“We’re still waiting,” said Bekasu. “It’s getting dark. I guess the race is over, and Ratty will turn up eventually and take us on to the hotel.”
“Well, I would ask Toby to give us a ride, but he’s on duty tonight, and besides I’ve already imposed on him enough.”
Bekasu looked up at her sister. “Toby Jankin? You’ve been bothering doctors, Justine?”
She nodded. “Good thing I did. I got him to examine Matthew here, ’cause I figured medical care for orphans must be pretty dismal. Anyhow, guess what?”
“Wait,” said Bill Knight. “Aren’t there regulations about treating minors?”
Justine waved away his objections. “Taken care of. Called New Hampshire. Told her I was you, Bekasu. It’s amazing what judges can get people to do.” She smiled at her stricken audience. “Well? Don’t y’all want to know what he found?”
Still bereft of speech, they nodded.
“Well, Matthew’s sick all right. Guess what he’s got, though? Mononucleosis. A little time, a few pills, and he’ll be good as new. Toby says it’s not unusual at all for doctors to misdiagnose mono as leukemia in kids. Similar symptoms, I guess. Or maybe it’s all those three-day shifts they make the residents pull. Scrambles their brains, I think. It’s a wonder anybody ever gets out of one of these places alive-”
“Shut up, Justine.”
She subsided. “Well,” she said, sitting down and helping herself from an open bag of Skittles. “That’s half of Matthew’s problem solved. Wish I could do something about his mom, but that’s not happening. So Matthew is going back to Canterbury with you, Bill, and if he doesn’t find a family he likes in six months, he’s going to call me and I’ll spring him from the Children’s Home. Right, Matthew? ’Cause in the human race, buddy, I’m your drafting partner.”
Matthew, who had been sitting next to the muted television playing with his Game Boy, looked up at Justine and nodded wordlessly. If Terence Palmer had been present, he would have recognized the hunted look of a young man cowed by the Mother Goddess.
Harley Claymore hated hospitals. He’d had about all he could take of this one. He had managed to make it back with the Impersonator by dusk and escorted the fellow upstairs to where the Number Three Pilgrims had taken over the waiting room. But after a few cups of coffee that tasted like battery acid, he had come out to the parking lot to smoke cigarettes and commune with the darkness. The building and the cars were just shapes against the night sky. He could be anywhere.
He supposed the bus would be along whenever Ratty managed to fight his way through the traffic. He was glad to be out of that waiting room with its smell of disinfectant and stale donuts. And the pervasive air of grief. They didn’t think Arlene was going to make it. He was sorry about that, but at least she’d get to see her hero before she went. Maybe it was a blessing to be so addled that you could have illusions at the end of life. Harley had a feeling that he would go out someday, cold sober and knowing just how alone he was.
He studied the red glow of the cigarette in the darkness, glad to be alone again, relieved at the prospect of turning the Number Three Pilgrims loose tomorrow. He had nowhere to go, but at least after tomorrow he didn’t have to worry about anybody but himself.
“Evenin,’ Harley,” said a soft voice in the darkness.
He jumped at the sound of his name. A man in a white Goodwrench firesuit and opaque sunglasses stood a few feet away from him, leaning against the hood of a car. In the darkness he was little more than a shadow, except for that white suit.
“Hello,” said Harley. “That was a great thing you did in there, man.”
A shrug. “Well, I owed a kid a miracle.”
“Huh? Oh, they must have told you about young Matthew. That’s about the only good news, though. ‘Owed a kid a miracle.’” Harley smiled. “Good one. Dale’s lucky penny, cemented to the dashboard of his car.”
“S’right.”
“But bringing some comfort to poor Arlene was a good deed, man.”
“Well, one of the ladies up there said it best, I think. Believing is seeing. But, hey, blessed are they who don’t believe and yet still see.”
Harley was too tired to work out that one. Bad coffee and too many cigarettes were making his head hurt. “You want me to take you back to the Speedway for your car?”
“Somebody’s picking me up.”
Something in the quiet voice caught Harley’s attention. He didn’t hear the Georgia accent anymore. He heard pure Iredell County, soft vowels over stainless steel. “Are you the Impersonator?” he blurted out before he could feel foolish for asking.
In the darkness, a chuckle. “Oh, son, I always was. I dropped out of school in the ninth grade, and a million people were wearing my face on tee shirts. I always felt like he was somebody I played in public. I did the driving. He did the handshakes and the autographs. The driving was the best part, though. The rest just happened along the way.”
“And then one day you’re a legend, and people are putting wreaths on speedways to commemorate you.”
“Well, to commemorate something. They didn’t know me from Adam.”
Harley smiled. “They’re leaving wreaths for Adam, too, man.”
“I don’t know what they wanted. I just wanted to drive.”
“Yeah,” said Harley. “Me, too. You know I wrecked a while back. But I want to get back in the show.”
There was a pause so long that Harley decided he didn’t want to hear the answer, but then there was a sigh, and the man in the blackness said, “Sooner or later, you gotta move on.”
“You’re one to talk,” said Harley.
“Just don’t be writing checks that your body can’t cash.”
Harley nodded. Giving that advice was easier than taking it. “Listen,” he said. “About Mrs. Powell. Is the old lady going to make it out alive?”
The man shook his head. “None of us makes it out alive, son. The trick is knowing when to die.” He raised a hand in farewell. “Well, I gotta go. My ride’s here.”
Harley turned to see an old beat-up car waiting near the entrance to the parking lot. He didn’t know why he’d expected to see a black Monte Carlo, Goodwrench logo and all, but the old clunker idling under the light was an early nineties Lumina, two tone. Yellow and some darker color that he couldn’t quite make out in the dim light.
“That’s your car?”
The reply was a grunt. And then: “I own it. I don’t drive it. You take it easy, Harley. See you down the road.”
The man turned and walked toward the idling car. He climbed in the passenger seat, and the Chevy took off with a roar and a squeal of tires. They were out of sight in seconds, and it was only then that Harley realized what the second color of that old ’94 Lumina must have been.
Butt-ugly, lemonade pink.
Chapter XX
Harley’s umpteenth cigarette had burned low. He was enjoying the warm solitude of the parking lot. He just wished the clouds would roll on by so that he could see the stars. He probably ought to go back to the stuffy little waiting room, but there were hardly enough chairs to go around, and now that Ratty and Ray Reeve had joined the throng, there would be even less room than before. He’d exchanged a few words with Ratty there in the parking lot, and he’d remembered to get him to unlock the luggage compartment so that Harley could transfer his gear to the trunk of his car.
He tossed the butt of the spent cigarette onto the asphalt and ground it in with his heel. Maybe he ought to see about his luggage now. They could be coming out any time. He lifted the metal door to the luggage compartment and began pushing suitcases aside in search of his belongings. He found his firesuit and driving boots. How could he have been stupid enough to bring those? What did he think? That Tony Stewart was going to get sick before the race and they’d ask Harley to take the wheel? With a sigh of disgust at his own folly, he slung the gear into the open trunk of his car, and felt around in the hold for his duffel bag.