Over the Wall (8 page)

“Any predictions for tomorrow?” the reporter said.

“I was just talking with a friend about the whole points versus winning thing, so I’m going to go out there tomorrow and try to get as many points as I can by winning.”

“There’ll be a few other drivers with something to say about that,” the reporter said.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Dale laughed. “I’ll tell you this, racing is just like life—90 percent of it’s staying out of trouble and staying on the move, so that’s what I’m going to try and do.”

JAMIE FINISHED WORK
in time to eat a sandwich, change, and get ready for the Saturday evening service at church. Her mom liked to go on Saturday night when Dad raced on Sunday. Jamie hopped in the Suburban as her mom and Kellen were pulling out. She figured that when you were trying to impress your mother, one of the best places to go was church.

“Got the money for the car today,” Jamie said, beaming.

“Really?” her mom said.

Jamie acted as if there were nothing wrong between the two of them. Just ignore the problem and it'll go away—that was her philosophy. And maybe if she played it right, her mom would decide she was ready for the racing school.

“Yep, already deposited it.”

“Great,” her mom said.

“Not going to spend it on a haircut and nails?” Kellen said.

She would have punched him if she could reach him. Then she was glad she couldn't. She ignored him and smiled, the good girl.

At church Jamie saw Cassie heading up to the nursery and quickly told her what had happened with the man who wrote the bad check.

“See, that's what prayer will do!”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“No, seriously, I woke up at about 6:30 this morning and was thinking about you. I asked God to help you be firm and to keep you safe. Did you run into any problems?”

“No,” she lied. “The guy was really sorry.”

“Now the big question. Have you talked with your mom about the driving school?”

She shook her head, and the music started in the sanctuary. “I'd better go find them. I'll talk with you later.”

“I'll be praying,” Cassie said.

The Saturday night service was a little more contemporary—meaning the music had an actual beat to it, and there were younger people singing up front. Sometimes the worship team did a drama to illus
trate the sermon, and that's what happened this time.

A man who worked at the local radio station and had a voice like a bass drum walked out with a huge walking stick in one hand and cradling something under his other arm. He wore a fake beard; a long, flowing robe; and sandals.

A spotlight hit him, and the rest of the lights went out. He sat and leaned the stick against a fake rock. “Have you ever had something that was hard to give up? something you loved so much that you wanted to hold on to it? you thought there was no way you could ever let it go?”

The congregation was quiet, and the pause of the man made it even quieter.

“I heard from
him
recently. I used to think hearing his voice would be the most wonderful thing. If he would just tell me what to do, I'd do it.” He chuckled. “Now I'm not sure I want to hear the voice.

“My wife and I were unable to have children. That was a difficult thing for her, of course, but we rested in the promise that God would give us a child someday.” He stood and ran a hand through his hair. “Unfortunately we took matters into our own hands. . . . But then something wonderful happened. She conceived and bore a child, a beautiful son. He's asleep just over there.”

The man paced onstage, distraught. “I just don't understand. How could he ask me to do this? I want to have grandchildren and watch my family grow. But if I follow what he's saying to me . . . none of that will come true.”

The man continued with his monologue, and Jamie thought it was good but evidently not as good as a lot of the older people in the audience thought it was. Several around her sniffed and cried.

He ended by holding out the bundle in his arms. “This is my son's favorite blanket. His mother made it for him, and it keeps him warm each night. I can't imagine taking it back to his mother empty, but if I follow what God has told me . . .”

He looked at the people in the audience. “Has he spoken to you about laying something down in faith? giving him something dear to you and letting him take control of it? Are you struggling with giving
all
to him?”

He picked up his walking stick and held the blanket close. “I'm not sure about you, but I can't withhold anything from one who has blessed me so much. His plan is much better than the one I have. If I can only do what he asks . . .”

Jamie looked over at her mom, who had her arm around Kellen, hugging him tight.

No one clapped as the man walked into the shad
ows and the pastor stepped onto the platform. “Maybe you recognize the story of Abraham and Isaac. But I think from your reaction that's not just some story we read in the Bible—it's something that's happening in our lives continually. God has a way of asking us to give him the very thing that's most precious to us. Maybe it's a dream we have. Maybe it's a relationship—a spouse or a close friend. Or in the case of Abraham, it was his child. . . .”

Jamie glanced at her mother again and saw a tear streak down her face. Jamie sat back and listened to the pastor as he shared the whole story of Abraham and how God wanted to do a lot more through him than Abraham could ever imagine.

“Listen to what the angel of the Lord says to Abraham. ‘This is what the Lord says: Because you have obeyed me and have not withheld even your son, your only son, I swear by my own name that I will certainly bless you. I will multiply your descendants beyond number, like the stars in the sky and the sand on the seashore. Your descendants will conquer the cities of their enemies. And through your descendants all the nations of the earth will be blessed—all because you have obeyed me.'

“You see, God wants to do something special in your life. And he wants to do it by you voluntarily giving him what is dearest to you. Maybe you've never
given your own life, and you're holding on to it because you think God is going to make you do something hard. That he's going to mess with your plans. Well, he may do that—what he gives may be hard, but you'll never truly be fulfilled and satisfied until you let him take over.”

The pastor stepped back into the shadows, and the radio guy who was Abraham took his place. This time he stood with his arm around a young, smiling boy. The boy held the blanket in his arms, and the two grinned as they walked down the aisle to the back of the church.

TIM WATCHED COVERAGE
on SPEED until Dale got back to the hotel. In all the years he’d traveled with his dad, he’d never eaten in a hotel restaurant or been able to watch the day’s coverage in a hotel room.

Dale had gotten hung up with T.J., his crew chief, about some things regarding the race, plus some “things going on with the sponsor.” He finally came in and smiled at Tim. “Let’s head downstairs. They have a table waiting.”

Tim felt like he could eat a horse he was so hungry, and when he looked at the dinner menu in the restaurant, he was surprised they didn’t serve grilled horse. They served everything else. He finally picked a cheeseburger, and Dale had some kind of pasta dish. He said it was a good prerace meal that gave him energy.

Tim knew there were racers who had superstitions—they would wear the same old T-shirt under their fire suit or eat the exact same meal as the week or year before when they won a race.

Dale said he didn’t have any of those except he always prayed with the chaplain and kissed his wife. “That’s not as much of a superstition as it is a priority and a focus. If that’s the last time I ever talk to my wife, I want her to know I love her.”

“Why do you pray?” Tim said. “You’d be able to talk to him on the other side when you got killed, wouldn’t you?”

Dale smiled. “I guess you’re right. I think it’s more to tell him I know my life is in his hands, and I’m okay with whatever happens.”

The waitress came back with their food and a refill for Tim’s soda. There were a couple other drivers having late dinners too, and both of them gave a wave or a nod as they passed. Most drivers, like Butch Devalon, were in their big motor coaches or out on the town, Tim guessed. He’d always wondered what it would be like to actually eat and travel with the drivers. They were pretty much gone as soon as the race was over, flying home in their helicopters or airplanes.

When they had finished their meal, the waitress came again and showed them the dessert menu.

Tim eyed the chocolate sundae and then noticed the price.

“You feel like some dessert?” Dale said.

“I’m pretty full.”

“That sundae looks good.”

“Yeah, if I could pack in any more, I’d order that.”

“Why don’t you wrap up a sundae to go and he’ll eat it in the room,” Dale said to the waitress.

“Anything for you, sir?”

Dale slapped his stomach with both hands. “Any more and I’ll finish at the back of the pack tomorrow.”

The waitress went away, then came back with a bag. She handed the check to Dale and pushed another piece of paper toward him. “My son is a big racing fan. I don’t mean to impose, but—”

“Not at all,” Dale said. “What’s his name?”

She told him. “Oh, he’ll be so thrilled.”

Dale reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pin with the NASCAR logo on it. “I don’t have any hats with me, but give him this and tell him to holler real loud tomorrow.”

The woman beamed. “Oh, thank you so much. This is great. I really appreciate it.”

When they got back to the room, Tim watched SPEED while Dale made a phone call. From his
conversation, Tim guessed he’d called the PR person for the team.

Dale gave the name of the waitress and said, “She’s got a son who’s a fan. Can you take a hat or a shirt down and give it to her? . . . Yeah, I know we can’t give all of it away, but I think it’ll mean something to her. . . . Great. Thanks.”

Dale sat at a round table in the corner and took off his boots, looking out at the golf course.

It seemed like there was something on Dale’s mind, but Tim figured if he wanted to talk, he’d say so.

“If you don’t mind, Tim, why don’t you turn that off and come over here and have a seat.”

Tim did and opened the bag with the sundae in a Styrofoam container. The ride up the elevator had made just enough room for dessert. And the ice cream was the right consistency—soft and gooey and mixing well with the chocolate and caramel.

“Did you ever get the letter I sent to you?” Dale said.

“No, I don’t believe I did. What did it say?”

Dale pursed his lips. “Well, I kind of explained some things. Tell me this. You ever heard of the elephant in the room?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know what it means?”

“Does it have anything to do with the circus?”

Dale tried to hide his smile. “No. It means there’s something that needs to be talked about, but everybody is avoiding the touchy topic. And the more you
don’t
talk about it, the bigger the thing gets.”

Tim ate a big spoonful of ice cream and chocolate so he wouldn’t have to say anything.

Dale leaned forward and put his hat on the table and folded his hands. “I want to talk about Talladega last year.”

Tim closed his eyes. The sights and sounds of the track came back to him. The reaction of the crowd when the accident happened. The sirens. The lady he thought might be his mother but wasn’t. The security guys looking for him. The helicopter flying away.

“Okay,” Tim said. “That was the worst day of my life.”

“Mine too. To know that I was involved in the accident that caused your dad’s death was something hard for me to live with. Part of me didn’t want to ever get on the track again.”

“What do you mean, ‘involved’?” Tim said. “You weren’t just involved—you were the one who caused it.”

Dale talked about the race—the conditions at the track, the weather, the mood of the drivers. “A few laps before the accident, the #53 car started spurting
some brake fluid. One of his lines was cut. As he was going to the pits, he dropped a lot of that on the front end of pit road, right where my stall was. So that area was slick to start off.”

“So it was slick,” Tim said. “That still doesn’t excuse you for coming in there as fast as you did.”

Dale sighed. “There’s no video of the accident. As many camera angles as they have, they didn’t catch this one. But I can assure you, Tim, that I never meant to hurt your dad. And I’d do anything if I could bring him back.”

“That’s why you’re offering me a place to stay. You feel guilty about it and want to try and make it up to me.”

“I can never make up for your dad. It’s not possible. But my wife and I have talked about adopting a baby from another country, giving some child a chance to grow up here. We can’t have any more children, and it’s something we both feel we want to do. When the accident happened, Nicole and I both had a feeling that this was our chance. And when I contacted your social worker and told her about our idea, she let me know you might like a change.”

Suddenly Tim didn’t feel like eating anymore. He put down his spoon and closed the Styrofoam lid. “So you felt sorry for me. I’m okay with that.”

“I’ve never met you before last night. I did know
your dad a little from the chapel services, and I talked with Charlie Hale about you.”

Tim blushed. “Don’t believe everything he says about me.”

“I don’t want you to feel like we pity you. We want to give you a good home for as long as you need it, some encouragement along the way, and a shot at life. That’s what I wanted to say.”

“I appreciate it,” Tim said. “I was wondering when we’d get around to that elephant. But something’s bothering me.”

“Go ahead.”

“Sounds to me like you’re saying something happened on the track that led to the accident. I haven’t heard that before. I read the report about it in one of the magazines. It was just a blurb.”

Dale nodded. “I can’t go into it in detail, but I was pushed. I lost control, and the tires skidded on that wet surface.”

“Then who—?”

Dale held up a hand. “I’m sure you want to know more, but let’s just leave it here.”

Tim got up and opened the refrigerator in the kitchenette. He tossed in what was left of the sundae, closed the door, and headed to the front door.

“Tim?”

“I’m going down to the pool and have a look around,” Tim said, not turning around.

“That’s fine. Just one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“I think your dad would be proud of the way you’ve handled everything. Real proud.”

Tim still didn’t turn around. He just said, “Yeah” and walked into the hallway.