Romans would have felt right at home here. In ancient times, the chariot races in the Circus Maximus were divided into teams: The Reds. Green. White. Blue. And their followers wore flowers or scarves sporting the colors of the faction. Some people based their whole identity on their team affiliation. Even had it carved on their tombstones: ‘Marcus Flavius, beloved father and lifelong supporter of the Greens.’”
“Did they paint their faces?” asked Cayle.
“No,” said Bekasu, looking up from her magazine. “That would be the other supporters of the Green: Packers fans.”
“You should see the camping area.” The older man, whose companion was decked out in the Earnhardt fabric vest, leaned forward to join in the discussion. His name tag said “Jim.” “Arlene and I used to camp there back when we were going regularly to the races. It’s like a big party down there in the Earhart Campground.”
Matthew perked up. “Earnhardt had a campground?”
“Not Earnhardt, son. Earhart. Like Amelia. It’s the name of the family that owns the land.”
“I’ll bet they’re sick of explaining that,” said Cayle.
“That campground,” said Jim with a reminiscent smile. “Oh, my, that’s where it’s really happening. People bring kegs and guitars and tape players. Some folks set up tables and sell the racing-related crafts they spend the winter making. You can buy tee shirts, bumper stickers. Homemade CDs. Keychains. Lots cheaper than the official stuff, too, but just as good. ’Course the track might frown on that, ’cause they don’t make anything off it. And the drivers don’t get their cut, either, but I reckon they’re rich enough.”
“Some are,” said Harley, thinking about Bill Elliott’s helicopter. “Some are.”
“Well, Arlene and me, we loved it at the campground. It’s just one big festival from camper to camper. So many nice people. All the picnics and the things to buy.”
“Who looks after their belongings when they go over to the Speedway for the race?” asked Bekasu, who saw a lot of burglary cases in her court room.
The old man smiled. “Well, the fact is, don’t half of ’em even go to the race. Can’t afford to. Tickets are around eighty-five bucks apiece these days, if you can even get one.”
Bill Knight shook his head. “You mean, people drive all the way here in RVs and then don’t even attend the race?”
“Oh, well, sure they watch it,” said Jim. “A lot of folks bring televisions hooked up with big old extension cords and set them out on picnic tables outside the campers. Then a whole crowd can bring their own lawn chairs, gather around the TV, and watch the race for nothing. From the campground, you can hear the crowd cheering and the roar of the engines from the race track over the way, so it just makes it much more exciting than sitting home in your den watching it.”
“I bet you get a better view off the television than you would in the grandstands,” said Justine. “Close-ups and replays and all.”
Jim nodded happily. “It’s the best of both worlds. Living room reception and lots of folks to celebrate with.”
Arlene turned back from the window with a vacant smile. “Jim, that looks like Bristol out there!” she said.
Her husband patted her hand. “Sure is, baby,” he said. To the others he added, “This trip is our forty-seventh anniversary celebration.”
“Forty-seventh?” said Cayle. Then she looked again at Arlene’s blank eyes and her tentative smile. “Why, I think that’s wonderful,” she said.
“Well, Arlene thought the world of old Dale.”
“Dale!” Arlene brightened at the sound of the name. “Is Dale racing today?”
Jim smiled and patted her hand again, but no one else seemed to have heard her.
Ratty Laine maneuvered the bus into the designated parking area in the shadow of the towering coliseum that was the Bristol Motor Speedway, with the word “Bristol” spelled out in giant red letters on a vertical stack of blocks down the side of the grandstand supports. The bus turned into the Speedway road and into the parking lot adjoining the grandstand, where a billboard-size visage of Dale Earnhardt scowled down at them from the wall near the entrance. The boldly colored silhouette painted on the upper wall of the massive structure proclaimed the location of the “Earnhardt Tower,” the newly constructed upper tier of seating built to accompany the existing grandstand sections named in honor of other legendary drivers: the Allisons, David Pearson, Darrell Waltrip, Junior Johnson, Cale Yarborough, Richard Petty, and Alan Kulwicki. The Earnhardt image was a familiar one: the black cap, wire-rimmed sunglasses, the bushy moustache, and the steely stare that made you want to step aside even if he wasn’t headed in your direction.
Harley stared up at the image, sure that he could detect a smirk on those painted features. Lost your ride, boy, the Earnhardt totem seemed to sneer at him. He pointed out the windshield toward the 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
