
Lowes Motor Speedway Concord, NC
Harley Claymore looked at his watch. Eight forty-five. So far, so good, in terms of the timing for the tour. Harley had been worried about the distances and times allotted between destinations. He knew that Bailey Travel had never done this itinerary before and, as a novice in the guiding business, he had no faith in his own ability to keep them on schedule. But by some miracle-he winced at the word, thinking who Justine would thank-they had managed to make all the stops in a reasonable approximation of the appointed times.
Ratty’s take-no-prisoners driving style and his knowledge of the back roads had enabled them to complete the trip from Rockingham to Concord in less than two hours. (He said that he had once been the governor’s chauffeur.) Another hour had gone to getting them settled in the hotel within sight of Interstate 85, and just across from a megaoutlet mall called Concord Mills. This was the heart of racing country. Most of the teams had their headquarters within a few miles of here, and although Harley was stranded without a car, he thought there was an outside chance that a couple of phone calls might bring forth someone to talk business with. Besides the two race venues, this was the place to use his connections, if he still had any. For that reason, Harley had hoped to skip the communal dinner by directing the passengers to the many restaurants within walking distance of their lodgings. But Cayle and Justine, locals who knew the mall by heart, had insisted that they make a pilgrimage to the mall itself to see the life-size bronze statue of the Intimidator in his racing gear which stood on a pedestal near the walkway in silent benediction. The patron saint of local commerce and interstate tourism, Harley figured. He had nearly worn out his smile posing for half an hour with various combinations of the Number Three Pilgrims against the backdrop of that solemn statue.