By the time we had the Dart off the trailer, it was almost four o’clock.
“We should go,” I said. “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”
Ignoring my suggestion, Race picked up a couple of jack stands. The determined set of his jaw scared me. I grabbed his wrist, causing one of the supports to clang to the concrete floor.
“Race, you’ve gotta stop. You’re gonna mess yourself up.”
“Can’t get much worse.”
“You really want to take that chance?”
“Do you have any idea how damn tired I am of being useless? If I leave here without at least getting this car up on jack stands, I’m gonna feel like a . . . like a . . . complete loser.”
Alarm prickled my skin. I hadn’t heard him fumble for a word since a few days after the wreck.
“I’ll do it,” I said. “You sit down.”
At last Race gave in, handing me the other jack stand then retreating to the couch.
When I was done with the car, I attempted to back the trailer in beside it. Backing a trailer isn’t easy. When you cut the wheel the way you think the damn thing oughta go, it goes the other way. Even when I figured out I needed to steer the opposite direction, I had trouble. Eventually I got it by pulling forward until the trailer lined up behind the van, then making a straight shot in reverse.
“Good job,” Race said as I released the lever and lifted the receiver off the ball. It surprised me that he’d sat there watching instead of insisting on doing it himself.
I drove the van forward and closed up the shop. “Let’s go.”
Race went for the driver’s door.
“Uh-uh. Other side,” I told him. “I wanna make it home alive.”
For once, he didn’t argue.
It was almost five by the time we got to the house, but, fortunately, Kasey wasn’t home.
I helped Race up the stairs then ushered him inside, where he collapsed in the chair by the door.
“You want some aspirin?”
“No. Get the . . . the . . .”
“Vicodin?”
“Yeah.”
After retrieving it, I glanced nervously out the window. Kasey could come home at any time. Had I parked the van the way it had been this morning? Was Race gonna be okay? What if I’d been an accomplice in him screwing himself up for good?
Race pulled gently on my shirt. “Kid, I’m sorry. I shouldn’a yelled.”
I let the curtain drop back into place. “It’s okay.”
“No it’s not. When you used to get mad, I never understood, but now . . .”
“Really, it’s no big deal. I get it.”
Race sighed, fading back into the chair cushions. “Every morning I wake up thinking . . . this is my life. What if it never gets better?”
It was the first time he’d said anything like that to me. “It’s gonna get better. I’ll help. We’ll fix the car.”
Race shut his eyes, dismissing my attempt at encouragement.
“You better get cleaned up,” I said. “Kasey’s gonna be home any minute and you’re getting grease on her chair.”
“Give me a second.”
We didn’t have a second. The tell-tale note of the Charger’s exhaust sounded from Spring Boulevard. Race was so wiped out he didn’t even flinch.
“Oh, shit. We’re dead.” I tugged his sleeve, but he didn’t budge. “C’mon dude, she’s gonna bust us.”
“That’s . . . inevitable.”
Kasey’s footsteps were uncharacteristically urgent on the stairs. The door swung open and her eyes met mine in a look that made my stomach stop, drop, and roll.
“Just where have you two been? I’ve been calling all day.”
I couldn’t answer.
“And don’t even think about trying to lie your way out of this. The hood of the van is still warm.”
God help the poor kid who ended up with Kasey for a mother.
“We were at the shop,” Race said.
Ah, good tactic. Just fess up and catch her off guard.
Kasey glanced from me to Race, then her eyes zeroed in on mine. “Go start dinner. I’ll deal with you later.”
She took Race’s hand in a way that seemed ironically gentle after the glare she’d leveled me with. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” she told him. “You’re getting grease everywhere.”
In the kitchen, I dug through the cupboards, looking for something easy to fix. I located a couple boxes of macaroni and cheese, pulled them out, and put water on to boil. Kasey joined me few minutes later.
“He’s okay, isn’t he?” I asked.
Kasey got herself a glass of ice water then sat at the table, her eyes fixing on me with weary disappointment. “Of course—he just overdid it. He’s exhausted.”
There had to be more to it than that. “He was having trouble finding words,” I said. “He took Vicodin.”
“He’ll be fine, Cody. He didn’t do himself any permanent damage, though he’ll no doubt spend the next few days regretting this little escapade.”
I leaned against the counter, folding my arms across my chest and waiting for a lecture.
“I knew this would happen,” Kasey said. “Frankly, I’m surprised it took him so long. But what the two of you did today was foolish. Race’s judgment is off right now, and I need to be able to depend on you to use yours. He’s not in any condition to get behind the wheel of that van.”
“I drove home,” I said.
“You shouldn’t have let him go to begin with.”
“Why not? It’s the first time I’ve seen him happy in weeks. Everything woulda been fine if he hadn’t pushed so hard.”
“That’s exactly my point. He doesn’t know when to quit.”
“Then I’ll make sure he figures it out. You can’t take this away from him. He needs it.”
Kasey rubbed a pathway through the beads of condensation forming on her glass. “He shouldn’t be driving.”
“I’ll play chauffer.”
“It’s too soon.”
“No, it’s not!” I pushed away from the counter, annoyed that she couldn’t see how she was contributing to Race’s frustrations. “Damn it, Kasey, you won’t let him do anything, and it’s sucking the life out of him. He’s always grumpy. He never jokes around. What good is it that he lived through that wreck if he’s not Race anymore?”
My words seemed to shift something in Kasey. Her eyes fixed on mine, and for a second I saw the fragile part of her that cried the night Race was hurt. Then her gaze slipped past me, out the sliding glass door, to focus on the hillside.
“I miss him!” I said.
Kasey nodded. “So do I.”
Chapter 27
Race was worthless the next day. He looked like he couldn’t make it off the couch, much less down to the shop, but Kasey wasn’t taking any chances. She told me to stay home and keep him out of trouble. It was clear she didn’t trust me entirely because as she got ready to walk out the door she held up the keys to the van.
“I’m taking these,” she said. “In case either of you get any wild ideas.” Then looking pointedly at Race, “Are you going to behave yourself, or do I need to pull the coil wire, too?”
“Nah. I’m not up to hotwiring anything today.”
That evening at dinner Kasey relented and laid the key ring next to Race’s plate.
“I still don’t think you need to be down there working on the car, but if it helps, I’m not going to stop you. The only thing I ask is that you let Cody do the driving for the next couple of weeks.”
“Kasey—” Race protested.
She held up her hand. “I’m not the one who put the six-week restriction on your driving. If you want to argue with someone, argue with your doctor.”
Later that night Kasey came into my room, where I was lounging on my bed reading. She handed me an envelope with a Phoenix postmark.
“Cody, I know you’ve had your difficulties with your mother, and she hasn’t been particu
larly sympathetic about Race, but I’ve spoken to her quite a bit lately, and I think she’s truly sorry. She wants another chance.”
That was one of Mom’s tricks. If all else failed, she went weepy and apologetic. I’d fallen for it every time when I was little, and it always proved to be a mistake. Even now I wasn’t completely immune. That was one of the reasons I’d avoided her calls and letters. She’d really blown it this time, and I’d be damned if I was gonna let her off the hook.
Kasey sat down on the edge of my bed. “I know she’s hurt you, Cody. She has problems—that much is obvious. But she loves you.”
Love, right. Mom always claimed she cared about me, but she put her own needs first. Was that love?
“Just think about it,” Kasey said. “You’ve made a great deal of progress since you’ve come to stay with Race, and I think you’re ready to handle this now.” She propped the letter against the lamp on the end table and left the room.
* * *
Race still wasn’t firing on all cylinders Tuesday morning, but he insisted on going back to the shop. He must’ve learned his lesson about pushing too hard because he was content to look the car over and tell me what needed to be done. We found more damage than we’d expected. The right side suspension had been tweaked and, worse, the K-member—that heavy structure that tied both frame rails together—was bent. Replacing it would be a major undertaking. The engine and most of the suspension bolted to it.
My lack of experience slowed our progress, and by the time I had to leave for work we’d barely made a dent.
“At this rate, the season’ll be over before I get the car back on the track,” Race grumbled.
“Don’t worry, dude. I’ll figure it out eventually.” Now that his mood was starting to improve, I’d be damned if I let my incompetence mess things up.
The next morning I got back to it, torching away a damaged section of the roll cage. Operating the torch was one of those things Race couldn’t do anymore. He set stuff on fire when he tried to use it. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about doing it, myself. It was painstaking work because I had to be careful not to mess up the good bars.
While I stressed and sweated in leathers that dwarfed me, Race cranked up the welder and laid a test bead on a piece of scrap metal.
“Hmmm,” he said. “Guess I’m gonna need a little practice.”
I finished my cut then took a peek, carefully holding the torch away from anything flammable. “No kidding. That looks like it came out of a chicken’s butt.”
Race kept at it the rest of the morning, and we were both amazed at how quickly the quality of his welds improved. I wondered why he could do that when he couldn’t dial the phone.
“Probably because welding’s mostly a wrist action,” Race guessed, explaining that his fingers were what didn’t want to work. It was the first time I’d heard him admit to his dexterity problem, and I hoped it meant he was coming to terms with it.
My optimism didn’t survive long. Race might be able to weld, but that didn’t change the fact that even though he’d gained a lot of ground since he’d gotten out of the hospital, he was still operating on a fraction of his normal strength and stamina. If he worked for more than a few hours his productivity took a nosedive. And the more he fought it, the worse it got.
As the week passed and his limitations continued to hold us up, Race slipped back into his funk. Uneasiness smoldered inside me, nibbling away the dry tinder of my resolve. I wanted to believe I’d been right to fight Kasey about the car. I wanted to think that working on it would make a difference.
But what if it didn’t?
* * *
Friday night, Kasey arranged for Denny to help with moving stuff out of the trailer. July was almost over, and Race was insistent about not paying another month’s rent. Kasey told him we’d take care of the packing, but Race refused to let us deal with it ourselves.
“You don’t have to do this,” Kasey told him. “You should save your energy for more important things.”
“Damn it, it’s my stuff. Don’t you think I oughta be the one to sort through it?”
“You can do that later. For now we’ll box up everything and store it in the basement.”
“You don’t want all that crap in your house.”
Kasey finally gave in, and the three of us met Denny at the trailer. After being locked up for a month with a bag of reeking garbage under the sink, the place smelled totally rank.
Race shouldered past me into the kitchen. “God, what a mess. We might as well haul this thing to the dump and tip it up on its side.” His gaze locked onto the drafting table and the half-finished drawing taped to its surface. For several long moments he stood stone still, eyes sweeping the table, his art supplies, and the sketches pinned up beside the window. Then he surged forward, yanking the paper off the angled surface and tearing it in half. The pieces drifted to the floor as he ripped another drawing off the wall. Instantly, Denny was on him, latching onto his arms with those massive paws.
“Damn it, Denny, let go!”
On his best day, Race wouldn’t have stood a chance against his friend. Now his resistance barely made a ripple.
“I’m not gonna let you do something you’ll regret later,” Denny said.
“It’s my stuff!”
“That’s right. And if you still wanna tear it up a year from now, that’s fine by me. But you’re not gonna do it tonight.”
Race swore and twisted in Denny’s grip until, exhausted, he sagged and gave up.
“Maybe we should go outside,” his friend said gently. “Let Kasey and Cody get to work in here.”
Race closed his eyes and gave one curt nod before allowing Denny to lead him out of the trailer.
* * *
A few nights later I woke from a nightmare, heart pounding out a hard rock rhythm in my chest. Compared to some, this dream would have been downright peaceful—if it hadn’t been about a funeral.
My breath rasped in my lungs. I struggled to rein it in, sitting upright in a tangle of blankets as sweat cooled on my back and chest. At least I hadn’t screamed this time. I was always afraid Race would hear.
For weeks I’d been so caught up in what was that I hadn’t given much thought to what could have been. Except at night. Now the feeling of loss was so sharp and real my throat ached and my eyes prickled with tears. I fell back against the pillow, telling myself it was okay. He was alive. I was safe.
But there was no going back to sleep. Images of a coffin, and Kasey’s teary face, and Grandma standing rigid before a gaping grave kept flashing across my closed eyelids. I got up and pushed open my door. The whisper of the TV drifted down the hall. I padded into the living room where Race was slumped on the couch, watching an old horror movie in spite of the fact that it was after three o’clock.
“Can’t sleep?” I asked, shivering in my sweat-dampened T-shirt and boxers.
Race didn’t look away from the screen. “Par for the course. How ’bout you?”
“I dreamed you were dead.”
“What a cheery thought.”
Rage swelled in my throat. “Can’t you ever be serious?”
The jagged edge of my voice tore Race’s attention from the movie. His eyes caught mine and held them. “Sorry, kid.” He patted the couch. “Here, come sit and watch with me.”
I swallowed hard. “I hate horror movies. They’re depressing. Everyone dies.”
“You’re looking at it wrong. You gotta see it from the standpoint of how much crappier the people in the movie have it than you. A head injury is no picnic, but it could be worse. I could be a werewolf.”
“Funny,” I said, but I sat with him and watched. It turned out I was right. The movie was depressing and everyone died.
In the days that followed, Race’s horror movie philosophy didn’t help him. He got more irritable and moody as his level of self-loathing increased. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst thing was when he started tuning me out.
It wasn’t
just me. He withdrew from Kasey, too, ducking away from her touch and ignoring her attempts to reassure him.
“How stupid can you get?” I asked as I drove him to the shop one morning. “Kasey’s finally acknowledging your existence. You wanna blow that?”
Race scowled out the passenger window. “Kid, I don’t have anything to offer her. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that was true even before the wreck.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it? I’m a loser. My trailer was a swamp and I’ve never had a steady job.”
“Kasey loves you,” I said.
“She’ll get over it.”
* * *
It was depressing being around so much negativity. The only time I got a break was when I was at the shop and on the few occasions Denny convinced Race to get out of the house for a few hours. Grandma, who’d been making twice-weekly visits, offered to take me out for dinner or a movie, but I declined. I wasn’t that desperate.
As July melted into August, the situation deteriorated. Physically, Race was making steady improvements, but mentally he was a basket case. While he stayed committed to working on the car, he did it in a fatalistic way, speaking to me only when necessary. The littlest thing could send him into a rage that rivaled one of my old ones. Every day my fear compounded. What if the injury had shorted out something in his brain, and he never went back to being his old, agreeable self? I wasn’t sure I could deal with that. I didn’t want to give up on Race, but it was killing me to live with this ghost of who he used to be.
I remembered the way he’d always looked after a race. The grin that took over his whole body. The confidence that radiated like heat from an engine. Getting back out on the track would fix this—I was sure of it. But at the rate we were going it would never happen. We needed help, so even though I figured Kasey would shoot me down, I approached her about it one day at work.
“I know how you feel about the Dart,” I said as we prepared to drop a newly rebuilt 327 into a ’68 Camaro. “But we need you. Race can’t do the stuff that has to be done, and I don’t know how. It’ll take us a year to get the car fixed.”
Kasey lowered the boom and gave the engine hoist a shove to get the motor mounts lined up. “I’m sorry, Cody, but I have to say no. The minute that car’s back together Race is going to want to drive it.”