Two ideas slotted together in his mind. There was another ritual associated with holy wells. The “pattern.” You had to say prayers the requisite number of times-usually a multiple of three, of course-and you had to walk in a circle around the site of the holy well, also for a designated number of times. Sun-wise. You had to walk your laps in the sun-wise direction, because if you went around the other way, it would negate your prayers, even bring down bad luck upon you.
What was it Jim Powell had been saying about Alan Kulwicki going the wrong way around the track? The Polish victory lap, he’d called it. And then Earnhardt had duplicated the maneuver in memory of Kulwicki at the race following Kulwicki’s fatal plane crash. Two drivers going the wrong way around in the ritual-both died violent deaths.
Bill Knight sighed. He must not voice that ridiculous thought to anyone on this tour. Surely there were many other drivers who had driven the Polish victory lap over the years without fatal consequences. He was being fanciful.
There were no tokens of faith in this memorial park-no ribbons on shrubs or beads draped over statues. There were the inscribed bricks, of course. He had noticed that the center walkway was studded with personalized bricks inscribed with messages from people who still mourned Davey Allison or from those who wanted to express love or luck to someone else. Tangible prayers.
Bill smiled. In some ways people changed very little over the centuries. In Roman times in Britain, they had thrown small objects into pools as offerings to the gods, small incentives that prayers should be granted, and the impulse to reach out to the hereafter had not gone away. It had only taken a new form. What prayer would he write on a sacred brick, he asked himself. Asking for material goods-a new car, perhaps-seemed at best childish to him, and those beauty pageant wishes, like “world peace,” seemed to reduce complexity to a platitude and he would have felt foolish expressing such a wish. Perhaps the greatest gift one could hope for was the ability to believe that there was someone out there who cared that you wished for anything at all.
The ginger tom interrupted his reverie with a butt of its head against his arm. Obligingly he stroked the cat’s head, as it arched its back in contentment. It seemed well fed, so it wasn’t a stray, but why would it hang around a public park dedicated to motor sports. “So, Cat, who are you the reincarnation of?” he mused, glancing up to see whose plaque was stationed opposite the bench.
Cayle, who had been walking by at that moment, smiled at the pair of them on the bench, and she stooped to scratch the ginger tom’s ears. “I didn’t think Episcopalians believed in reincarnation,” she said.
“No. No, they don’t. I was just being whimsical. He seems so proprietary of this place, as if he belongs here. Probably lives across the street.”
She nodded. “I suppose he does. Somehow I can’t imagine any of the people on these plaques being reincarnated as a house cat. A cheetah, maybe-for speed.”
Bill detached the cat gently from his lap, and stood up to walk with Cayle. He gave it a final stroking along its arched back. “Well, he isn’t the Exxon tiger. That checkered wall over there was donated by Texaco.”
“It’s peaceful here,” said Cayle.
“Yes. Something beautiful that came about because of a tragedy. There may be a sermon in that, but I’ve resolved to be off duty for this trip. I would like a photo of the brick walkway, though, for my pilgrimage lecture.”
“Consider it done,” said Cayle.
He scanned the park again for Matthew, who had scampered off the bus ahead of him. The boy was standing beside Justine near the flagpole on the brick walkway, and the two of them seemed to be studying a piece of paper, perhaps a map.
“The children are all right,” said Cayle, following his gaze. “At least if they get into mischief, they’re together.”
“She’s very good with him,” said Bill. “Does she have any children of her own?”
Cayle nodded. “One son from her first marriage. He’s grown and gone, though, so we don’t hear much about him. He’s a professor somewhere, and I gather he doesn’t approve of her.”
“Why not?”
Cayle shrugged. “Well, she’s impulsive and funny, but she’s not anybody’s idea of a sedate parental authority. I think Scott took after his father. Or maybe he would have preferred to be the flamboyant one, and for that he’d need a calm center, but Justine would never be that. I think she’s meant to be a comet, not a sun.”
“There are some children who’d find fault with their parents no matter who they were,” said Bill.
“That’s Scott. If he had Mr. Rogers and Mother Teresa, he’d complain that they weren’t Clint Eastwood and Madonna-and vice-versa. It’s mostly that, I think. Or else he’s still mad about a divorce that happened twenty-something years ago. She doesn’t talk about him much.”
“She’s a law unto herself obviously, but she seems like a very easy person to get along with.”
“Yes,” said Cayle. “But maybe not an easy person to compete with.”
They reached the midpoint along the outer path and started up the brick walkway that led through the center of the park and joined the encircling path on the other side. Matthew was kneeling on the bricks, tracing the inscriptions with his finger.
“Look,” he said, pointing to the path. “Some of these bricks have messages written on them.”
“Yes, Matthew, I see that. Interesting, isn’t it?”
The boy wandered up the path to examine more of the bricks. Bill knelt down to read some of the tributes that fans and well-wishers had left. Many of the messages were in honor of Davey Allison himself-“True #28 Fans, Bernie and Denise”-but some of the bricks bore inscriptions addressed to Earnhardt as well. “In Memory of Dale Earnhardt,” one said. A couple named Pat and Mike wished good luck to Dale Junior on their brick. Others commemorated fans’ wedding dates or honored the memory of a friend or family member.
“I’m glad to see some bricks in honor of Earnhardt as well as Davey,” said Cayle. “It’s good for people to have a place to say good-bye.”
“It’s odd that so many people seem to see Earnhardt as a saint,” mused Bill.
Cayle stared. “As a saint? The Intimidator? Surely not.”
“Well, the outward trappings of beatification, anyhow.” Bill smiled. “I’m being technical here. The winged threes on cars. Threes in Christmas lights on the roofs of houses. Tee shirts with slogans like ‘God Needed a Driver.’ Bekasu and I were saying that it reminded us of the way people reacted when Thomas Becket was martyred. A sudden recognition of the loss of an extraordinary presence.”
“That connection would never occur to his fans,” said Cayle.
“No. I think it’s instinctive. The object changes over the years, but human responses stay the same. Perhaps we have a fundamental need for reverence.”
“How strange.”
“It is strange. For instance, Shane-”
Before he could finish telling her, Matthew came running up waving a brochure. “Did you know you can buy a brick for the walkway here? And they’ll write whatever you want on it, and put it right here on the path.”