St. Dale by Sharyn McCrumb

Author:Sharyn McCrumb [McCrumb, Sharyn]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2006-04-12T22:00:00+00:00

“Where should we leave the wreath?”

“The Infield Gate,” said Harley. “It leads directly onto the track. But Ratty will need some time to get the wreath out of the luggage compartment, so let’s get the feel of the place first. I think it would be all right if we went in and walked around it. You get a different perspective on the race from the track level than you do from watching it on television, or even sitting in the stands. Come on—you’ll see what I mean.”

“Those front row seats are really close,” said Karen. “If you were going 60 miles an hour coming out of a turn, it would look like you were going to plow straight into the seats. Can the drivers actually see the spectators at that speed?”

“Oh, they can,” said Harley. “If somebody is cheering you on or giving you the finger every time you loop past his seat, it can really affect your mood. Tony Stewart swears he won a race here one time just to spite a guy on the front row who pissed him off.”

“This looks very different from Bristol,” said Bekasu.

“Drives different, too,” said Harley.

When they got back to the Infield Gate, Ratty was waiting for them, dwarfed by a giant horseshoe of yellow silk roses. The black satin ribbon stretched across it said “In Memory of The Intimidator” in white stick-on letters.

“Photo opportunity,” said Bekasu without noticeable enthusiasm.

“We ought to take pictures of the laying of the wreath as well,” said Cayle. “Who’s going to do the honors this time?”

Jesse Franklin stepped forward with his customary cherubic smile. “Well, this might be a good time,” he said. “I don’t want to have a lot of hard acts to follow in the eloquence department. Ray, what do you say we team up on this?”

The older man’s scowl did not waver, but he said, “Suits me,” as he took the wreath from Ratty. He knelt down and leaned the wreath against the metal gate. “Do I say something now?” he asked. “Okay. Well…I hereby lay this wreath to honor the memory of the greatest driver NASCAR ever had. Dale Earnhardt, the Intimidator. Gone but not forgotten.”

“Not all that gone,” muttered Justine, who was immediately shushed by her sister.

“Racing’s not the same without you, Dale. Back in Nebraska, I plowed my alfalfa field with a giant number 3 last season. That was my farewell to you. I still root for the Big Red in football, but I just don’t give a damn who wins in NASCAR anymore,” Ray Reeve went on. “I’m done. Your turn, Jesse.”

Jesse Franklin spent a few moments looking out at the bare track, the rows of empty bleachers, and then down at the horseshoe of yellow roses. He summoned a tremulous smile. “I’ve come a long way to see these places,” he said. “Saw him race one time at our speedway in Michigan. It was the 1999 IROC. The time he raced against Dale Junior, the two of them beating

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