Auto races, like wines, have vintage years. For the Talladega 500 this proved to be the best year ever - a fast and thrilling contest from its swift-paced outset to a spectacular down-to-the-wire finish. Through a total of 188 laps - a fraction over 500 miles - the lead switched many times. Wayne Onpatti and Buddy Undler, the favorites of Adam's company, stayed near the front, but were challenged strongly by a half dozen others, among them the previous day's victor, Cutthroat, who was out ahead for a large part of the race. The sizzling pace took its toll of a dozen cars, which quit through mechanical failure, and several others were wrecked, though no major pileup occurred as on the previous day, nor was any driver injured. Yellow caution flags and slowdowns were at a minimum; most of the race was full-out, under green.
Near the end, Cutthroat and Wayne Onpatti vied for the lead, with Onpatti slightly ahead, though moans resounded through the company box when Onpatti swung into the pits, stopping for a late tire change, which cost him half a lap and put Cutthroat solidly out front.
But the tire change proved wise and gave Onpatti what he needed - an extra bite on turns, so that by the backstretch of the final lap he had caught up with Cutthroat, and the two were side by side. Even thundering down the homestretch together with the finish line in sight, the result was still in doubt. Then, foot by foot, Onpatti eased past Cutthroat, finishing a half car length ahead - the victor.
During the final laps, most people in the company box had been on their feet, cheering hysterically for Wayne Onpatti, while Hub Hewitson and others jumped up and down like children, in unrestrained excitement.
When the result was known, for a second there was silence, then pandemonium broke.
Cheers, even louder than before, mingled with victorious shouts and laughter. Beaming executives and guests pummeled one another on backs and shoulders; hands were clasped and wrung; in the aisle, between benches, two staid vice-presidents danced a jig. 'Our car won! We won! Echoed around the private box, with other cries. Someone chanted the inevitable,
'Win on Sunday, sell on Monday.' With still more shouts and laughter the chant was taken up. Instead of diminishing, the volume grew.
Erica surveyed it all, at first in detachment, then in disbelief. She could understand the pleasure of a share in winning; despite her own aloofness earlier, in the tense, final moments of the race she had felt involved, had craned forward with the rest to watch the photo finish. But this . . . this crazed abandonment of every other thought . . . was something else.
She thought of yesterday: its grief and awful cost; the body of Pierre, at this moment en route for burial. And now, so soon, the quick dismissal
'Win on Sunday, sell on Monday.'
Coldly, clearly, and distinctly, Erica said, 'That's all you care about!'
The hush was not immediate. But her voice carried over other voices close at hand, so that some paused, and in the partial silence Erica spoke again. 'I said, 'That's all you care about!''
Now, everyone had heard. Inside the box, the noise and other voices stilled. Across the sudden silence someone asked, 'What's wrong with that?'
Erica had not expected this. She had spoken suddenly, from impulse, not wanting to be a focus of attention, and now that it was done, her instinct was to back away, to save Adam more embarrassment, and leave.
Then anger surged. Anger at Detroit, its ways - so many of them mirrored in this box; what they had done to Adam and herself. She would not let the system shape her to a mold: a complaisant company wife.
Someone had asked: 'What's wrong with that?'
'It's wrong,' Erica said, 'because you don't live - we don't live - for anything but cars and sales and winning. And if not all the time, then most of it. You forget other things. Such as, yesterday a man died here.
Someone we knew. You're so full of winning: Win on Sunday! . . . He was Saturday . . . You've forgotten him already . . .'. Her voice tailed off.
She was conscious of Adam regarding her. To Erica's surprise, the expression on his face was not critical. His mouth was even crinkled at the corners.
Adam, from the beginning, caught every word. Now, as if his hearing were heightened, he was aware of external sounds: the race running down, tail end cars completing final laps, fresh cheers for the new champion, Onpatti, heading for the pits and Victory Lane. Adam was conscious, too, that Hub Hewitson was frowning; others were embarrassed, not knowing where to look.
Adam supposed he ought to care. He thought objectively: Whatever truth there was in what Erica had said, he doubted if she had picked the best time to say it, and Hub Hewitson's displeasure was not to be taken lightly. But he had discovered moments earlier: He didn't give a damn! To hell with them all! He only knew he loved Erica more dearly than at any time since he had known her.
'Adam,' a vice-president said, not unkindly, 'you'd better get your wife out of here.'
Adam nodded. He supposed for Erica's sake - to spare her more - he should.
'Why should he?'
Heads turned - to the rear of the company box, from where the interruption came. Kathryn Hewitson, still holding her needlepoint, had moved into the center aisle and stood facing them all, tight-lipped. She repeated,
'Why should he? Because Erica said what I wanted to say, but lacked the moral courage? Because she put into words what every woman here was thinking until the youngest of us all spoke up?' She surveyed the silent faces before her. 'You men!'
Suddenly Erica was aware of other women looking her way, neither embarrassed nor hostile, but - now the barrier was lifted - with eyes which registered approval.
Kathryn Hewitson said firmly, 'Hubbard!'
Within the company Hub Hewitson was treated, and at times behaved, like a crown prince. But where his wife was concerned he was a husband - no more, no less - who, at certain moments, knew his obligations and his cues. Nodding, no longer frowning, he stepped to Erica and took both her hands. He said, in a voice which carried through the box, 'My dear, sometimes in haste, excitement, or for other reasons we forget some simple things which are important. When we do, we need a person of conviction to remind us of our error. Thank you for being here and doing that.'
Then suddenly, all tension gone, they were pouring from the box into the sunshine.
Someone said, 'Hey, let's go over, shake hands with Onpatti.'
Adam and Erica walked away arm in arm, knowing something important had happened to them both. Later, they might talk about it. For the moment there was no need for talk; their closeness was all that mattered.
'Mr. and Mrs. Trenton! Wait, please!'
A company public relations man, out of breath from running, caught them at a ramp to the Speedway parking lot. He announced, between puffs, 'We just called the helicopter in. It'll be landing on the track. Mr. Hewitson would like you both to use it for the first trip. If you give me your keys, I'll take care of the car.'
On their way to the track, with his breath more normal, the p.r. man said, 'There's something else. There are two company planes at Talladega Airport.'
'I know,' Adam said. 'We're going back to Detroit on one.'
'Yes, but Mr. Hewitson has the jet, though he won't be using it until tonight. What he wondered is if you would like to have it first. He suggests you fly to Nassau, which he knows is Mrs. Trenton's home, then spend a couple of days there. The plane could go down and back, and still pick up Mr. Hewitson tonight. We'd send it to Nassau again for you, on Wednesday.'
'It's a great idea,' Adam said. 'Unfortunately I've a whole string of appointments in Detroit, starting early tomorrow.'
'Mr. Hewitson told me you'd probably say that. His message was: For once, forget the company and put your wife first.'
Erica was glowing. Adam laughed. One thing could be said for the executive vice-president: When he did something, he did it handsomely.
Adam said, 'Please tell him we accept with thanks and pleasure.'
