“Maybe old Lee hoped that Richard would quit and go to law school.” Harley laughed. “No, that’s not true. Racing was always the family business. I don’t think Richard Petty considered any other career for more’n five minutes.”
“I still bet Lee Petty was sorry about putting Richard into the wall when he realized the other driver was his son.”
“That’s for sure. Lee was the car owner. Every dent he put in the car that Richard was driving would have to be fixed with money coming out of his own pocket.”
Bekasu shook her head. “Poor Richard Petty.” She had begun to picture The King as a sooty waif in a Dickens novel.
“Richard Petty wouldn’t see it that way,” Harley said. “There’s a saying on the track: ‘Rubbin’ is racin’.’ Dale Earnhardt lived by that motto. You’ve heard it?”
“Yes,” said Bekasu. “But what on earth does it mean?”
“It means that there’s more to competing than just driving a car at high speeds around an oval. There’s conflict with your opponents-that’s the rubbing. Bashing somebody out of your way so that you can win.”
“Your stag metaphor again, huh? Locking horns.”
“Right. It’s all part of the deal. Richard Petty knew that, and if he couldn’t handle the roughness back then, he’d have had no business in the sport.” Harley turned to look at the line of trophy cases, glinting gold in the fluorescent lighting. “But he turned out all right, didn’t he?”
Cayle and Justine had wandered to the back of the museum, where case after case of belt buckles were on display, and behind that was a room full of floor-to-ceiling glass shelves, housing The King’s gazillion pocketknives and the doll collection of Mrs. Richard Petty.
“I used to have that one!” Justine declared, pointing to a round-faced Madame Alexander storybook doll. “Got it for Christmas when I was nine.”
“I’ll bet this freed up a lot of space for them at home,” murmured Cayle, surveying the size of the two collections.
“I’ll bet their fans just eat this up,” said Justine. “Richard Petty’s
“Speaking of stuff,” said Cayle. “I just had a cute idea for the newlyweds. I think we ought to get them a wedding present. So what if we all take turns buying them a coffee mug from every museum and speedway we visit? I bought a mug in Martinsville, so I can give them that.”
Justine considered it. “You think she’d like NASCAR mugs better than Royal Doulton?”
“I don’t think they’re mutually exclusive, Justine. Shall we do it?”
“Sure. I’ll pass the word,” said Justine. “Oh, look! A Prince Charles and Princess Diana! Aren’t they adorable?”
Cayle sighed. “I wonder if Princess Diana has a Richard Petty doll in
“Nope,” said Justine. “I went there last summer. It’s just dresses and old pictures-stuff like that. This is much more interesting.”
Terence Palmer and Sarah Nash stood at the knee-high picket fence surrounding Adam Petty’s tricycle, which was parked beside Adam Petty’s multicolored race car. Terence thought that the 45 car, a Chevrolet Monte Carlo, looked quite appropriate parked beside a tricycle, because its flamboyant paint scheme suggested that it had been designed by a kindergartener with crayons. The car’s roof and doors were shamrock green, its hood a royal blue, and the bumpers bright red. Various sponsor decals in yellow and white lettering and the 45 on the sides and roof in buttercup yellow gave the car a festive air, as if it ought to have been a parade float instead of a race car. It seemed strange to think that someone so young, driving such an exuberantly colored car, should have died.
“The tricycle is a nice touch,” said Sarah Nash. “It reminds you that the drivers are just ordinary people, not superheroes in firesuits.”
“Seeing his car here in his grandfather’s museum makes me feel that I missed something,” said Terence. “Not family exactly. My childhood was fine. I know people hate it when privileged people complain, and honestly, I’m not. I think what I’m lacking is a sense of continuity. Look at Adam here: the fourth generation in the same family business. It seems to me that he could share much more with his father and grandfather than most people.”
“It’s rare, though, that kind of closeness.” Sarah Nash gave him an appraising stare. “You’re not about to tell me you wish you’d gone into farming with your father instead of being a tycoon in New York?”
“Hardly a tycoon,” Terence said quickly. “More like one cog in a big machine. And after all the education and training I’ve had, it would be a waste to walk away from that. No, I don’t think I’d have any aptitude for farming-or for stock car racing,” he added, nodding toward the car. “I just think it would be nice to feel like a part of something that started before you were born and will continue after you’re gone. Do you think my dad felt that way about his farm?”
“It’s hard to tell,” said Sarah Nash. “We never talked about it. I know that he enjoyed living there. It could have been no more than that. He wouldn’t want you to feel obligated to do anything you didn’t want to do, just out of some misguided sense of family tradition. And if you threw away a high-paying job to go broke farming in Wilkes County, he’d have called you a fool.”
“I used to wonder why he didn’t come and see me when I was a kid,” said Terence. “Why he didn’t try to forge a relationship with me. Do you know why he stayed away?”
“I think so,” said Sarah Nash. “During his last illness, there were days when he was in quite a lot of pain, and I’d go and sit with him. Once I said that I’d be tempted to take an overdose of the painkiller just to get the suffering over with, but you know what Tom said? He smiled at me-as much as he could smile, hurting as bad as he did-and he said, ‘I can’t do that, Sarah. I’ve got too much mountain blood in me to kill myself. Mountain people never go where they haven’t been invited.’”
Terence nodded, and they walked on to the next exhibit. No, Tom Palmer had certainly not been invited to visit his son. He was sure that had he turned up on the doorstep, his mother would have been gracious about it, but Terence knew that without so much as a harsh word or a raised eyebrow, she could make people feel profoundly out of place, so that they took the first opportunity to flee and never come back. He wasn’t sure how she managed it, and his two old girlfriends from his high school days who had been thus exiled would never explain to him exactly what had happened.
The truth was, he hadn’t made any effort to contact his father, either, but he told himself that he’d had no way of knowing whether his father had wanted to see him or not. Terence had always preferred to do without rather than to risk rejection.
Bill Knight had wandered up, reading the label on each exhibit, as if he were going to be tested on the material. “I really must get some postcards to send back to Canterbury,” he told them. “So many folks up there would love to come and see this. Well, this is a colorful car-practically a Christmas tree on wheels.”
“It was Adam’s,” said Terence, indicating the sign.
Bill Knight’s smile faded. “Oh, my,” he said. “
“I’d like to think he knows that,” said Sarah Nash.
An hour later, and a few miles down the road, Shane McKee stood in a dimly lit entry foyer, beside the roped- off black number 3 car. He gazed down the dark and cavernous hallway, illuminated only by the faint glow of picture lights above each exhibit, and then he began to walk away from the sunshine of the entryway, and down the long dark hall of memories.
The place looked more like church than church, he thought. The visitors were acting like it was church, too. Singly or in pairs, the visitors wandered down the hall with its cathedral ceilings and its glass-encased Earnhardt trophy collections. If they spoke at all, it was in whispers.
“This isn’t much like the Petty Museum, is it?” said Karen, looking around her. “Mr. Petty’s museum looks like a branch bank in Mayberry. But this place feels like the Lincoln Memorial.”
“Richard Petty isn’t dead,” said Shane with a catch in his voice. When they first arrived he had stood in the
