The cowgirl raised her carefully tweezed eyebrows. “Dale
“Well, not the
“I hear you,” said the cowgirl. “My intended cries every time he watches a race these days, he’s still so tore up about Dale.”
“Shane hasn’t even watched a race since Dale died at Daytona. This will be the first one he’s seen since then. He says it hurts too much. In fact, this year I-well, never mind. But Shane heard there’s an impersonator on the circuit who’s the spitting image of Earnhardt, and he was hoping the fellow would show up today and stand in for Dale.”
The woman laughed. “Well, that impersonator probably has to be careful about when and where he shows up, because if the folks at DEI catch him at it, I reckon they might arrange for him to actually
“Here’s our girl!”
Karen stiffened at the sound of a bugling drawl from ten yards away. Moments later she was engulfed by a horde of Friends of the Goddess, redolent with perfume and sunblock and all talking at once while Miss Welchett circled the group snapping off shots with her digital camera. To Karen’s immense relief none of the Friends had come sky-clad. They didn’t even look like a unified group. Mrs. Tickle and Karen’s mother wore straw hats and chintz-patterned summer dresses, while several of the other ladies had chosen pantsuits topped by gauzy chiffon big shirts or the sort of outfits they wore to class, and the rest were in muumuus that made them look like a succession of upturned ice cream cones.
“Have you got the four things, Karen?” asked her mother.
“Umm…four-” Karen’s startled mind refused to come up with any list other than the Wiccan standby: earth, water, wind, and fire.
“You know!” prompted Miss Welchett, still clicking the shutter. “Something old, something new…”
“Oh.” Karen shrugged. At least they were staying mainstream with their pagan superstitions. “Well, the dress is new, the underwear’s old, and I borrowed Mom’s earrings. I can’t think of anything blue, though.”
“Your aura,” said her mother. “Your aura is blue today. So you’ll be fine, dear. At least, I hope so.”
“ ’Course I will.” Karen gave her mother a quick hug, and hurried away before she was made to listen to the usual speech about the uncertainty of human relationships and the unreliability of men and the Never Give Up Your Day Job maxim.
The rest of the morning went by for Karen like a slide show on fast forward, forever to be remembered as a series of still images following in rapid succession accompanied by the aroma of gasoline, drooping flowers, and by canned wedding music and hugs from well-wishers and strangers. Shane’s dad hadn’t bothered to show up, but he moved around a lot so they weren’t even sure he’d received his invitation, but Shane’s mother was there in a pink linen dress that would have made her look young enough to be a bride herself if she didn’t look so tired and nervous. Shane’s grandmother had come wearing her best navy blue church dress and a Dale Earnhardt hat to get into the spirit of the occasion.
Also present were their fellow travelers from the Earnhardt bus tour, who mostly looked too presentable to be mixed up in all this, and the dozen other wedding couples who somehow made Karen feel more alone than she would have walking down a church aisle by herself. And finally there was Shane, with that firing squad look of a man facing the unknown, stepping up to the podium all alone-except in his own mind, that is-and saying his “I do” in a clear steady voice in response to her own faltering vows. Then he looked up, past her to the nearly empty Junior Johnson grandstand, and broke into a beaming smile.
Suddenly Jerry Nadeau was shaking her hand and wishing her well. “Um, you, too,” she said. “You know-for the race. May the best man win.” She was proud of that little play on words. She’d been saving it up to say to him when she shook his hand, but before Jerry Nadeau could even kiss the bride, Shane had taken her by the arm and pulled her aside. “Karen, I saw him!” he hissed in her ear.
She turned back to look at the rows of still vacant seats. “Who?”
“Dale! He was right there! In his firesuit and his sunglasses, with his arms folded the way he always stood, and when I looked up at him, he nodded at me. I think he might’a smiled.”
“Well, that’s great, Shane…” Jerry Nadeau was gone now, swallowed up by the crowd of laughing newlyweds, hugging and shaking hands and posing for snapshots. “I’m real glad you saw the Impersonator after all.”
Shane shook his head impatiently. “Look up at those stands, Karen. Do you see anybody there? No. ’Cause he’s gone. And nobody could disappear that fast from the middle of the bleachers. That wasn’t the Impersonator, Karen. That was the
The rest of the bus tour turned up for the combination tour lunch and wedding reception, and when the introductions, hugs, and picture-taking subsided, the newlyweds, the Number Three Pilgrims, and the Friends of the Goddess trooped off together to find some shade in which to eat the picnic lunch courtesy of Bailey Travel augmented with a selection of salads and vegetarian dishes brought along by the Friends. The two-tiered wedding cake, a little dented from its trip to the Speedway, featured red-and-black rosettes and garlands on white icing, a replica of Earnhardt’s signature in black icing on the side, and a little die-cast number 3 Monte Carlo next to the traditional plastic bride and groom on the top of the cake.
“Well, I think the whole ceremony was sweet,” Justine insisted.
Bill Knight sighed. “I just wish some of them had kissed each other before they kissed the start/finish line.”
Shane’s mother, a colorless waif of a woman who looked like she hadn’t had enough sleep in fifteen years, hovered uncertainly on the fringes of the crowd beside Shane’s grandmother, until Justine discovered them and managed to get them involved in a discussion of wedding fashions and unusual ceremonies (beginning with her own), so that Mrs. McKee finally forgot her nervousness. By the time Shane’s grandmother had begun to swap herbal remedies with the Wiccans, Justine had fetched Mrs. McKee a second glass of champagne, and introduced her to Jim and Arlene. The three of them started on a comparison of NASCAR craft items and Shane’s mother had begun to feel that she was being amusing and clever after all. She even summoned up a grin for the family wedding picture.
The reception hummed along despite the heat of midday, while Shane, Harley, and Terence stood off to one side and talked about the strategy of the pit stop in racing, with particular emphasis on the genius of the Wood Brothers. Karen chewed her roast beef sandwich in thoughtful silence, summoning up a smile every time somebody congratulated her, which was about every third bite. Finally, after she and Shane had cut the cake and everyone else was lined up to receive a slice, and while Justine and the Friends of the Goddess were leading a lively discussion on the feng shui of the Speedway, Karen walked up to Mrs. Tickle and asked, “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Oh, no!” said Mrs. Tickle. “Certainly not.”
It was typical of the Friends of the Goddess that Mrs. Tickle did not ask why Karen would ask such a question. This was exactly the sort of thing they thought everybody wondered about all the time, but Karen had expected a less conventional answer. “Oh, okay,” she said.
“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Tickle waving her fork. “I believe in the lingering spiritual presence of departed souls.”
“Well, do you think the departed soul of…um…Dale Earnhardt could come back to the NASCAR circuit?”
“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Tickle.
“Oh. Good. Well-”
“Because he never left,” said Mrs. Tickle.
Chapter X
