“You asked him about Shane?”
“Yes. He wants to meet the newlyweds and talk to Shane about maybe going to Northeast State. He was so pleased to hear from me that he even promised to take us all out to see Li’l Dale the sacred goat, and said that if Shane and Karen want to stay at his place for the rest of their honeymoon, they’re welcome. His place is on the beach. I thought Karen would love that. I just spoke to them and they want to go.”
Terence blinked. “Stay with your husband?”
She blushed. “Well, Richard won’t be there. He said he might like to come back to North Carolina for a while. So we’re going to take on the McKees as a project, I suppose.”
Terence nodded. “I’ve been thinking about them, too. And about my dad. You know you asked me what I wanted to do with all the art pottery in my father’s house? Well, I think I’d like to send it to that auction house in Asheville, and put the money in a trust for the McKees. That way my dad would get to send someone on to NASCAR, even if it isn’t me. I think he’d have liked that.”
“I think so, too. I think Tom would be proud. Do you want to come with us?”
“With you?”
“We’re going to leave the tour. Shane wants to see that goat, bless his heart, and Karen wants to spend part of her honeymoon at the beach.”
“But how will you get home?”
“Didn’t I mention it? Richard has his own plane.”
“At all the other tracks we’ve reminisced about Dale’s past races,” said Harley. “And I know that now that we’ve reached Daytona there’s one tragic race that looms large in your minds. His last one: 2001. But I just want to remember another race that Dale drove here. You know he tried from 1979 to 1997 to win the Daytona 500 and never made it. But he loved racing. Somebody-I think it was Rusty-said one time that if NASCAR had ever announced that they were going to hold a race, but no crowds were going to turn up, no prizes would be given, and they were going to charge five bucks for drivers to run on an empty speedway, Dale Earnhardt would be the only fellow to show up. He just flat loved driving, win or lose.
“That’s why the story I’d pick to tell here is not the 1998 Daytona 500, which he finally won, but the one before that-1997.”
“Wonderboy won that year!” said a scowling Ray Reeve. “Why do you want to talk about that?”
“You’re right, Ray. Jeff Gordon did win in ’97, but that isn’t my point. See, that was the year that Earnhardt had his bad luck a little earlier than usual. Most of the time he managed to have his disaster on the very last lap of the 500-mile ordeal-within spitting distance of the finish line if possible. I swear, it was like God’s thumb-well, anyhow, in ’97 the curse hit a little early. He barrel rolled the black number three on the back straightaway, which ended his chances of a win that year. He wasn’t hurt, though. Shaken up, of course, but he crawled out of the car and walked to the ambulance under his own steam. They were supposed to take him to the track clinic to get looked at, but while he was sitting there in the back of the ambulance, Dale got to thinking about his car, and he decided that it was upright and therefore still able to be driven.”
Bekasu’s eyes widened. “He didn’t!”
“Oh, he did. He climbed out of the ambulance, went back to the Monte Carlo, and took off again. Didn’t have a hope of a win, of course, but he came in thirty-first. He loved being here. He loved it.”
The tram tour began with the recorded voice of Bill France, Jr., the head of NASCAR, welcoming visitors to the Speedway. The little caravan of trams began on the top of the 480-acre Speedway with its view of the airport next door and the Hilton across the street, trundled through one of the tunnels leading to the infield, and began its circuit of the two-and-a-half-mile track, while the Speedway guide told anecdotes about Daytona, not unlike Harley’s performance on the Earnhardt Memorial Tour. He pointed out the 44-acre Lake Lloyd in the Speedway infield, where the Intimidator had won a fishing tournament with a 10.8-pound bass. Around the track they went, staying off the 31-degree banking where the racers actually drove, past the orange balls on poles which were actually observation towers for the spotters to crouch in. Past turn 4. That was where it happened. But the guide didn’t say so. When he mentioned Dale, it was the win, the fishing tournaments, the happy memories.
“I guess I can understand them not referring to Earnhardt’s death on the tour,” said Ray Reeve, when the Number Three Pilgrims had assembled again in the parking lot, with yet another speedway pin affixed to hats and tote bags. “But they didn’t talk about Neil, either.”
“I guess we ought to talk about Neil,” said Harley.
Bill Knight saw the somber faces of the others. “Neil?”
“Yeah,” said Cayle softly. “Dale Earnhardt’s best friend. The other guy who died on turn 4.”
Harley thought this was a sadder story than Dale, but you couldn’t stand there at Daytona talking about grief and loss and not mention Neil. So he told them. Neil Bonnett had been a pipefitter back in Alabama, before he decided to become a race car driver. He was part of the Alabama Gang with the Allisons. If there were any ghosts in the voices at Talladega, they should have been telling Neil to slow down and be careful. Not that he’d have listened. Neil and Earnhardt were the Butch and Sundance of motor sports, for what? Fifteen years or more? They competed on the track. They tried to catch the biggest fish or shoot the biggest buck in the woods. They were either the most macho pair who ever lived or else neither one of them could spell death, because they went at everything full tilt. They both went into the wall more than their share of times, but Earnhardt got away with it. Neil didn’t. He’d come out of the wrecks with broken bones, injuries that would sideline him for weeks. One multicar crash at Darlington in 1990 gave him a head injury that wiped out his memory for months. So he retired. Became a TV announcer. But life in the slow lane didn’t suit him, and he was itching to get back in the show. So Earnhardt helped him out. Got him a job test driving the Monte Carlos that would replace Earnhardt’s Lumina beginning in 1994. So Neil started driving again, and if he was driving, he might as well be racing. A farewell tour for a 46-year- old daredevil who already had enough money to stop taking risks. Five races in the 1994 season, just to go out in style. But in a butt-ugly car: a garish pink and yellow Country Time Lemonade Lumina. Car owned by Earnhardt. The farewell tour would begin, of course, with the first race of the season: the Daytona 500.
Only he never made it to the race. On February 8, 1994, in a practice run, Neil Bonnett crashed in turn 4 and died. Some people say Earnhardt never got over it, but he drove in that year’s Daytona 500, and he came in seventh.
Ten years and seven days later, he would also die at turn 4 at Daytona.
Harley’s voice trailed away. He didn’t trust himself to say anything else. He had known Neil.
Nobody said anything. Not even Justine, who wiped a tear away with the back of her hand, but did not speak. The others looked at the ground, doubly solemn now.
“Okay,” said Harley. “Anybody have anything they want to say?”
Nobody did.
“Then let’s say our good-byes. Speaking of goodbyes, four of our group are getting off here. The newlyweds and Terence and Sarah have had a change of plans, so make sure you take time to wish them well at dinner tonight before they head off down a different road.”
Shane stood there holding the wreath, trying to think of something to say. He was excited about the prospect of a new future that might someday bring him back here, but saddened, too, at the memory of the loss of his hero.
“This place is so…what’s that thing Lincoln said in the Gettysburg address? So consecrated, that what we say here has to be special. I didn’t write a speech or anything, but I can’t just say any old thing. Not here. I thought about a poem that Karen put on a quilt for me last year, but then I remembered something even better. Hey, Karen, what’s that thing your mother’s club says sometimes? The ‘bright flame’ thing they say?”
Karen blinked. “Well, it’s an old Gaelic prayer, Shane. I don’t remember all the Gaelic. Besides, it’s a prayer. Well, not a prayer, I guess. I think it’s actually addressed to a guardian angel, but still.”
“To an angel. That’s it. But it says what I want to say. You know it in English. Just say it in English. Please.”
Karen glanced doubtfully at Rev. Knight, as if she expected him to pronounce it blasphemous to utter a prayer at a speedway, but he simply smiled and looked eager for her to begin. There was nothing for it, then. She hoped she wouldn’t get so nervous she’d forget the words. Probably not. She’d told Shane about the college letter, and now that he had the chance to go somewhere, too, he was okay with that. They were finally checking out-which is what NASCAR drivers say when they’re making a burst of speed to leave the rest of the field back in the dust.
She nodded for Shane to place the wreath at the foot of the Earnhardt statue, and then she said:
