Harley Claymore smiled and smiled.
“Oh, good. You’re still here.” Bill Knight had come around the corner, looking tired but composed. He was in professional mode now, Harley supposed.
“Of course I’m still here,” said Harley. “How is she?”
“Well, she’s in and out of consciousness. We don’t really know anything yet. Except that it was a heart attack, of course.”
“Knew that before we got here.”
“Yes. At her age, it can go either way. At least we got her to a hospital in good time.”
“Where’s everybody else?”
“Well, Jim wanted Bekasu and me to stay with him, and with Arlene when we’re allowed to see her. We’ve sent Matthew off with Justine.”
Harley nodded. “That’s good. Get the children out of the way.”
“Er-something like that. Cayle has gone to call the Powells’ daughter in Seattle, and then she’s calling the airline about their flight tomorrow, and so on. And Jesse Franklin is wrangling over Medicare forms or some such red tape with a hospital administrator.”
“Jesse? I thought he wouldn’t say boo to a goose.”
“Well, when it counts, he can assert with the best of them. He said he asked himself ‘What would Dale do?’ and there’s been no stopping him since then. You should have heard him giving orders to the doctors. There is one more thing that needs to be done, though. Harley, the thing is…Arlene is asking for Dale.”
“She what?”
Bill Knight sighed. “I think she’s forgotten that he’s dead. She’s a bit agitated. I don’t know. Anyhow, she keeps saying she wants to see Dale Earnhardt. And we thought-that is, Jim suggested that if we were to bring in that fellow who impersonates Earnhardt, she wouldn’t know any different, and it might calm her.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, good. We’d really appreciate it.”
“What do you-you mean you want me to go find him? Go back to Darlington now?”
“Jim said that maybe the race isn’t over yet, and the Impersonator might be around. He usually shows up near the end of the race, doesn’t he?”
Harley stared. “So you want me to drive back to the Speedway-do you have any idea what post-race traffic is like?”
“Well, yes,” said Bill. “Bristol was only last Saturday. Seems longer, doesn’t it?”
“And you expect me to find that-that imposter, and bring him back here? You think I can do that? What if he didn’t show up at this race?”
Bill Knight smiled. “Oh, I think he will. By now I’m beginning to believe that Dale will help us out with a miracle.”
He hauled himself to his feet. “Don’t you start.”
“And Harley, get this done quickly, if you can. Drive quickly.”
Harley sighed as he got to his feet. “Oh, I can drive quickly,” he said. “I can do that.”
Justine held Matthew’s hand as they walked down the corridor of the hospital. “I thought about taking you to the cafeteria,” she said. “I’ll bet the food is pretty good. I had a boyfriend one time who was so cheap he used to take me to dinner there.”
“Was he a doctor?”
“No. That’s just it. He was an electrician, but he’d found that hospital food is the cheapest meal around, and it’s always pretty good food, so he’d just go there and eat. Nobody ever asked him why he was there.”
“So what happened to him?” asked Matthew.
“I don’t know,” said Justine. “I dumped him. Maybe he found some girl who admired his thriftiness. Or else a nurse.”
“Where are we going then?”
Justine stopped at a nurse’s station. “Good evening,” she said to the woman behind the counter. “Could you please page Dr. Toby Jankin for me? Tell him it’s Justine. He’s expecting me, but he didn’t know I’d have a patient for him. Matthew, honey, if you’ll sit over there on that bench for a minute while I talk to old Toby, I promise we’ll hit the cafeteria before we’re done.”
When the Impersonator turned up near the end of the race, Ray Reeve was glad of the distraction. By this time Jeff Gordon had begun to dominate the race, and Ray had a feeling of dread that told him Wonderboy was going to win. Two races in a row? He wondered if Gordon was having extraordinarily good luck or if Harley was cursed. He wished this could have been Junior’s day, a sign perhaps that he was right to transfer his allegiance from father to son. He stopped watching the blur of cars whipping around the mile-and-a-third track and rested his gaze on the man in the white firesuit at the base of the Colvin Grandstand, accepting hugs and solemnly posing for photos with Earnhardt fans. Funny how the sight of the red-outlined number three or even the Goodwrench logo whizzing past on Kevin Harvick’s car could bring a lump to the throat. He could understand why people didn’t want to let go. He was tempted to go down there himself and shake the man’s hand, just for the hell of it. A gesture of goodwill, perhaps.
Every so often the Impersonator would surreptitiously glance around, on the lookout for track security or maybe DEI people-whoever was after him. Ray wondered whether the problem was copyright infringement or trespassing or what. He didn’t think the guy was any worse than an Elvis impersonator. Or all the people on Halloween who dress up as ex-presidents. But he could see how it might upset Little E. to think that people would rather watch an imitation of his dad than see him out there trying to win an actual race. We can’t forget him, he said silently to Junior, no more than you can, but we’ll all move forward, because he’d expect us to. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw men in suits striding toward the Impersonator, and with a few more handshakes, the man in the white firesuit had eased through the crowd, picking up speed as he went, heading for an exit.
Ray Reeve turned his attention back to the race, but much to his chagrin the rainbow-colored 24 car was still out in front.
Cayle found Bill Knight and Bekasu in plastic chairs in the waiting room, leafing through old copies of health magazines. “Any word yet?” she asked.
Bill shook his head. “Not that we’ve heard. Did you get in touch with the Powells’ daughter in Seattle?”
“Yeah. Jean. She’s very concerned about her mother, of course. Wants her dad to call as soon as he can leave the bedside. She wants to apologize, she said.” Cayle smiled, remembering the conversation. “Apparently she gave her dad a hard time about going on a NASCAR tour. You know the type.” She studiously avoided looking at Bekasu as she said this. “Well, it turns out that she mentioned it as a joke to some of her snooty wine-and-cheese friends and got told in no uncertain terms that Greg Biffle was the pride of Washington State. He was last year’s Busch Series Rookie of the Year, Bekasu-before you ask. He’s from Vancouver, Washington, and apparently he has a bit of a following out there. Now I think Jean is hoping to sweet-talk her dad into getting her a tote bag from Darlington so she can impress her architect.”
Bill Knight nodded. “I’m not surprised. I had a similar experience in New Hampshire with a lawyer of my acquaintance, I’m ashamed to say. Cultural stereotyping was never kind. These days it is also most unwise.”
“You didn’t see Justine while you were wandering around, did you?” asked Bekasu.
“No. She’s still with Matthew, isn’t she? I expect he’ll keep her out of trouble.”
“It would take a straitjacket to do that.”
Ratty Laine had tired quickly of the noise and fumes of the racetrack, and especially of the humid heat of South Carolina, which might be all right at the beach, but in street clothes he much preferred the cool sanctuary of his air conditioned bus. Races lasted about three and a half hours, Harley had told him, and then he had to get his charges back to their hotel for the last night of the tour, before tomorrow’s drive to Charlotte. He was studying the map, just to make sure he knew where they were going. The tour was more interesting than he’d thought it would be, although he doubted he’d remember much of it after a couple of weeks. There was a Civil War battlefield tour coming up, and then Lee would again mean “Robert E.” rather than “Richard Petty’s dad.” Maybe he ought to make some notes in case Bailey Travel decided to offer this tour again, though. He just wished that bus drivers got as much respect and pay as stock car drivers.