Over the Wall (6 page)

TIM PACED OUTSIDE
the trailer, waiting for Tyson to get back from work. He would rather have anyone drive him to the airport than Tyson because the guy was always late, but a little after five Tyson pulled up in the truck.

Tim rode in the backseat with his suitcase, checking the zippered front every few minutes to make sure the ticket was in there. He was nervous.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Tyson said, glancing in the rearview mirror at Tim. “You just sit down, strap on the seat belt, and pray that metal tube doesn’t fall out of the sky. I knew a guy who went down in a crash. Real shame. They sure didn’t have an open casket for him.”

Vera gave him a stern look, and Tyson shrugged. “What did I say? I’m telling him the truth. He oughta know stuff like that can happen.”

Vera turned in her seat. “Tim, you have to prepare yourself for life up there in North Carolina. It’s going to be a lot different. Those people probably aren’t as nice as we are, and if they have their own kids, they’re not going to pay much attention to you. So just be warned.”

“Thanks,” Tim said.
I wonder if they’ll put labels on their food.

When they arrived at the regional airport, Tim grabbed his suitcase and jumped out.

Vera rolled her window down to say good-bye, but Tyson actually got out and pointed to the door Tim would enter and the counter inside where he’d check in.

“Come on, Tyson. I want to beat the dinner rush at the Golden Corral,” Vera said.

Tyson shook Tim’s hand. “Good knowin’ you. Have a nice life, buddy.”

Tim walked inside and stood in line until it was his turn. He handed over his ticket, and the man asked if he wanted to check his baggage.

“I checked it already,” Tim said. “I put some duct tape on the inside so it wouldn’t come open. I think it’ll be okay.”

“No, son, checking means you give me your suitcase, and I put it on the plane for you. Do you want to check it or carry it on with you?”

“Oh,” Tim said. “Well, does it cost any more to have you take it?”

“No,” the man said, weighing the bag.

“But how do I get it back when I get to Dallas?”

“We’ll take care of that,” the man said. “Just go to baggage claim when you get there.”

Baggage claim
, Tim thought, trying to remember the words.

The man put the bag on a conveyor belt behind him and asked Tim for some ID.

Tim handed him his high school ID, and the man asked how old he was. It was right then that Tim wished he could have taken a bus.

“Are you traveling with your parents?” the man said.

“No, sir.”

“Well, since you’re 15, you’re an unaccompanied minor. Are you okay making the connection in Houston? You have to change planes there.”

Tim swallowed hard. “I guess I’m okay with it.”

The man pointed out the security area and told Tim where he’d find his gate. They made him take off his shoes and walk through a metal detector, and it went off. Tim had forgotten to pack his pocketknife in his suitcase, the one his dad had given him.

“You can’t take this on the plane,” a tall man said.

“What do I do with it?”

“You have to leave it here.”

“How do I get it back?”

“We could mail it to you.”

Tim couldn’t think of the Maxwells’ address, and people behind him were giving him mean stares. “That’s okay. You can just throw it out.”

A half hour before the plane was scheduled to leave, a lady at the gate got on a microphone and gave instructions for people not to crowd onto the plane, but it didn’t do any good because they pushed and got in line anyway. It was like a high school cafeteria.

When Tim got to the door of the plane, the lady put his ticket through a machine, and he went down the Jetway. His seat was 15A, but he couldn’t figure out where the numbers were on the seats, and by the time he was a few rows back, he couldn’t count. He guessed and sat down. A few minutes later a guy said he was in his seat, and the flight attendant came and showed Tim row 15.

Lifting off made his stomach lurch, but he was glad he was sitting next to the window because he liked seeing the ground rather than not seeing it. Tyson’s words came back, and he imagined the plane falling from the sky. If the plane went down, he wanted to land on Jeff’s house.

/////

The Dallas airport was laid out a lot better than the one in Houston. Instead of walking a mile or two to figure out where he was going, Tim found the baggage claim not very far away. He followed the other passengers—many of whom were wearing NASCAR hats and shirts—into a glass-enclosed area with big conveyor belts that ran around the room.

As soon as he walked in, he saw a guy holding a big poster board over his head with
Tim Carhardt
written on it in big letters. Dale Maxwell didn’t look much like a race car driver standing in the middle of all these people, but Tim recognized his face even before reading the sign. He walked up to him.

The man smiled, put the poster down, and held out his hand. “Tim, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Dale Maxwell.”

“I know who you are,” Tim said, shaking his hand and looking at the floor. The guy had a nice pair of boots—that was for sure. “I thought you’d send somebody else to pick me up.”

“Wouldn’t trust this job to anyone else,” Mr. Maxwell said. “How was the flight?”

“Okay, I guess. I don’t have much to compare it to.”

“Your first?”

“Yeah. They took my pocketknife back in Tallahassee.”

“Couldn’t you have given it to Tyson?”

“He and Vera didn’t go in with me.”

Tim looked up to see Mr. Maxwell’s face get kind of tight, like somebody was trying to pass him on the outside in turn one. Actually, it looked like he wanted to say a bad word.

“I’m really sorry about that, Tim. I talked with Tyson, and he said he would walk you all the way to your gate. Was there anyone in Houston to help you change planes?”

“No, but I made it okay.”

Mr. Maxwell studied the baggage carousel and pursed his lips. “Was it a special knife?”

“Just one my dad gave me.”

The conveyor belt started, and they moved toward it. Tim’s suitcase came out, and he’d been wrong about the duct tape. The side was split, and his underwear was sticking out. He shoved it back inside and held it together while he headed toward the door with Mr. Maxwell.

“Let me take that for you,” Mr. Maxwell said.

“No, I got it.”

When they walked outside, Tim relaxed a little. He was glad he didn’t have to find his way around by himself and could just follow this guy to his car. It was
parked pretty close. Mr. Maxwell opened the trunk of the rental, and Tim threw his suitcase inside.

They stopped to pay for parking, and then Mr. Maxwell told him they’d be staying at a hotel close to the track.

“That big one that sits right on turn two?”

“No, that’s not a hotel. That has offices and condominiums. Pretty pricey. But the place we’ll stay is nice.”

Tim didn’t know what to say next or if he should say anything, and there were a few minutes of awkward silence until Mr. Maxwell turned on the radio.

Finally Tim got up the nerve to speak. “Sir, I don’t know what to call you.”

“Well, if you were a little kid, I’d have you call me Mr. Maxwell, but to be honest, Mr. Maxwell is my dad. My name’s Dale. I think that’s as good as anything. Unless you feel better calling me Your Highness. A couple of drivers have called me some names I can’t repeat. I’d rather you didn’t call me any of those.”

Tim smiled.

“So is Dale okay with you?”

“Yeah. And you can call me Tim.”

“Deal.” They drove a few miles before Dale said, “You attached to that suitcase in the back? It doesn’t have any sentimental value to you, does it?”

“No, it’s just something Vera said I could have.”

Dale took the next exit and made a few turns into a Wal-Mart parking lot. They walked back to the section that had luggage, and Dale picked out what looked to Tim like the biggest suitcase in the history of travel.

“Think this will work?”

Tim nodded. “You could probably fit Vera’s entire kitchen in there twice,” he said as he pulled it to the checkout.

“You’re going to need the extra room after this weekend,” Dale said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if that’s all the clothes you have, we need to get you outfitted before you leave.”

They stood in a line four deep at the express checkout.

A kid about eight years old stopped and stared at Dale. His jaw dropped and so did the wallet he was holding. The family with him walked on while the kid stood there.

“Is there something wrong, son?” Dale said.

“Y-y-you’re Dale Maxwell, aren’t you?”

Dale smiled. “That’s me. You going to the race Sunday?”

“No, but I’m going to watch it on TV.” The kid turned and yelled for his dad. By now a crowd was
forming, and two women fumbled with their purses to find paper for an autograph.

Dale swiped his credit card for the suitcase, then signed autographs as people huddled around him.

An older woman pushed through and had Dale sign her address book. “I thank you kindly,” she said. “You know, I think you’re the cleanest driver out there. But just once I’d like to see you cut that Butch Devalon off and slam him into the wall.”

Dale grinned. “Well, don’t think I haven’t thought about doing that same thing a time or two.”

“I don’t expect you will, but I swear I’d like to see it.”

The kid came back with a shirt and a hat, and Dale signed them with a Sharpie the cashier loaned him. “Good luck, Mr. Maxwell, sir,” the kid said as they finally got away.

Tim turned back, and the kid looked like he’d just seen Santa Claus or Elvis or maybe Elvis dressed as Santa Claus. He held up his shirt and beamed at his father. “Can you believe it? We met Dale Maxwell in Wal-Mart!”

“He’s not as tall as I thought he’d be,” someone said.

When they got to the car, Dale opened the old suitcase and helped Tim transfer his stuff into the new one. Then he took the old, ratty suitcase with
the duct tape and stuffed it in a trash can at the end of the parking lot.

“Does that happen a lot?” Tim said. “People coming up for autographs?”

“Happens more on the road than at home. People back there are used to seeing drivers and crew members at the store. Everybody’s got to get groceries, you know?”

JAMIE SAT IN MAXIE
with the ignition off, the packet Chad had given her on the seat next to her, staring through the fog at the farm. She hadn’t slept much the night before, and if she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for work. She watched for any sign of movement on the farm, but all was quiet except for a big black dog that came near the road and barked at her, then went back to the front porch.

Her Legend car sat on the hauling trailer beside the barn. Her stomach rumbled, and it was as much from hunger as it was from her nerves. She banged the steering wheel and shook her head. The phrase from the letter inside the packet came back to her:
unless the amount is paid in full before the course begins . . .

She’d tried to think of any way out of doing what she had to do, but in the
end she knew she’d have to face the man herself. Her mom would say that if she couldn’t even deal with the guy who’d written the bad check, how was she going to handle the world of NASCAR? Of course, sitting behind the steering wheel and holding off other drivers was a lot different from this.

“Come on,” she said softly to herself. “Be a man. Or at least a really strong woman.”

She smiled. Cassie had called last night and said she’d pray for her. She wondered if that meant Cassie was getting up this early on a Saturday or if she just slipped in a quick prayer before she went to bed.

“Okay, let’s do this,” Jamie said aloud to snap herself awake. She started the car and pulled it into the driveway, then slammed her door so whoever was inside would hear someone was there.

She didn’t have to worry about that because the dog took care of it. He came bounding down the stairs barking and snarling and showing his teeth. She tried to soothe him with her voice, but he wasn’t having any of it. The hair on his back stood straight up, his eyes looked red—like some kind of Satan dog—and his mouth was about as wide as I-77.

“Sparky, get back here!” a woman yelled from the door.

Sparky?
Jamie thought. The name didn’t fit the woof at all.

“Can I help you?” the woman said.

Jamie tried to talk over the noise of the dog, but every time she spoke, Sparky barked louder and inched closer, and the white stuff in the corners of his mouth hung down. She could see his rib cage and the bones of his hips, and he looked like he needed a good meal. She figured that’s exactly what she seemed like to him.

“Can I come in there?” Jamie shouted.

The woman nodded and opened the door. Jamie sidestepped Sparky and made it into the house, and the woman closed the door. “He wouldn’t hurt you. He’s just hungry for breakfast. What can I do for you?”

The house smelled like Jamie’s grandmother’s place. Lots of old wood and linoleum. The boards creaked in the front room when she took a step. And it was hot inside—about 10 degrees warmer than it needed to be.

The man who had given her the bad check stomped downstairs, stretching into a work jacket. When he saw her, his steps slowed.

“I need a word with you, sir,” Jamie said.

“This is the Maxwell girl, dear,” the man said when he reached the bottom step.

“The racer’s daughter?” the woman said.

“More than a daughter—she’s a racer too. And
a good one, I hear. Now you’re not wanting that car back, are you? Because my grandson has his heart set on driving it this afternoon. He’s sure excited.”

“I’m glad,” Jamie said, pulling the copy of his check out of her pocket. “But I’ve got a problem. I went to cash this, and they said there were insufficient funds.”

He took it and held it at arm’s length. “How in the world? There must be some mistake. . . . Oh, I know. The mortgage payment probably came at the same time. I’ll go write you another one. There shouldn’t be a problem now.” He moved to the kitchen and took out his checkbook.

Jamie cleared her throat. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, do you think we could go down to the bank and get a cashier’s check or a certified check?”

He turned and his face went a little white. “Now that won’t be necessary, Jamie. I’m sorry for your trouble, but it was an honest mistake.”

Jamie glanced out the front window. Sparky was looking in at her. “I believe that. I’m sure you didn’t mean to do this, but I can’t afford to pay for another bounced check.”

“Well, that’s what I’m saying. This one won’t bounce. I’ll write you another one right now, and you can be on your way.”

Jamie locked eyes with him and tried to calm the
butterflies in her stomach. “Mister, I’m only 16. I don’t know a lot about selling cars and doing business, but a guy at the bank said I should never take a personal check for something this expensive. If you don’t have the money, I can call a friend and come out here and get the car. But I have to either have the money or the car.”

The man looked at his watch. “I’m late to work as it is.”

“If I don’t get paid for that car, there’s no way I can get into a school that I want to attend. So if you don’t have it, let me take it and sell it to somebody else.” Her teeth were chattering like global cooling had begun.

The woman stepped into the shadows of the front room and turned to her husband. “Go down to the bank and make this right. This girl had to drive all the way out here.”

His voice became meaner. “I told you—I have to get to work.”

Jamie let the two look at each other.

Finally the man sighed and shook his head. “All right. Get in your car and follow me down to the bank.”