Instead his hand closed on the end of a narrow cardboard box. There beside his duffel bag was one last wreath box, the final Earnhardt memorial. He slid part of the way in and emerged holding the wreath box, which he set on the pavement beside the bus. In all the excitement of the afternoon race and then Arlene’s heart attack, no one had remembered the wreath ceremony for Darlington.
He pushed the knob to illuminate his watch face. Nearly ten o’clock. The Number Three Pilgrims were inside the hospital now, keeping Jim company and waiting for word on Arlene. Even without the hospital vigil, it would have been a long day, and they’d be wanting to get back to the hotel soon. Tomorrow Ratty would rout them out early to take them back to the Charlotte airport to pick up their cars or to catch flights for home. He didn’t suppose any of them would want to drive back to the deserted Speedway to leave Dale Earnhardt a wreath, even if he’d earned it.
“They’ve forgotten all about it,” said a voice in the darkness.
Harley had to clutch at the wreath to keep from falling over. He turned to see Bekasu Holifield standing there in her sensible suit and her high heels, but now with the Winged Three cap mashed down over her dark hair.
He nodded toward the hospital entrance. “Are they coming?”
“Not yet. They’re going to turn off Arlene’s life support in a little while, and nobody wanted to leave Jim alone. Even he thinks it’s for the best, but of course it isn’t easy. Then I suddenly remembered that we hadn’t left the wreath so I came to find you.”
“Don’t worry,” said Harley. “I’ll take it myself. I reckon it’s my turn.”
“I think it’s mine, too,” said Bekasu. “May I come with you?”
He looked at her for one bewildered moment, but then, shrugging, he jerked open the passenger door and nodded for her to get in.
“How come you’re wanting to go?” he asked as they eased out into the road.
She sighed. “I can’t explain it, really. I suppose I must feel a little like that Roman GI who, halfway through a routine execution, suddenly got it, and probably spent the rest of his life muttering, ‘Oh, shit.’ Or cloaca maxima, or whatever they’d say in Latin. I guess it’s Matthew’s being all right that really got to me. I just want to thank somebody.” She laughed. “Mind you, by tomorrow, in the clear light of day, I’ll be arguing coincidence louder than anybody, but right now…in the dark of night…I’m willing to give him credit for the win. Hey-an artificial wreath. As trophies go, it isn’t much, is it?”
Harley smiled. “Well, he already has a grandfather clock,” he said.
They drove the rest of the way back to Darlington in a companionable silence. Harley was glad that Bekasu was not one of those nervous women who feel like they have to fill every breath with inconsequential chatter. He was too tired to rout out his inner receptionist, that hail-fellow persona he dredged up for social occasions.
Finally, though, he asked how things had been in the waiting room.
“Subdued,” said Bekasu. “Reverend Bill was working up some kind of a lecture. I don’t think it was a sermon. Anyhow, he’s making notes comparing Dale Earnhardt and Neil Bonnett to Gilgamesh and Enkidu-never mind, Harley, it’s rather obscure-I think he’s planning a whole segment on NASCAR in his shrine collection. And Cayle is now convinced that R.D. is the person who fixed her car for her outside Mooresville. She’s so relieved not to be the Joan of Arc of motor sports. I think they may have to drop him off in the bus when they’re ready to leave.”
Harley felt a chill at the back of his neck. “Didn’t somebody already come by and pick him up?” he asked, willing himself to sound indifferent.
“He was still up there in the waiting room when I left,” said Bekasu.
Harley said nothing, but he fumbled in his pocket for another cigarette, and found there wasn’t one. He decided that he was never going to say anything about that incident in the parking lot. For one thing, people might think he hadn’t got over that concussion from the wreck, and for another, it wasn’t such a big deal. Not compared to the other miracle: the one where the average-looking kid with no formal education and no money conquered the world and made a million people cry when he died.
“And Matthew was asleep on the sofa beside Justine, who was trying to top his score on the Game Boy,” Bekasu was saying. “Everybody else was watching a racing show on television. By the way, Jeff Gordon won today.”
“I know,” said Harley. “Apparently we had reached our bag limit on miracles.”
“Well, you get the betting pool.”
“Yeah. I’d rather have Jeff’s ride.”
Enough time had passed since the end of the race to evaporate the traffic jams, so when they reached the Speedway the Lady in Black was living up to her name-a dark shape in a starless night.
There were still a few cars in the parking lot, but Harley didn’t see anybody around. He pulled up in front of the white building in front of the Speedway, where a black banner bore portraits of Earnhardt (in a panama hat with “Darlington” written on the band) and Richard Petty (in his customary black Stetson) staring out through their respective dark glasses as the world drove by. “How about under his picture?” said Harley, getting out and popping the trunk lid. He was thinking, If I’d remembered it twenty minutes earlier, he could have taken it with him.
At his side Bekasu nodded. “I think so. What does this one say?”
He lifted the wreath out of its cardboard box. It was made of holly. Holly? thought Harley, wondering if the florist had tossed in a leftover Christmas wreath, or if this was a play on Holly & Edelbrock, which Justine would have appreciated. He didn’t feel like explaining carburetors to Bekasu, though. Across the wreath’s white banner red letters spelled out: Rubbin’ is Racin.’ He nodded to himself. It was good.
“Holly,” said Bekasu, touching the wreath. “Bill Knight would have loved the symbolism of this one. Holly doesn’t die in the winter when the rest of the leaves fall and the flowers wither away. So it’s one of the symbols of life everlasting. Or of not taking no for an answer, I guess-not even from Mother Nature.”
Together they propped the wreath up against the wall, beneath the portrait of a smiling Intimidator. “I’m glad nobody else is around,” said Bekasu, edging closer to Harley. “I’d feel silly.” Then she straightened up and touched the painted face on the wall. “I feel like I know you now,” she said. “I’m finally beginning to see what people were going on about all these years. And I’ll bet you’d probably think we were very silly, if not downright impertinent, to be leaving flowers for you at a succession of speedways, but I guess you’ll never know about it.”
Don’t bet on that, thought Harley.
“And maybe the love and grief we feel for someone who has gone isn’t supposed to go out to them anyway. Maybe it’s supposed to evoke something within ourselves. And so if we all came together because of this man, and if good things came out of it-friendships and help for those who needed it, and kindness-then we thank you for being the inspiration for those good deeds. That is miracle enough.” She turned away and ended with a muttered, “No matter what my sister Justine says.”
Harley wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He wondered if there was anybody listening to what they were saying, other than themselves. But he supposed it didn’t matter. He was going to speak respectfully-why risk getting run down in the parking lot by a phantom 1994 hot pink Chevy Lumina? “Well, you changed the sport and you changed the world, man,” he said to the face on the wall. “You’re a lap ahead now, but then you always were. You don’t need us to tell you that. But if you’ve got any luck lying around that you don’t have a use for where you are, I could do with some right now. Thanks for the ride, Dale.” He gave the three-peace salute and turned away.