to bone up on Earnhardt connections to any place they might visit. Now he thought he could recite Earnhardt trivia without clenching his teeth. If he didn’t run out of nicotine patches, he might even survive the tour.
“Of course, this is the closest airport to the Bristol Speedway, our first stop. It was at the Bristol Motor Speedway that the young Dale Earnhardt won his first ever Winston Cup race. April 1, 1979, to be exact. Bobby Allison came in second in that race. This evening we’ll be attending the Sharpie 500 there.” To identify the race’s sponsor, Harley waved the Sharpie fine point permanent marker with which he had been taking roll. “Dale Earnhardt himself used to fly into this very airport for the race.”
For a moment everyone paused, picturing an Earnhardt wraith walking past the baggage carousel, but Harley, who had been warned not to let the tour turn into a death march, changed the subject. “Did everybody’s luggage make it? Okay, good. Then let’s get started. This is the very first Dale Earnhardt Memorial tour, and my first tour of any kind, so there ought to be a yellow stripe painted on the bumper of the bus. Just go easy on us, folks. Over there hauling your suitcases onto the baggage cart is our bus driver, Mr. Ratty Laine. I’m your guide-Harley Claymore, NASCAR driver…”
A hand waved in the air. “Do you do those hair growth commercials on television?”
“Hair growth?” Harley caught the reference. “Ah, no. That would be Derrike Cope. The way you can tell us apart is: Derrike sort of accidentally won the Daytona 500 in 1990, and I didn’t lose my hair. Hard to say which of us got the better deal.” He looked down at his notes. “Okay, speaking of Derrike, let me do a head count. We’ll get acquainted later. Right now the bus is waiting for us in the parking lot, and we have a wedding to get to.”
Justine waved her sunglasses. “I thought we were going to the Bristol Speedway.”
“Yes, ma’am, we are. The race is this evening. The Sharpie 500.
“Heck, no. If they’d told us about a wedding, I would have brought somebody besides my sister.”
“I don’t think they’re taking volunteers, ma’am. We’re just going to watch. Oh, but two members of our party are getting married there by pre-arrangement. You’ll meet them shortly.”
“Well, if you need somebody to marry them, my sister’s a judge. Hey, Bekasu, can you marry people in Tennessee?”
While Justine scanned the crowd for her, Bekasu edged her way toward the silver-haired minister. She wanted to make allies before people figured out that she was with Justine. “Hello,” she said with an after-church smile. “I’m Rebekah Sue Holifield, and I am a hostage on this tour. How are you…Father…?”
“Just Bill,” he said quickly. “Bill Knight. I’m Episcopalian, but not that High Church.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “And this young fellow is Matthew Hinshaw, who is the real racing fan. He’s promised to help me along, because I’m new to all this.”
“Well, how do you do, Matthew,” said Bekasu, shaking his small hand. “You may have to help me along, too. I came with my sister, who is the real fan, and our cousin Cayle, who had a most extraordinary experience. She-well, never mind. Anyhow, I’m the novice in our party. To me, stock car racing looks like rush hour in Charlotte.”
“Except they’re going 180 miles an hour,” said Matthew solemnly. “And sometimes they hit each other on purpose.”
“Matthew, why did our guide say there ought to be a yellow stripe painted on the bumper of the bus?”
The boy grinned. “That’s easy! In NASCAR rookie drivers have a yellow stripe so that people will know to cut them some slack. Hey, Bill, do you mind if I get a drink before we leave the airport? It’s time for the white pill.”
Bill Knight fished a dollar out of his pocket. “Need any help, Matthew?”
The boy shook his head and ambled away.
“Your…nephew?” asked Bekasu.
“No. Matthew lives in the children’s home affiliated with the parish. This is what he wanted to do more than anything else in the world. He’s…ill.”
Bekasu watched the little boy saunter away clutching his dollar. “Yes, I thought he must be,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Is this one of those wish tours for him?”
“Yes. He’s such a great little guy. He’s had a rough year. He lost his parents in a wreck, and a few months after that he was diagnosed with his illness. I suppose a tour is hardly enough compensation for all that tragedy, but it’s all we could do. I’m accompanying him, because the tour coincided with my vacation-not because I share his passion for NASCAR. He’s a bright little fellow, though. His doctors assure me that he’ll be all right for the duration. I worry, of course.”
“It’s an interesting choice,” said Bekasu. “He did choose this tour himself, I suppose?”
Bill Knight sighed. “Oh, yes. I think everybody was a little surprised about that, but he was adamant.”
“I’d have thought that most children would have picked Disney World,” said Bekasu.
“Matthew is an unusual boy. Very-focused. It occurred to me that perhaps an intense interest in one subject keeps him from thinking about all the things in his life that he can’t control, which is nearly everything. And I suspect that his parents were race fans, but he’s never really said. I can’t say I’d have preferred Disney World over this, but I wish I could have got him interested in my hobbyhorse, which is the medieval pilgrimages of the Church. Santiago de Compostela…Canterbury…But, I suppose a trip abroad would have been too risky for his condition. And perhaps too expensive. Anyhow, young Matthew preferred
“I didn’t know what to expect on this tour. Most tour passengers are middle-aged married couples, but I was afraid that a NASCAR tour might be a busload of drunken good old boys. This one seems to be neither.”
“Did your husband not want to come along?”
Bekasu hesitated. It was still hard to say it casually. “He died a few years ago. A few months after that Cayle got divorced, and that’s when we decided that the three of us would make a tradition of vacationing together.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“It has its moments. But I didn’t bargain for a racing tour. What about you? Are you from-” Bekasu cast about for a city associated with racing. “Umm-Indianapolis?”
“Rural New Hampshire. Our town is just north of Concord, about eight miles from the New Hampshire International Speedway. It’s called Canterbury, so you can imagine my delight when I was posted there, but, much to my chagrin, I have since discovered that Thomas Becket takes a backseat to Ricky Craven there. I keep trying, though. Slide shows, lectures at church functions. To no avail-racing fever is rampant. Still, the drivers are very good about coming to the Children’s Home and signing photos for the kids. One of them played Santa Claus for us a few years ago, they tell me. I’m new to the parish, so I’m still getting used to all this. I didn’t really know much about Earnhardt until the day he died.”
“I think we’re being rounded up,” said Bekasu, glancing back at the cluster of travelers. “And here comes Matthew with his drink.”
Cayle appeared beside them. “You’d better come on, Bekasu. Justine is asking whether they have a P.A. system on the bus, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to try to sing
Bill Knight laughed. “Must be a Southern hymn,” he said. “Not in our hymnal in New Hampshire.”
“Excuse me while I go and rain on my sister’s parade,” said Bekasu.
Chapter IV
Some time that week, he could not remember exactly when, Bill Knight had seen a shooting star flame out against New England’s winter sky. He recalled thinking, as he always did at such a time,
That Sunday morning several big-screen TV owners in his congregation had invited him to Daytona Parties, the
