What You Have Left (11 page)

As Wylie was getting her car unhooked from the pickup, he spotted Tag towing his own Ford across the track. Wylie waved.

“What are you doing?” Maddy said.

“Acting normal. Till he gives me a reason not to.”

“Like wrecking me? Or snooping around my house?”

She started for the pit office to pay her entry fee, cutting between parked cars so she wouldn't have to cross paths with Tag. He pulled up behind Wylie's pickup, revving his engine for a joke, as if his old Jeep were some hot rod. “Borrow your eyes for a minute?”

“Sure.” Wylie followed the Jeep down the row until Tag found a place to park, then guided him as he backed in. Tag was holding Wylie's socket kit when he got out.

“Hope you don't mind,” he said. “I stopped by Maddy's, but nobody was home.”

Wylie expected a knowing look, a wise-ass smile, but Tag was already digging around behind his seat, pulling out a box of spark plugs, explaining that he'd never have taken the tools without asking, but he was in a pinch because he'd cut out of work early to tune up his car, but like a damn moron he'd forgotten to bring his toolbox home. “Mind if I quick throw these in?”

“Take your time.”

Tag kept up a steady chatter as he worked. He said he was glad to see Maddy's car back in one piece, and then he apologized for the umpteenth time about the wreck. Wylie told him it was no big deal, just some dents and a flat tire, but Tag wouldn't let it drop. “Track didn't have much bite, did it?” he said. “Not that that's any excuse.” He was just putting in the last spark plug when he glanced up and saw Maddy. She was carrying a cardboard tray with two Cokes and a bag of chips, giving them a wide berth on her way back to the pickup.

“Hey there, Maddy,” he hollered. “I was just telling Wylie how bad I feel about last week.”

Maddy slowed down, and for a second Wylie thought she might forgive and forget. “Gosh, Tag,” she said. “That's so white of you.”

“Jesus.” Tag turned to Wylie. “See how she talks to me?”

Maddy was already walking off. Wylie knew she didn't want him apologizing for her, but he couldn't help himself. “Forget it,” he said. “You know how she gets before a race.”

Tag scratched at his ear. “If you say so.”

On the way back to the pickup, Wylie scanned the top row of the grandstand, where Sheila and Dale always sat. It was almost time for the practice laps to start, and usually they were at the track by now, settling in with foamy cups of beer. Sometimes, if there was a good song on the PA, Sheila would be up on the bleachers, dancing with little kids. Dale was usually making bets on the feature with whoever was sitting nearby, passing out sticks of licorice-flavored chewing gum.

“You seen Dale and Sheila?”

Maddy shook her head. She was on the tailgate, sipping her Coke and staring at the Ford. She didn't look happy. Through the windshield, Wylie saw a jockstrap draped over the steering wheel. Last week it had been a French tickler, and the week before that, a ratty pair of men's briefs. Now the whole pit was watching Maddy, hoping to see her lose it. Instead, she just strolled over to the car, tucked the jockstrap into her pocket, and came back to the tailgate. You'd have had to be standing as close as Wylie was to see the tremor in her hands. Now the other drivers were grinning and elbowing each other. Wylie sat down beside Maddy, eyeing them until they looked away.

“You okay?” he said.

“Fine.” She tore open the chips. She'd have preferred
peanuts, but they were considered bad luck on pit row— even on the half-assed hobby pit row.

“Someday you'll be running at Daytona,” Wylie said, “and all these clowns'll still be right here.”

Maddy wasn't in the mood for a pep talk. “So what did Tag say?”

Wylie told her Tag's story, said he didn't think Tag knew a thing.

“But that doesn't explain why he was calling your name,” she said.

“I could have stopped by to pick you up.”

“Or why he didn't just wait until he got here to borrow the tools.”

“Maybe we should forget about Tag, concentrate on the race.”

“I hope the little prick gets drafted,” Maddy said.

They were still working on their Cokes and sizing up the competition when Wylie spotted Sheila and Dale coming across the infield with a cooler between them. He scooted away from Maddy, then wished he hadn't, because of course it only made him look like he had something to hide.

“Surprise!” Sheila called out. She was wearing what passed for a uniform at the record store where she worked— low-slung jeans, a flowery little blouse, no bra. As usual, Dale looked like he belonged at a country club. He had on a yellow golf shirt, loafers, the plaid slacks he sold at his store. By now the hobby crowd was used to his clothes, but the drivers still didn't see how any man could love a girl who drove a race car. “Poor guy,” they'd say. “You think he ever gets to be on top?”

As soon as Sheila set down her end of the cooler, she gave
Wylie a long, complicated kiss, the kind that turns heads. He could feel Maddy standing there like a storm cloud, watching, and he thought about what she always said, that Sheila acted this way because she was trying to hold on. He kissed Sheila like he meant it.

“Aren't you going to lose your seats?” Maddy said.

Dale shrugged, slapped dust from the flared leg of his slacks. Normally he and Sheila didn't come down until after the races, when the four of them headed across the highway for drinks at the Checkered Flag. “We got tired of being racing widows. Thought we might watch down here.”

“Don't worry,” Sheila said. “We'll stay out of the way.”

Wylie forced a smile. “Who's worried?”

After Maddy took her practice laps, the four of them spent the next hour kicked back in lawn chairs, watching the heats and waiting for the hobby race. Dale kept a hand on Maddy's knee like he owned it—like he didn't even have to think about owning it. Twice Wylie caught himself staring, thinking how he'd like to bend Dale's fingers back to his fancy gold watch, and twice he told himself that when all was said and done, he'd be the one sitting next to Maddy. And dependable Dale, bless his heart, he was paving the way. Dale had never been able to watch Maddy race. Every week, he left Sheila in the bleachers and paced behind the grandstand, chewing his Black Jack and chain-smoking until the race was over. Last week at the Flag, after a couple pitchers, he'd turned to Wylie, genuinely baffled. “You're her friend. How can you let her go out there?” The question had caught Wylie off guard. If he wasn't as protective of Maddy as Dale was, did that mean he loved her less?

Maddy interrupted. “Nobody ‘lets' me go out there,” she said. “Anyhow,
you
bought the car.”

Dale reached for the pitcher and allowed that yes, he'd bought the car, and maybe he'd sell it, too. “I just wanted you to get it out of your system.” She kissed him on the cheek and told him she was working on it, which was a lie. The only reason she let Dale think otherwise was because she wanted to keep her options open.

Now Wylie shifted his chair so he wouldn't have to look at the two of them. Sheila was trolling the cooler again. She'd been throwing back beers, but Wylie hadn't said a word, because she drank like that only when she had a reason, and he didn't want to know what it was. As she cracked open another one, she noticed Wylie eyeing her and made a show of pooling herself like honey into his lap. Later, of course, Maddy would accuse him of enjoying it—never mind the way she'd been cozying up to Dale.

Every chance Sheila got, she flagged down whoever happened to be walking by and invited them over for a beer. Most of the other drivers knew her. She'd been voted track queen two years running, and even Dale had trouble keeping his eyes off her. Pretty soon there was a small group at the back of the pickup. The few drivers who bothered saying hey to Maddy didn't say much more. They were too busy falling all over themselves being sweet to Sheila. Maddy looked like she was at a funeral. When Tag strolled over to join the party, she slipped away and stood alone by the track, watching the last late-model heat, no doubt feeling sorry for herself. Wylie almost went after her, but then he looked at Dale and thought, screw it—it was Maddy's turn to feel bad. Maybe if she felt bad enough long enough, she'd get off the fence. He rested his chin on Sheila's shoulder, whispered that
he loved her. He didn't mean it—not the way he used to— but it felt good to say it. It felt like he had options, too.

When the announcer called for the hobby cars to take the track, Dale helped Maddy adjust her chin strap and asked her to be careful, reminding her how lucky she'd been to walk away from last week's wreck.

“Jesus H.,” she said. “Is this my first race?”

Wylie couldn't help it—he loved when she snapped at Dale—but he knew he was the one she was really mad at. Wouldn't look at him, wouldn't talk to him. And now he felt sure she'd do something stupid on the track, just to get back at him. He leaned in and wished her good luck, but she just stared straight ahead and put the car in gear. As she joined the other cars leaving the pit area, she tucked a stray wisp of hair up under her helmet, and Wylie could hardly believe he'd been in her shower just three hours ago with his hands in her hair, her skin against his. Sometimes he wasn't sure who he was anymore, which life he was living.

Tag was two cars behind Maddy. As he drove by, he winked at Sheila, who was leaning against the pickup, then grinned and winked at Wylie to show he didn't mean any harm. Once the track stewards got the cars lined up, Dale headed for the concession stand. Wylie and Sheila climbed into the back of the truck and watched as the drivers slowly circled the dirt oval. Now that they were alone, Sheila had gone silent and sullen.

“It's good having company for a change,” Wylie said.

“Pass me the binoculars?” She kept her eyes on the track as the green flag dropped, the cars bucking forward, gouging the air, swaying like sheet-metal winos on their soft springs.
It was the usual hobby division slop, three spinouts and two wrecks before the end of the first lap, but Sheila hardly seemed to notice. She had the binoculars trained on Maddy even when she sipped her beer. Wylie told himself she was just in a mood—she'd had too much to drink on a hot night was all. But he wished she'd say something. She was making him nervous.

Maddy was, too. She was driving like a fool, weaving pell-mell through traffic, sailing full tilt into the turns. He hoped she'd ease up long enough to think about what she was doing. They weren't even close to having enough money to build a car yet. If she blew the engine or crashed, they'd be done for the season—unless Dale ponied up for another ride, which didn't seem likely.

After eleven laps, only half the field was left. Maddy had worked her way up to third behind Tag, who was chopping her, trying like the rest of the drivers not to let her pass. When she closed in on him, Wylie knew what was coming, he just didn't know how bad it would be. Maddy got inside Tag going into the second turn and let her front end tap his rear fender. It was enough to send him fishtailing into her path. Sheila jumped up, squeezing Wylie's arm as Tag glanced off the rail and spun. By some miracle, Maddy avoided plowing into him, and by the time his car came to rest, she was already halfway down the backstretch, dogging the lead car. The infield crowd swelled toward the wreck as the flagman waved a blur of red.

“She did that on purpose,” Sheila said.

“No, ma'am. The car must be pushing.”

But of course Sheila was right. There was nothing wrong with Maddy's suspension; she could easily have blown past Tag. Instead, Tag's car was now crumpled against the rail, facing
traffic, smoke curling from its hood. Maddy was lucky she didn't get black-flagged. As she and the other drivers pulled over to let the wrecker pass, Wylie told himself she'd only done it because she was scared and frustrated, but no matter how he looked at it, there was just no excuse. It was a relief when Tag climbed out of the car. He seemed to be in one piece. He pitched his helmet into the dirt and waved off help from the stewards, which got him a cheer from the crowd. While they were busy winching the car onto the wrecker, Wylie took a crescent wrench from his toolbox, rolled it up in an old newspaper, and set it across his lap. Even though it was Tag and Tag was a buddy, there was always hell to pay for a wreck, and he wanted to be ready.

Sheila shook her head. “Why don't you let Dale look after her?”

“I'm looking after myself.”

She tossed an empty can into the corner of the truck bed and mumbled something under her breath. It sounded like, “I bet you are.”

Maddy ended up winning, her fifth checkered flag of the season, tops among the hobby drivers. She was taking a victory lap when Dale came back from the concession stand, asking if she was all right, saying he'd heard about the wreck. He was carrying enough hot dogs for everyone.

“She's fine,” Wylie said. “She won.”

Sheila'd seen enough. She handed the binoculars to Dale. By now Maddy was steering back toward the pickup, in no hurry at all, the jockstrap dangling like a pendant from her rearview for all the other drivers to see. When she parked and pulled off her helmet, she was beaming. Winning a race
always fixed whatever was wrong in her life. Usually it did the same for Wylie, but not tonight. As soon as she was out of the car, he let her see the wrench. Tag would be along any minute, and Wylie wanted to make sure she understood the position she'd put him in. If there was a fight, it would be his butt on the line, not hers. Tag wouldn't hit a girl.

“Don't give me that look,” Maddy said. “I can't afford to turn the other cheek out there.”

“Hold on,” Dale said, setting down the hot dogs. “What happened exactly?”

Sure enough, Tag was already headed their way, a small crowd streaming out behind him like exhaust smoke. Sheila hopped down from the truck, pushed past Wylie, and intercepted Tag. She threw her arms around him as if he'd just come back from the war. She fussed over the cut on his chin, asking if it hurt, if he was okay. He managed a grin. “Only scratch on me,” he said. Then his grin was gone and he was in Maddy's face, asking what her problem was. He turned so red you almost couldn't make out his freckles.