St. Dale

“Hot damn!” cried the weasel. “Hey, Cannon, guess what? This guy here used to be somebody!”

That’s right, thought Harley. I used to be somebody.

On race day, Bristol Motor Speedway provided a specially papered white wall on which fans were encouraged to write a few words of praise or encouragement to their favorite driver. The number of each car entered in the day’s race was painted in numerical order on the top of the wall, with each number allotted a space about six feet high and three feet wide for messages. Number 6 was Mark Martin; number 9, Bill Elliott; and so on. If you knew your driver’s number (and who didn’t?) you could leave him a message or inscribe your support on his section of wall. Presumably, after the race, the message papers would be given to each driver. Some numbers still had more white space than writing, and Harley felt a pang of sympathetic kinship for the slighted ones. He felt like writing Hang in there, buddy! on Todd or Brett Bodine’s wall, and he didn’t even particularly like the Bodines. Jeff Gordon and Dale Junior, though, might want to set aside a couple of hours to decipher all their fan messages.

When the little procession of mourners reached the graffiti wall, they found that no message space had been allotted for the number 3, since of course no car of that number was racing today. Harley willed himself not to roll his eyes as he met the looks of outrage and tearful disappointment on the faces of the assembled pilgrims.

“Well, he’s not driving today,” he said. “And Richard Childress, who owns the number 3, isn’t about to put anybody else out there in it.” They nodded in agreement that this would be blasphemy.

Jesse Franklin spoke up. “Well, actually, Happy Have-wreck, er-Kevin Harvick that is-” He gave them a twinkling smile to show that the slip had been deliberate. “He took Earnhardt’s spot on the Childress team and, for the rest of the 2001 season, he was driving cars that were made for Dale. Of course, they gave him a different paint job, and his number is 29.”

“I know,” said Harley. “My heart goes out to him. Chance of a lifetime, maybe, but a hard act to follow.” A black Monte Carlo with “Goodwrench” written on the side-he’d seen people cry at the sight of it.

With no number 3 car entered in the Sharpie 500, the numbers jumped from 2 to 4. However, just after number 2 (hello, Rusty Wallace), the wall curved at a pillar where the number 3 ought to have gone, so that there was a section perpendicular to the rest of the wall that was left blank. But since the blank wall was positioned between “2” and “4,” the fans were quick to notice this opportunity (a little miracle, really, a blank space just where a thousand people desperately wanted one), and to appropriate that side wall for an impromptu memorial. Earlier in the day, some still-grieving Earnhardt supporter had drawn a big “3” at the top of the wall with a black Sharpie, and now the side of the pillar unofficially dedicated to the late Dale Earnhardt had more messages than the sections for drivers actually running in the day’s race.

What was the purpose of those messages, Harley wondered. You couldn’t wish him luck in a race he wouldn’t run, or wish him well in general. He supposed people’s messages to the Intimidator meant simply that they missed him, and that they still needed to express their undying devotion. It didn’t matter if Dale was somewhere reading them in spirit or not; it was enough to his supporters that they could make the gesture. Would the Speedway officials who set up the graffiti wall continue to leave a place for the missing man? And would the messages someday evolve into secular prayers, requests for help with health problems, or money troubles, or for lost loves? Harley tried to picture Dale Earnhardt in some celestial cubicle next to St. Anthony (lost objects) and St. Martin (reformed drunks), listening to prayers of the faithful through earphones attached to his halo. Naw. That dog wouldn’t hunt. Harley had known Earnhardt. The man didn’t belong on top of a Christmas tree, whatever these Hallmark-happy mourners might think. Take it to ol’ Dale in prayer, and he’d probably just give you that possum grin of his and tell you to “suck it up.” Dale had come up the hard way, same as Harley had, and he probably felt the same way about being beholden to anybody.

Given the Speedway’s relaxed attitude toward the impromptu wailing wall, Harley didn’t suppose that the management would object to the tour group’s presentation of a heartfelt floral tribute to Earnhardt, as long as the ceremony didn’t disrupt the race day festivities. He was more worried about stray journalists capturing the scene on film, especially if any photogenic kneeling, or weeping, or hymn-singing accompanied the wreath-laying. That wasn’t the kind of publicity that would put him back on pit road.

Cayle held the wreath above her head for a moment, as if she were showing it to the heavens, before she bent over and placed the floral tribute against the side wall. No one spoke or moved while she positioned it and smoothed the ribbon so that its letters were readable.

After an awkward silence Cayle turned to Harley. “Er-are you going to say anything?”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t know where to start.” He faced the group, careful to keep his back turned to the wall, half afraid that if he turned around he would see a sneering grin spread across the features of a transparent Intimidator. Flowers for Earnhardt-how the man in black would have laughed. Why, Earnhardt hadn’t even gone to Neil Bonnett’s funeral-practically his best friend in the world, and yet he had stayed away. Drivers didn’t like to be reminded of death. They were too close to it, most of the time. What would Earnhardt make of this little gathering of adoring strangers, and the thousand or so ceremonies like it that had taken place all over America when he died?

Bill Knight raised his hand. “I guess I could say a few words,” he said. “I mean, I’ve had a lot of practice at memorial services.” He gave them a nervous smile. “I come to praise Caesar, not bury him.”

“No.” The voice of quiet authority belonged to Sarah Nash. She stepped up to the wreath. “You’re new to all this, Mr. Knight. I’ve always thought that eulogies ought to be delivered by people who knew the deceased.”

The others gave a little gasp. “Did you know him?” asked Ray Reeve, with a scowl that dared her to lie about it.

She sighed. “Well, I met him just once-at one of those wine-and-cheese parties in Charlotte that corporate types like to host. He wore a dark suit, and he shook hands and spoke courteously to everybody who wanted to meet him, and if he was as bored as I was, he didn’t show it, either. But I wouldn’t claim acquaintance on the strength of that. When I said someone who knew him, I didn’t mean that. I meant that all of us who watched him in the races knew him. Even if you never got within a hundred yards of him, you were his friend if you cheered for him. And that’s who ought to speak up for him now. My friend Tom Palmer was supposed to come on this trip, and if partisanship counts, he’d have been a friend of Dale. So, I guess on behalf of Tom Palmer, I’ll start.” She took a deep breath and spoke toward the graffiti-covered wall.

“Well, good-bye, Dale. I’ll miss you out there on the track, because it was never a dull race while you were in it. You and I both started out poor and countrified in the North Carolina piedmont, and we both came into prosperity after we grew up, ending up at parties with people who had more money than sense, so I always felt a sneaking sense of pride in the fact that you handled your wealth and fame with such grace. You didn’t kowtow to rich folks, but you didn’t run from them, either. You always knew you were as good as anybody-and I think your fans needed somebody to assure them that this was so. This wreath is just a reminder that we haven’t forgotten you, and maybe it’s a thank-you from all the people who watched you win races and watched you climb to the top of society, and who never felt like you left them behind in either place. If they end up making a spun-sugar angel out of your memory, I reckon you’ll have the grace not to laugh too much about it, wherever you are.

“You knew the power of believing in something, and it took you a long way. So now the believing is on the other foot. People want to think you’re still there for them-somewhere. Still the people’s champion. I hope you’re happy with the way things turned out. A lot of people wish you hadn’t left, but they wouldn’t begrudge you a state of grace and eternal peace. So…” She looked up at Bill Knight and smiled. “Ave atque vale, Mr. Earnhardt.”

Somebody in the back of the crowd said “Amen,” and a handkerchief was surreptitiously passed to the big man in leather who had tagged along to pay his respects. Justine fumbled in her purse for Kleenex.

Bill Knight shook Mrs. Nash’s hand and whispered, “Well done!” in tones of professional admiration.

When Sarah Nash stepped away from the wreath, Terence Palmer stepped up close enough to murmur in her ear, “Thanks for doing that. It would have meant a lot to my father, I’m sure. But I thought you said you weren’t a fan of Earnhardt.”

She shrugged. “Never knew the worth of him until he died.”

Chapter VIII