Sharyn McCrumb - St. Dale

“Was he a doctor?”

“No. That’s just it. He was an electrician, but he’d found that hospital food is the cheapest meal around, and it’s always pretty good food, so he’d just go there and eat. Nobody ever asked him why he was there.”

“So what happened to him?” asked Matthew.

“I don’t know,” said Justine. “I dumped him. Maybe he found some girl who admired his thriftiness. Or else a nurse.”

“Where are we going then?”

Justine stopped at a nurse’s station. “Good evening,” she said to the woman behind the counter. “Could you please page Dr. Toby Jankin for me? Tell him it’s Justine. He’s expecting me, but he didn’t know I’d have a patient for him. Matthew, honey, if you’ll sit over there on that bench for a minute while I talk to old Toby, I promise we’ll hit the cafeteria before we’re done.”

When the Impersonator turned up near the end of the race, Ray Reeve was glad of the distraction. By this time Jeff Gordon had begun to dominate the race, and Ray had a feeling of dread that told him Wonderboy was going to win. Two races in a row? He wondered if Gordon was having extraordinarily good luck or if Harley was cursed. He wished this could have been Junior’s day, a sign perhaps that he was right to transfer his allegiance from father to son. He stopped watching the blur of cars whipping around the mile-and-a-third track and rested his gaze on the man in the white firesuit at the base of the Colvin Grandstand, accepting hugs and solemnly posing for photos with Earnhardt fans. Funny how the sight of the red-outlined number three or even the Goodwrench logo whizzing past on Kevin Harvick’s car could bring a lump to the throat. He could understand why people didn’t want to let go. He was tempted to go down there himself and shake the man’s hand, just for the hell of it. A gesture of goodwill, perhaps.

Every so often the Impersonator would surreptitiously glance around, on the lookout for track security or maybe DEI people-whoever was after him. Ray wondered whether the problem was copyright infringement or trespassing or what. He didn’t think the guy was any worse than an Elvis impersonator. Or all the people on Halloween who dress up as ex-presidents. But he could see how it might upset Little E. to think that people would rather watch an imitation of his dad than see him out there trying to win an actual race. We can’t forget him, he said silently to Junior, no more than you can, but we’ll all move forward, because he’d expect us to. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw men in suits striding toward the Impersonator, and with a few more handshakes, the man in the white firesuit had eased through the crowd, picking up speed as he went, heading for an exit.

Ray Reeve turned his attention back to the race, but much to his chagrin the rainbow-colored 24 car was still out in front.

Cayle found Bill Knight and Bekasu in plastic chairs in the waiting room, leafing through old copies of health magazines. “Any word yet?” she asked.

Bill shook his head. “Not that we’ve heard. Did you get in touch with the Powells’ daughter in Seattle?”

“Yeah. Jean. She’s very concerned about her mother, of course. Wants her dad to call as soon as he can leave the bedside. She wants to apologize, she said.” Cayle smiled, remembering the conversation. “Apparently she gave her dad a hard time about going on a NASCAR tour. You know the type.” She studiously avoided looking at Bekasu as she said this. “Well, it turns out that she mentioned it as a joke to some of her snooty wine-and-cheese friends and got told in no uncertain terms that Greg Biffle was the pride of Washington State. He was last year’s Busch Series Rookie of the Year, Bekasu-before you ask. He’s from Vancouver, Washington, and apparently he has a bit of a following out there. Now I think Jean is hoping to sweet-talk her dad into getting her a tote bag from Darlington so she can impress her architect.”

Bill Knight nodded. “I’m not surprised. I had a similar experience in New Hampshire with a lawyer of my acquaintance, I’m ashamed to say. Cultural stereotyping was never kind. These days it is also most unwise.”

“You didn’t see Justine while you were wandering around, did you?” asked Bekasu.

“No. She’s still with Matthew, isn’t she? I expect he’ll keep her out of trouble.”

“It would take a straitjacket to do that.”

Ratty Laine had tired quickly of the noise and fumes of the racetrack, and especially of the humid heat of South Carolina, which might be all right at the beach, but in street clothes he much preferred the cool sanctuary of his air conditioned bus. Races lasted about three and a half hours, Harley had told him, and then he had to get his charges back to their hotel for the last night of the tour, before tomorrow’s drive to Charlotte. He was studying the map, just to make sure he knew where they were going. The tour was more interesting than he’d thought it would be, although he doubted he’d remember much of it after a couple of weeks. There was a Civil War battlefield tour coming up, and then Lee would again mean “Robert E.” rather than “Richard Petty’s dad.” Maybe he ought to make some notes in case Bailey Travel decided to offer this tour again, though. He just wished that bus drivers got as much respect and pay as stock car drivers.

A sudden tapping on the glass pane in the door made him look up, and the bundle of maps slid to the floor as Ratty found himself looking into the face of Dale Earnhardt.

Dr. Toby Jankin’s initial delight at seeing an old girlfriend had given way to the Justine-shaped headache that he now remembered as an integral part of the relationship. He tried again. “Justine, you are not this boy’s guardian. I cannot run medical tests on a minor without permission from his parents. Well, not his parents,” he hastened to add, forestalling her objections. “You said he’s a ward of the state. His social worker, then. Somebody has been appointed his legal custodian, and I can’t treat him without their permission.”

Justine’s mulish expression did not change. “I’m not asking you to do brain surgery, Toby. I just want you to take a look at him. You can do that, can’t you? I can pay you whatever it costs.”

He sighed. Trust her to act as if money were the problem and blithely ignore national laws about the treatment of minors. Justine never asked for much. Just her own way 24/7. People usually found that it saved time just to give in at once. But there was a limit to the number of rules he could break without exchanging his medical practice for a ferret farm. He was on her side, really. She meant well, and for all he knew she might even be right, but there were laws that had to be observed-or at least nodded at.

He tried again. “Look, Justine. Let’s go talk to the boy. He probably has his social worker’s card with him in case of emergency. If you call her and get her to fax an authorization, I’ll run some tests. But it’s Sunday, so I doubt you’ll be able to locate her.”

It had been a silly thing to say, really, he thought as she swept from the room calling for Matthew. Of course Justine could locate a social worker on Sunday afternoon. It would only mean that she might have to inconvenience a few more people on the path to getting her own way; that would be only a minor obstacle, an hour’s delay at most. He might as well find a treatment room and get the instruments ready. She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed was back in his life.

Eight miles back to Darlington, racing the race itself, because if Harley didn’t get back to the parking lot before the checkered flag, he would find himself in a two-lane blacktop parking lot that stretched for miles. Why was he even doing it? Any sane person would drive around Florence for an hour, maybe get a burger, and then report back that he had been unable to locate the elusive Impersonator. Maybe it was because Bill Knight was a minister, and Harley’s Bible-belt upbringing had left a residual fear of lying to clergymen. He felt that such treachery might jinx his already tenuous chances of getting a miracle of his own-that is, a ride. Besides, he might as well tell Ratty where the medical center was, in case Ray Reeve had forgotten the name of the place.