St. Dale

Then Justine said gently, “You didn’t see the race, did you?”

He blinked. “Of course, I…well…I…”

Karen was shaking her head. “You made it through the first couple of laps, I think, Shane. Until they showed Kevin Harvick’s car up close, anyhow. The Goodwrench logo. Remember? And then you walked out of the den, saying you couldn’t stand to watch it. You went off to the garage and you spent the rest of the afternoon tuning up my mom’s car, which it did not need. And later you made me tell you who won.”

“That’s right. And you said Junior won it.”

“I know, Shane,” she murmured. “I know I said it. It just wasn’t true, that’s all. But you were so sure that the miracle was going to happen…” Her voice quavered. “I couldn’t tell you any different. I’ll bet half a dozen times since then people have mentioned that Ward Burton won. We even saw a program on television where they said it, but it seemed like it just went right over your head. You didn’t want to be wrong, Shane.”

He stood there, fists clenched, taking heaving breaths, while the other passengers stood in embarrassed silence, contriving to look elsewhere. Karen looked as if she might burst into tears at any second.

The seconds ticked by while they glanced at each other, wondering whether to try to comfort the young man or to pretend it hadn’t happened.

“You got the wrong miracle, man,” Terence Palmer said at last. He stepped up beside Harley, concerned but not distressed by the public scene playing out before him. He managed a reassuring smile at Shane. “The first miracle was Kevin Harvick.”

Distracted now, Shane simply stared at him. “Huh?”

Terence nodded, and went on in the earnest voice he might have used to discuss mutual funds. “Look, after the Intimidator was killed in the 2001 Daytona 500, his Goodwrench car went to Kevin Harvick, right? And it was Harvick who won the 3rd race after Daytona that year. There’s your number three, Shane. The third race A.D. That made it the fourth race of the season. What’s Harvick’s number, Shane?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Right. Okay, in that race at Hampton, Harvick started in the fifth position. But he came in first. Fourth race. Twenty-nine car. Starts fifth, finishes first.”

“So?” Shane was no longer angry, just confused.

“What was Earnhardt’s birthday, Shane?”

“April 29, 1951,” said Shane without a second’s hesitation. Then it hit him. “Four. Twenty-nine. Five-one.”

“Right. There’s your sign.” Terence glanced up at the bronze features of Dale Earnhardt, forever in victory. “But as for Junior winning Daytona this year, he’d never stand for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Intimidator. Well, think about it. Dale Senior tried twenty times to win that race, and got jinxed every time. You said so yourself. So do you think he’s going to let Little E. win the big one the third time the kid ever tries? At the age of twenty-seven?” Terence gave Shane a pitying smile. “Oh, please.”

Shane nodded, not happy yet, but on the verge of being handed back his dream. No one else moved, for fear of breaking the spell.

Terence pulled a checkbook out of his hip pocket, and looked at the three-year calendar on the back of the deposit record. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll bet you want to know when Junior is going to win it, don’t you?”

Wordlessly, everyone nodded.

“When did Dale Earnhardt win the 500, Shane? The date.”

“February 15.”

“Right.” Terence tapped the checkbook calendar. “And the next time the race will fall on that date is in 2004. The sixth anniversary of the win. Two times three, Shane. Two drivers-Dale and Junior-times the magic number three. And 2004 is three years after he died. By then Junior will be twenty-nine. Harvick’s number again.”

Shane was nodding eagerly now. “Right. But it’s also the age Dale was when he won his first championship.”

Terence closed the checkbook with a snap. “That’s when Little E. will win it,” he said.

Everybody nodded solemnly, and Justine started to clap, but Cayle and Bekasu each grabbed a hand, glaring at her until she stood still.

Shane still looked shaken, but he was nodding now and his eyes shone with the newly kindled light of belief. Karen took his arm and they walked away.

“I’ll buy that,” said Harley to the group. “How about you, Reverend?”

Bill Knight smiled. “No devil’s advocate here,” he said. “There are saints who have been given shrines for less. I suppose we’ll all find out in February, 2004.”

“Now, how about we check out this Speedway tour,” said Harley, motioning them forward. “We can talk more over lunch.”

As the group began to file into the museum and gift shop building, Sarah Nash caught up with Terence. “That was a fine thing you did there,” she said. “Was it all true?”

He nodded. “Sure, it was. I’m a numbers geek. I just try not to let it show. This morning on the bus Karen warned me that she’d lied to Shane, so I had some time to think about it. Miracles. I want one, too.”

“Well, you helped out that young couple. I didn’t think you’d get involved.”

Terence smiled. “Rubbin’ is racin,’” he said. “I guess that’s as true in life as it is on the track.”

Sarah Nash chuckled. “The gospel according to St. Dale. Never thought I’d see the day. But they’re nice kids. She’s the brains of the pair, but he’s got a good heart. She could do worse.”

Terence didn’t answer at first. They had entered the building now and followed the rest of the group into the gift shop-an unauthorized detour that Harley had been powerless to prevent. Finally he said, “I’ve just realized who they remind me of. It’s my parents. That’s what they must have been like. A smart, ambitious girl who marries a nice guy who’ll be content to drift through life, and maybe she doesn’t even know why she married him. She’s using a college acceptance letter for a bookmark. She never told him about that, either. She’ll leave him one of these days, when she gets tired of him holding her back.”

“Maybe not, Terence. Sometimes an anchor keeping you grounded is a good thing. Not all women want to be outranked by their husbands these days.”

“But do you think I’m right about them resembling my parents?”

“Now that you mention it? Of course I do. I just hope they don’t end up the same way.” Sarah Nash looked thoughtful. “Maybe what they need is a drafting partner. May I borrow your cell phone?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to call my husband and ask for a favor. Northeast State Community College in Blountville offers an industrial technology program in automotive service. That’s near enough to where Shane lives that he could take courses there, if we can get him in. Richard is on their board, so I think he can put in a good word for Shane.”

“So Shane can learn how to be a NASCAR mechanic?”

“It’s a start. While he’s studying at Northeast, he could do an internship at the Bristol Motor Speedway, which is about two exits away. Richard can probably arrange that, too. If Shane does well, maybe he can get financial aid and go on to a more specialized program, like the one in Mooresville specifically designed for NASCAR.”

Terence handed over his cell phone, still looking bewildered. “But how do you know about all this?” he asked.

She hesitated. “Well, Terence, your father told me about those programs. I think he had hoped that you might want to do that someday. Of course, he’d be very happy about the way things did turn out for you, I’m sure.”

While Sarah Nash placed her call, Terence walked into the gift shop, so lost in thought that he barely noticed the brightly colored displays of drivers’ emblems. One featured item did penetrate his reverie. You could get a dog or cat collar that said “The Intimidator,” marked with the red-outlined Earnhardt number three. He smiled, picturing his mother’s surly Bichon Frise in a Dale Earnhardt dog collar, but his thoughts were mostly elsewhere. He was still considering the purchase when a smiling Sarah Nash reappeared and returned his phone.

“Richard was there,” she said. “I’d forgotten how much I missed the old bear. Watching the Powells this past week has made me think about my husband more than I ever thought I would. And he sounded right glad to hear from me. I think Florida may not be as riveting as Richard thought it would be.”