The phone rang again. Wearily, Race tracked through the puddle on the floor to get to the wall-mounted one by the refrigerator. As he picked it up, I realized Mom was probably calling back. I wondered which would be worse, talking to her myself or letting him do it.
“Why, hello, Saundra!” Race’s voice was a sing-song of false cheerfulness. “Oh, he did, did he? So that was you just now.” Race glanced at me and I froze. “Yep, I’m still alive and kicking. Sorry to disappoint you.” He leaned back against the counter, lifting one foot to examine the pungent red goo covering the bottom of his sneaker. “Well, judging by the limited nature of your conversation a minute ago, I’d have to conclude that he’s not interested in talking to you. To tell you the truth, I’m not interested in talking to you, myself.”
Relieved at Race’s intercession, I sat down.
“If that’s how you feel, maybe you need to talk to Mom about it,” Race continued. “She and I have an understanding.” There was a long pause, during which Race motioned for me to slide a chair over so he could sit. “Yeah, yeah, I know he’s your kid, but he’s old enough to make his own decisions.”
The rumble of a big engine sounded in the driveway.
“Oh, shit!” I scrambled out of my seat and snatched the roll of paper towels. Race barked an abrupt goodbye and hung up, joining me in trying to mop up the mess.
The floor was still a big red smear when Kasey walked into the kitchen. Worse, I noticed that tomato sauce spotted the cupboards, walls and refrigerator to about knee level. Kasey said nothing, just faded into a chair, her face creased with exhaustion.
“I’m sorry,” Race said. “I didn’t think you should have to come home from work and cook. We’ll clean it up.”
Kasey gazed wide-eyed at the mess.
“Look, you guys,” I said. “Why don’t you go watch TV or something? I’ll take care of this.”
“Kid, it’s not your—”
“Just go.” I motioned toward the living room. “And don’t track that stuff on the carpet.”
Race gripped the counter for balance as he kicked off his shoes, then he followed Kasey into the other room. When I heard the low tones of the evening news I got to work.
I guess on some level I’d been thinking that when Race came home everything would be all right. Now I knew it wasn’t gonna be that simple.
Chapter 26
After the Ragu disaster, I took over the cooking and cleaning duties. Race insisted on helping. Figuring he needed something to occupy his time, I let him, but I didn’t allow him anywhere near a jar of spaghetti sauce.
While Kasey put up with our interference, I could tell giving up that control bothered her. Her house, once spotless, took on a more laid-back appearance under our blundering care. Every night I saw a battle going on in her eyes as she noticed a crappy vacuuming job or a few crumbs on the counter.
“Let it go,” I said. “You’re stressing Race out, trying to do everything yourself.”
I figured things would get better with time, but they didn’t. Not even when Kasey loosened the reins enough to let me go back to work in the afternoons. She was making several trips a day, between running me back and forth and taking Race to Sacred Heart three times a week for outpatient therapy.
“It’s not an inconvenience,” she insisted. But Race harrumphed that he knew damn well it was. Still, when Grandma offered to take him, he refused.
“I wouldn’t want to pull her away from her busy volunteer schedule,” he said, making me realize that some grudges could over-ride even his deep-seated sense of honor.
“She’s your mother, Race. She wants to help,” said Kasey.
“All she wants is for people to see that she’s doing her duty. If she really cared she’d start accepting me for who I am.”
Unlike Race, I was getting used to having Grandma in my life. She was overly proper and domineering, but the one thing I had to appreciate about her was how she’d come to respect Kasey. She didn’t understand her, but she respected her. Unfortunately, Grandma also agreed with her when it came to the Dart. Kasey claimed she didn’t have time to work on it, and Race, overwhelmed by his indebtedness to her, didn’t argue.
I was disappointed in Kasey. I understood how the idea of Race returning to competition freaked her out, but it wasn’t right for her to cope by using his guilt against him.
Kasey and Grandma’s meddling was only part of the problem. Things also weren’t going well with Race’s recuperation. He couldn’t concentrate, his memory was crap, and fatigue leveled him if he pushed too hard. Along with constant headaches, he had trouble sleeping. It wasn’t unusual to find him passed out on the couch in the early morning hours with the TV on. After two weeks, he still had trouble operating the remote and dialing the phone. And while he pretended to prefer the comfort of sweats over jeans, we all knew he just couldn’t manage a zipper.
Reading was the only thing that seemed to help. “Now I understand why you’ve always got your nose in a book,” he told me. “It’s kind of a relief to live somebody else’s life for awhile.”
I agreed, but I knew my need to escape had been nothing compared to his. I thought about his artwork, how sketching for him had always been as natural as reading for me. How brutal was it to lose that? Race never mentioned it, and Kasey and I were careful to avoid the subject.
“He’ll deal with that when he’s ready,” Kasey said.
The saddest thing was that Race just wasn’t himself anymore. All traces of his former optimism were gone. His easy-going, devil-may-care wisecracking had disappeared, leaving nothing but sullenness and irritability. It was like he was turning into the old me. Kasey pointed out that moodiness was a common symptom of a traumatic brain injury. The thought didn’t reassure me. Instead, it brought back the fear that some essential part of Race’s character had been permanently erased.
I tried not to let Race’s crankiness get to me, reminding myself of my vow not to disappoint him again. Karate was the one thing that helped with that. After neglecting to practice the whole time Race was in the hospital, I’d worked it back into my schedule. Every day after breakfast I’d go out to the flagstone patio behind Kasey’s house, where the dappled sunlight filtered through the trees, spotting the rock with glimmers of pale gold. There was something refreshing about cool morning air, the birds chattering in the trees that covered the hillside. I could see now what my sensei was saying about developing the mind and spirit at the same time as the body. Repeating the simple moves while I concentrated on my breathing always calmed me. I thought it might work for Race, too, but he was rarely up at that time.
Denny tried to help, visiting several times a week in an effort to boost Race’s spirits. “You just gotta keep on keepin’ on,” he’d tell him. But the encouragement was like rain on a freshly waxed car, beading up and rolling away.
A lot of other people stopped by, too. Holly Schrader, Randy Whalen, even Tom Carey. But never Jim. Race was nice to their faces then complained when they left. “Why can’t they just leave me alone?”
One Saturday in late July, Kasey took desperate measures to stir Race from his funk. She came home early and confronted him as he sprawled on the couch reading Early Autumn, the seventh book in the Spenser series.
“We’re going to the speedway tonight,” she said. “You should get ready.”
Race didn’t look up. “Unless you’ve been putting the Dart back together on the sly, I have absolutely no reason to go.”
“Yes you do. Your friends are worried about you. It would help if they could see that you’re okay.”
Race lowered the book and extended a hand to indicate his reclining body. “You call this okay?”
“I’m not in the mood to argue.” Kasey shuffled through the handful of mail she’d collected on her way in. “There’s a letter here for you, Cody. Your mother again.”
Mom had continued to call, and I’d continued to hang up on her. Race did the same. Only Kasey took the time to speak to her, but sh
e didn’t try to force me to.
I accepted the envelope, ripped it in half, and tossed it in the nearest wastebasket.
“An appropriate response,” said Race.
“You need to get ready,” Kasey told him. “We’re leaving in half an hour.”
I didn’t know if I bought into this speedway idea. On one hand I could see it being very effective. On the other, it might be a complete disaster. What if we ran into Jim? He still hadn’t bothered to visit Race or even call. Besides, Race was always at his worst in the evenings—tired, crabby, and easily rattled. It didn’t seem like the optimal time for his return to the public eye.
At the track, Race let Kasey pay the entry fee in order to avoid a spectacle at the ticket booth. Several people stopped us on our way to find a seat, wishing him well and wanting to know when he’d be back. Kasey fielded the questions, with Race mumbling an occasional answer and looking overtaxed. When a pack of Super Stocks screamed down the front stretch, he flinched at the noise.
“Race!” Jim’s kid, Robbie, waved madly at us before sprinting down the bleachers. “Hey,” he said, screeching to a stop in front of us. “You got a haircut. I liked it better the other way.”
“So did I,” Race said.
Kasey’d had the final word on that, convincing Race the Mothra look wasn’t particularly becoming. He wasn’t happy with how short they’d had to cut his hair to even it out. I’d suggested a Mohawk, hoping to spare at least some of it, but had been overruled two-to-one.
“Come sit with us,” Robbie said, grabbing Race’s hand to drag him up to the spot where his mother was seated. Irritable as Race had been lately, he seemed to draw the line at taking his problems out on a little kid. He trailed behind, releasing Robbie’s hand and gripping the kid’s shoulder as they navigated the bleachers.
Laurie scooted over to make room for us. “Hey, Race, good to see you,” she said, smiling up at him. “I’m sorry Jim hasn’t stopped by. It isn’t that he hasn’t been worried about you.”
“I know.” Race lowered himself with the aid of Robbie’s shoulder.
Time trials got underway and Robbie jabbered at Race throughout them. It surprised me to see that talking with the little squirt seemed to recharge Race’s batteries. But as the night wore on, I watched him sag. He hunched forward during the Super Stock heats, shutting his eyes and massaging his temples. I’d heard enough about brain injuries to know the noise and action were too much stimulation.
“I’m sorry, Race,” Kasey said as the cars of the fast heat decelerated to leave the track. “I should have realized how overwhelming this might be for you. I just thought—”
“Well, maybe next time you’ll listen when I tell you I don’t wanna do something.”
Kasey put her hand on Race’s arm. “Let’s go home.”
“Are you kidding?” He straightened up, eyes pinning her. “I look pathetic enough to all these people. I’m not gonna wimp out and leave early on top of that.”
“Race, you’re not being reasonable.”
“Tough.”
He stuck it out through the rest of the night, giving in only toward the end of the Super Stock main, when taking off early to get a jump on the crowd became a legitimate excuse. Kasey stole worried glances at him the whole time, and Race seemed to take satisfaction in watching her squirm over his discomfort.
Somehow, I couldn’t blame him.
* * *
Kasey’s plan to kick-start Race’s attitude backfired in more ways than one. The next morning he got up at a decent hour and came out to the patio where I was practicing a karate kata.
“Kid, I’m gonna need you today.”
I didn’t know what to make of that, but it sounded interesting, so I went inside and told Kasey I wanted to stay home.
“What’s up?” I asked Race half an hour later as I stood by the window and watched the Charger disappear down Spring Boulevard.
Grinning, he held up the keys to the van. “We’re going to the shop.”
I wondered what unscrupulousness he’d stooped to in order to find those. Kasey’d had them stashed away in some personal Fort Knox. “Dude,” I said, “you can’t drive. The doctor said six weeks and it’s only been like, four.”
“So now you’re the voice of reason? What irony.”
I studied the sly smile on his face, torn between caution and the desire to keep that triumphant look from fading away. It was the first glimpse of the old Race I’d had in a long time.
“What if we have a wreck or something? You hit your head again and your brain could turn to mush.”
“What makes you so sure that wouldn’t improve my quality of life?”
I looked at the key ring again. What could it hurt? Kasey would kill us if she found out, but wasn’t she pushing Race into it every time she weaseled out of taking him to the shop?
“Okay,” I said, “but if Kasey catches us, you gotta take the fall.”
“Naturally.”
I trailed behind him down the steps. “You want me to drive?”
“No.”
I began to have doubts when he struggled to fit the key into the ignition, but once he got the van started, things went pretty smoothly. At least until we reached West 11th. As Race navigated the downtown area with parked cars on one side and traffic whizzing by on the other, his face went rigid and his focus zeroed in. He looked as jittery as I’d felt that day he’d given me my first driving lesson, but we made it to the shop unscathed.
Race tussled briefly with the locked door then led me into cool darkness where the familiar scents of grease and racing fuel brought on a wave of nostalgia.
“Well, let’s see what we’re up against.” Race switched on the lights.
The mangled Dart, still on the trailer, sat just inside the bay door. The roof was mashed down against the roll cage and bore deep gouges from its slide across the track. Door bars stuck out against sheet metal, like ribs on a starving dog. The hood had been torn off completely. It rested against the workbench, the baby blue Mopar emblem scuffed through to bare metal.
As I took it all in, an Ice Age unfolded in my gut, advancing glaciers through my veins.
“Wow,” said Race.
My head buzzed and I took an awkward step forward, feeling suddenly off-balance.
“Cody?” Race grabbed my arm, steering me toward the couch, where he forced me to sit. “Jesus, kid, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
The buzzing faded into anger. “What—that it was serious? That you damn near got yourself killed?” My voice shook as I yelled at him.
Race sat down beside me. “It never occurred to me that seeing the car would hit you like this.”
It hadn’t occurred to me, either.
“You okay?”
I stared at my shaking hands as if they were someone else’s. “I think I need a cigarette.”
“I’ll take you home if you want.” The look in Race’s eyes told me he was hoping I’d refuse.
“What kind of wuss do you think I am?” I took a deep, slow breath to center myself, like my sensei had taught me, then stood up. “Let’s get to work. We’ve only got a few hours if we want to make it back to the house before Kasey.”
I didn’t realize what we were up against. Even getting the car on the ground was a trial. It took Race several attempts to line the trailer hitch up with the van’s receiver, something he could normally do on the first shot.
“Son of a bitch,” he grumbled, pulling forward with a little squeal of the tires on his fifth or sixth try. He looked like Mt. St. Helens on the day of the big eruption by the time he finally he got it.
Before we could back the car off, we had to change both right side tires, which had been flattened by their impact with the track. It was no easy task. Maneuvering the jack on the bed of the trailer was a pain because the fender kept getting in the way. Race swore the whole time. After repeatedly dropping lug nuts and making me fish under the trailer with a broom to retrieve them, he finally growled at me to
finish the job.
“Now what?” I asked after wrestling the second tire into place.
Race pushed himself up off the tongue of the trailer, where he’d been resting. “Now we see if she’ll run. Crawl in there and crank her over.”
The starter whined eagerly, powered by the battery we’d just charged, but the engine refused to fire.
“Pump the throttle a couple times,” Race ordered. He gripped the top of the door with both hands, and though he tried to look nonchalant about it, I could tell he was running on fumes.
I squeezed the accelerator. The tantalizing zing of racing fuel tickled my nose.
“Not that much! You flooded her! Just give it a rest. She’s not gonna start now.” Race leaned over the fender and pulled a spark plug wire. Then, after wiggling the rubber boot back from the metal connector, he held it a fraction of an inch away from the plug.
“Try again.”
I pressed the starter button and the engine spun.
“Enough!” he snapped. “We’re not getting spark.”
Race went to dig through a toolbox, coming back with what I now recognized as a circuit tester, thanks to my work at Kasey’s shop. After a little more analysis, he told me to climb out of the car.
“Ballast resistor,” he said. “Musta cracked in the wreck. I may be worthless at changing a tire, but at least I can still diagnose a simple electrical problem.”
“So what do we do about it?”
“Buy a new one. But for now we’ll use the come-along to get the car off the trailer.”
Another task that proved easier said than done. I crawled under the Dart and wrapped one end of the cable over the axle. I hooked the other to a chain bolted around one of the steel I-beams that formed the skeleton of the building. Race’s hands shook and sweat beaded on his forehead as he worked the handle on the come-along to take up the slack.
“You want me to do that?” I asked, impressed but worried by his stoicism.
“No,” Race barked. “I want you to get in the car and steer. Be ready to brake when she starts rolling.”
I’d had about enough of getting my head bit off, and it torqued me that Race didn’t seem to realize I was on his side. But, clenching my teeth, I reminded myself of all the second chances he’d given me. Amazingly, even though I was pissed, it was like I was looking at my anger from the outside, instead of being completely at its mercy. Maybe Alex was right about emotional control being a matter of practice, just like breaking a board.