St. Dale. Sharyn McCrumb
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scowling face. “There he is, folks,” he said into the microphone. “The one and only Dale Earnhardt, haunting the place in death just the way he did in life.”
“I’ll bet he’d be right pleased to be remembered,” said Jim.
“I’ll bet he’s pissed that Darrell Waltrip’s section is bigger than his,” said Harley.
Ratty Laine pulled the bus into one of the grassy parking areas behind the Speedway. “Are y’all going to lay the wreath now?” he asked.
Harley was already on his way out the door of the bus when the question caught him in mid stride. “Say what?”
“The wreath. Mr. Bailey at the travel company told me that the folks on this tour were going to lay a wreath at every Speedway we stopped at. In memory of Mr. Earnhardt. I got ’em all stacked in cardboard boxes in the luggage hold, but I put the one for today up in the overhead luggage rack.” He nodded at a white box above Harley’s seat. “You all gonna do that now?”
The phrase “might as well get it over with” was hovering on Harley’s lips, but then he remembered the stern face of Harry Bailey, so he composed his features into an expression of earnest solemnity. “Certainly,” he said. “It’s only fitting that we should pay our respects to Dale first.” He went back up the steps and pulled down the box from the luggage rack. “We’re going to lay this tribute wreath now,” he called out to the Number Three Pilgrims. “Photo opportunity. Bring ’em if you got ’em.” To Ratty Laine he murmured, “Where the heck are we supposed to put this thing?”
The pilgrims stood on the pavement beside the bus in a respectful silence while Harley slit open the box. The wreath of silk flowers mixed white carnations and red rose buds in a design shaped to resemble a wheel. The black ribbon stretched across the face of it bore the message: “Dale Earnhardt: Victory Lane in Heaven.”
“Oh, dear,” murmured Bekasu.
Bill Knight gave her an understanding nod. “Grief does strange things to people,” he said. “You see it at funerals. Whatever we say we believe in times of sweet reason, grief strips all that away and the pain reveals what we really do feel, deep down. Many people think of heaven as a place where they can do what made them happiest.” He thought of tombstones. In recent years, the angels and lambs of Victorian times had given way to an almost Ancient Egyptian preoccupation with the survival of the self. He had seen tombstones depicting skiers in midjump; leaping bass adorning the monument to a fisherman; and more than one set of checkered flags, signaling the arrival of a racing fan into the Hereafter. Nothing surprised him anymore.
“They’re every one of ’em different,” Ratty Laine announced to no one in particular. “I peeked in all the boxes.”
“I think we ought to take turns carrying the wreath,” said Cayle. “ A different person at each Speedway. That is, if you don’t mind, Harley?”
He blinked at her in astonishment. Surely they didn’t expect him to parade through the Bristol Motor Speedway crowds carrying a gaudy funeral wreath in memory of Dale Earnhardt, did they? He looked at their solemn faces. Apparently, they did. Harley summoned a wan smile. “Why, I couldn’t deprive you folks of this chance to pay your respects,” he said. “Anyhow, I believe Dale would rather have a pretty lady bringing him flowers than a beat-up old racer. You notice they never have guys handing out the trophies after a race.” He presented the wreath to Cayle Warrenby.
She held the tribute out straight-armed, and looked back at her fellow travelers. “But where shall I put it?”
How about on the top of Kevin Harvick’s car? thought Harley. They took care not to publicize the fact, but Harvick had taken Dale’s ride at Richard Childress Racing, and the cars he had driven last season—repainted of course, and with a different, less sacred number, would have been Earnhardt’s Monte Carlos, if he had lived to finish the season.
“On the drivers’ message wall,” said Jim Powell. “Bristol always has a wall where fans can leave messages to their driver of choice. I don’t know if they’ll have a section for Dale, since he’s not racing today, but we could check. I reckon a wreath could go right against the wall where the messages go.”
Yeah, thought Harley. Dale will be sure to check there for his messages.
Cayle turned to him. “Would that be all right?”
Harley shrugged. He hadn’t noticed any Earnhardt tributes on display as they drove by, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t still a shrine somewhere around. Or ten. Earnhardt had been dead a year and a half, but there were still thousands of mourners who’d fly the flag at half-staff for him if they could. In the camping area, there were probably a dozen makeshift memorials to the Intimidator. If there wasn’t a formal shrine—and why would there be? He hadn’t died here—then the BMS official message wall would be as good a place as any to leave the wreath. “The message wall it is, then,” he said, leading the way.
They marched up the hill from the parking area, with Cayle proudly holding up the wreath, leading the others along in a way that made Harley want to hum “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” People passing by stopped to look at the procession and a couple of Earnhardt fans took a picture of the wreath. One burly, bearded man with a leather vest over his black tee shirt stared for a few seconds at the tribute wreath and fell into step beside Harley. “Y’all mind if I come, too?” he said in hushed tones that suggested he was crashing a funeral. “Never really got to tell him good-bye.”
Harley shrugged. “Sure. Come ahead.” He was beginning to feel like the Pied Piper—lead all the Earnhardt fans out of the Speedway and into the creek…Then it occurred to him that he should have reminded them about sunblock, because the August sun beat down in unclouded intensity, so that they were sweaty and breathless by the time they reached the graffiti wall. They were also a bigger crowd now, since the procession had been picking up strays all the way up the hill. Harley kept turning around to make sure that all of his charges were still in the pack. Ray Reeve, squinting in the blazing sun, was bringing up the rear, but he didn’t seem to be in difficulty—just walking at his own pace. There’s always one, thought Harley.
A small weaselly man had hurried up to accompany his friend, the big guy who had first joined them.
“Say, what is this here march?” the scrawny fellow said, double-timing to keep pace with Harley’s longer strides. “I didn’t see no official announcement about this.”
“It’s part of a special Speedway tour,” said Harley, wishing the man would go away. “Earnhardt Memorial Tour.”
The man brightened. “Yeah? My buddy there was about the biggest Earnhardt fan there ever was.”
In size, certainly, thought Harley, stealing a glance at the weasel’s burly friend. The two of them looked like a Saint Bernard and a Chihuahua who had decided to go into partnership.
“Yessir,” the weasel said, leaning close to Harley to exude his garlic-fumed confidences. “My buddy Cannon just thought the world of Dale. He almost quit the business after the 2001 Daytona.”
“The business?” said Harley, suddenly interested. “What is he, pit crew?”
The little man smirked. “Naw. Even better. You know when they have wrecks out on the track? Well, ol’ Cannon skulks around afterward and picks up the debris. Or else he talks the pit crew into letting him have it. Or slips ’em a few bucks. Old hoods, bell housings, whatever. And he collects discarded lug nuts, racing slicks—any old thing they’re fixing to throw away. Then he sells ’em to race fans. Sometimes he makes them into little plaques or lamp bases or something. Lug nut key chains. It’s like turning scrap metal into gold, the prices folks’ll pay for Speedway trash. My buddy Cannon is a master at it.”
“He must be in hog heaven at Bristol, then,” said Harley. The Bristol short track was a series of wrecks punctuated by laps.
The weasel grinned at the thought of a fresh haul of car parts in the wake of the Sharpie 500. “So where’s this tribute