"Shit…this thing's seized up tighter than Martha Stewart's wahoo…" muttered the old man as he struggled to free up the long-rusted innards and bolts that resided inside the engine block of a 1933 Ford. His old buddy, Burt chuckled as he rummaged about in the big, red Sears toolbox for a can of liquid wrench. It was a warm, uncharacteristically sticky evening for May in rural upstate New York in the tiny hamlet of Maple View. A lazy, little four-corner stop along local 104 and I-11; just about 30 miles north of Syracuse in the lieu and bosom of Lake Ontario. A few early hummingbirds flitted about the geraniums and petunias; droning along with a local classic country station. The Coca-Cola 600 broadcast was already in progress, but the occupants of the garage were more content with conversation relegated to the unusually warm spring, the old Ford and life in general to be concerned with the on-goings of NASCAR. The race provided occasional entertainment but was basically background noise.
"Ol' Humpy shore ruint that track….all them wrecks…just cain't leave well `nuff alone.." was the old man's only comment on the race; his deep southern drawl soft-spoken and almost lyrical. He shook his head in bemusement, ruffling his wiry grey mustache.
Burt, a retired school bus driver and superintendent at the ripe- young age of 75, looked up from his workbench and gave his companion a sad smile. It was hard to believe that this kind, pleasant stranger moved into the old bed and breakfast inn on the corner only four years ago. Oh, things had been tough for the old man, a survivor of a horrific accident and barely able to walk at first. Not too talkative and somewhat secretive; he kept mostly to himself. He was confined to a wheel chair for the first year; watching Burt from his porch restoring a plethora of old tractors and farm equipment. When Burt's brother, Mo, brought in the old stock car in 2003, the old man's eyes lit up and he came slowly out of the shell he had built around himself. Folks around these parts are as friendly as they are down South and though the old man spoke little of his past, his vast knowledge in regards to restoring the old stock car began to open doors that he would've preferred to remain closed. Burt and Mo could tell the old man was once a racer and had come from a long, long line of them.
Old Mo raced modifieds back in the 50's and 60's and even took his cars to the hallowed grounds of Fonda Speedway. He wistfully recounted the days and nights of rubbing fenders with the likes of Richard Petty, Fireball Roberts (may God rest his soul!) and a scrappy little fellow named Ralph Earnhardt. While Burt and his wife, Priscilla rolled their eyes with the "here we go again!" look, Mo happily dragged out the numerous photo albums, programs and other memorabilia. But it was worth it; it opened a floodgate of emotion in the old man and he, in turn, opened his heart to these gentle people.
The old man had said his name was Ralph-never did mention his last name. The mysteries surrounding his carefully hidden past were slowly coming to a head though as the wall around him slowly crumbled. Crumbled in the tears that suddenly welled up in his slate-blue eyes as he tenderly held the picture of Ralph Earnhardt. After the old man's accident, not only did he suffer the obvious physical difficulties, but his speech was occasionally broken. He often spoke so softly, you had to listen close to what was being said. Still, the mind was as sharp as ever and so were the memories.
Mo was more in tune with racing than Burt or Priscilla and he peered at the old man as he sat quietly weeping over the photo. He gazed at the old man's visage for several moments; disbelieve and shock fighting for space on his face. He shook his head slowly and whispered, "I'll be goddamned and goddamned again. Why….?....How….? …You're supposed to be dead!"
"Morris Bogart!" yelled Prissy as she swatted Mo on the back of the head with a dishrag. "That ain't the way to talk to a guest! Look, ya old fool! You're getting' him all upset!"
A broken, Cheshire smile shown through the tears as the old man chuckled, "Guess I can't go nowhere an' hide! Better keep headin' North till I run into the Eskimos!"
Burt, still puzzled, scratched his head, "Hide?? You ain't a murderer or somethin', are ya?" Earnhardt. Like Mo, the truth regarding the old man's identity, slowly began to dawn on him. "You really are Dale Earnhardt….."
Back in the present, the memory of that gathering often replayed itself in the minds of those closest to Dale. There were still so many questions-did any of his family or friends really know? Obviously not, since he never received so much as a card from home. The one question remained as to why and that was one question the old man was reluctant to answer. He left a nation in tears but how would the world react if they knew he still remained quietly among the living? Once his identity was revealed, that was the end of it and it was never broached again. No talk of his former life-he simply wanted to live quietly in the present.
"…..We got a spin on the straightaway! Looks like Junior flat-out ran over the 15!...Matt Kenseth, Terry Labonte and Ryan Newman are also involved…." Came the excited blast from the radio.
The old man looked up from the Ford sharply. Though he rarely, if ever talked about racing, he did follow it as closely as he could via the Scene newspaper and Prissy's computer. He had watched how the company he so lovingly brought to fruition slowly unravel. He was well aware of the internal strife and deep inside, the ache to return and try to fix things as he saw fit, burned.
"Turn that up, will ya?" Both men listened intently as the race resumed. "Dammit! Didn't say how Michael was…shit, he could be-" he broke off, not wanting to finish the sentence.
"Now why in hell would that boy run over his teammate like that? I'd wring his scrawny little neck…!" he muttered. Burt looked on amused, happy to see him so animated. Secretly, he wished with all his heart that Dale would return to North Carolina and the life he once loved so dear.
"Well…if you want a ride down, just let me know….I'm retired, remember?" he grinned.
Dale Earnhardt snorted gruffly, "Me comin' back from the dead? Go back to that shitstorm??...Nope…let `em sort it all out on their own… Junebug's gotta shit or get off the pot and figger out where he's goin' in life. This is whatcha call a learnin' `sperience!" He sighed, "Still feel bad for ol' Mikey though…he's holdin' his own but in the end, they're gonna eat him alive."
Dale grunted and walked painfully over to the antique 7-Up cooler in the back of the garage. His once-shattered bones still caused him a great deal of pain but he was bound and determined that he would not, under any circumstances, remain in that fucking wheel chair. He paused to scratch the head of the old barn cat, Hilda and quietly watched her nest of fat, playful kittens. He did miss his own kids- especially Taylor. And even though he was just his driver, he missed Michael too. And Dale Jr.-just when they were starting to bond, it all ended. He could see the years of his own absence coming back to haunt him as Junior struggled to get a grasp on his own identity.
He sighed again and returned to his place by the Ford. Sometimes you had to loose that identity to really find yourself.
"Need a little rain, don't we Burt? Lawn's getting' dried out." He mused.
Burt nodded, "Yep…..well's gonna go dry too `for long." Both men knew that a hard rain was bound to fall in North Carolina before long.
2.
On the Tuesday following the Co'Cola 600, Earnhardt leisurely scrolled through article after article featured on Jayski's concerning the state of affairs at the company that bore his name. It was his usual routine to share the mid-morning coffee and paper at Burt and Prissy's doublewide across the street from his room at the Maple View rest home. "What a mess….." he fumed. Cousin against cousin, driver against driver, the absentee owner-etc ad nauseum. Frustratingly, it all came down to the simple fact that the man who once held the pulse beat of a potentially great racing franchise was now reduced to the level of the speculator-at-large. No management, no agenda, and no direction-and the implied budding hostilities between the teams' two flagship drivers. What could he do? Better yet, why should he even care….?
"More coffee? I'm startin' a fresh pot." When she got no response, Prissy wandered over to the desk and peered over his shoulders, "hey, Old Goat-don't go gettin' old and deaf now…" she playfully chided. "What's got ya so engrossed anyway?"
"Ah..just this mess I left behind.." he turned and thanked her for the coffee; helping himself to another "mole-ass's" cookie. Prissy pulled up a chair and sat quietly regarding him as she sipped her own coffee.
"Could I ask you something?" Prissy began, shifting uneasily in her seat. He looked at her with that weathered, naturally hard gaze. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to …but it's just about driving me crazy to think that you just walked away from that world…is there anybody who knows you're here? Alive?" There. It was out. Had Burt been there and not on a trip to the grocery store, she never would have broached the subject. Burt's philosophy was simple-if folks wanted to keep their business private, it was nobody's business but their own. Still, the fact that here was a man who to some was an icon much the same way that Elvis was and to just leave it all behind bespoke of a greater inner strength than most people could ever possess. She had come to love the old curmudgeon as a brother; yet she couldn't help but wonder about the secrets behind the perpetual look of sadness and regret that he wore etched on his visage.
Earnhardt remained silent for a few moments, carefully choosing the words of his answer. There was no easy, "that's my story and I'm sticking to it" phrase that could sum up his current situation. He thoughtfully stroked his mustache and gazed out the window.
"Truth is, I don't remember a whole helluva lot after I wrecked at Daytona. Think I must've been in a coma for a few weeks `cause it was Easter-time when Teresa and Ty Norris came to see me. I was still in the hospital-might as well been on another planet from all the dope they had me cranked up on. I remember being in some sort of traction, tubes runnin' ever' which-way. No TV, no radio, no paper-hell, nobody hardly talked much to me a'tall….
"Reckon they had me pretty much written off as some sort of a vegetable-kinda like that poor girl down in Florida…Terry…Terry…oh, you know who I mean." He took a swig of coffee and went on, the floodgates now open.
"It was like being in a prison-might as well been one `cause I remembered the one doctor that was watching over me, locked that door every night. Oh, how I hated that door being locked. Worse yet, I couldn't talk-knew what I wanted to say but just couldn't coordinate my mind and my mouth to cooperate at the same time… sometimes I still can't get the words to come out right.
"One day, Teresa was there, talking to the doc, talking about what to do with my carcass and speculatin' on how much longer I was going to live. I didn't know at this point that the whole world thought I was dead! She's goin' on about the estate, and my life insurance, the kids' inheritance, a memorial for the fans….On and on, she went- even talkin' about finishing my vault, fer Chrissake! Finally, I just couldn't take it anymore and I just willed my mouth to open. All I could croak was, `I ain't dead yet!' Or somethin' to that effect…"
He shook his head sadly, "Now this is the woman I loved more `n life itself. Mother of my beautiful little Taylor and the brains behind all the success that became DEI. She turned into something cold, someone I didn't know anymore….looked at me without one ounce of love left and sez, `As far as the rest of the world you left behind is concerned, you are.' She then went on to explain-as if she was talkin' to a child-that I had suffered some sorta fatal skull fracture and I was more or less killed instantly." He chuckled bitterly then went on, "Bottom line is, Old Lady, they wanted me out of the way.
"It started waaaay back at the beginning of 2000-I had dreams to expand that company into a racing powerhouse. I already had one good driver-Steve Park-and had my sights on another one-that would be Michael Waltrip-who never had the right kind of team behind him. I knew that boy could win in my cars-hell, he better win in my cars! He had a real gift to run on the plate tracks and he wasn't half-bad on the road courses either and I knew with the right training, I could turn him into something decent. Then, there was Junebug…." He broke off and sighed, "If only I could take back some of the shit I gave that poor kid…."
Prissy snorted, "Oh, he's done awright for himself-hell, even I know who Dale Jr. is!"
"Kid's gonna be a good racer but his head's messed up on a lotta things and I got nobody else to blame but myself for that deal…." He whispered, his voice heavy with regret. "Always pushin' him away… never wanted to even look at him sometimes …saw too much of myself there…"
Silence weighted heavy in the air like a thunderstorm on a muggy day. Earnhardt appeared lost in his thoughts for a bit; lingering on a past that he was powerless to repair.
"I had a lot of opposition on the decisions I wanted to make for the future of those boys. Right from the get-go, it always felt like Teresa and Ty were second-guessing my every move. Things I wanted to put through were left undone…contracts never signed on time… sponsors left guessing….right to this day, I don't know what their agenda is. And now, every damned thing I worked for is comin' unraveled….
"Still, it doesn't explain how I found myself up here. Ty had a relative in Oswego who recommended this place-pretty much in the boondocks and out of the way. I was still not in the most lucent frame of mind back then-Teresa had pretty much convinced me that I was in no shape mentally to be at the helm of DEI, she pretty much figured I wasn't going live much longer anyway…pretty soon, I didn't really give a rat's ass anymore. Nobody gave a shit whether I lived or died, got pretty depressed and just sorta crawled into a big, ol' hole and pulled the hole in on myself…" He grinned wryly, knowing there was so much more to be said and so many bases yet to be uncovered here. "So, I came into your world as Ralph Coleman-old, senile and crippled…..now how do ya like me now?"
Prissy mused for a moment, saddened by how greed can turn a heart to ice. She looked up at him, eyes moist and said quietly, "Y'know, I sorta prefer Ralph Coleman-cause that's how we found ya and that's how we love ya, old man."
Earnhardt gently took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, "Well, looks like Ralph Coleman is what ya'll are stuck with." He said with a wink.
Just then, Burt's old GMC pickup rattled up the driveway. He hollered out, "Hey neighbor! You'll never guess but looks like an old friend of yours is supposed to be visiting us pretty soon!" His face was flushed and he was so excited he could barely get the words out.
Earnhardt looked at him quizzically, "Say what, Boomhauer?"
"Well, you know my son, John, works down at the Napa in town, right? They're supposed to have a big grand opening thing and they're getting' your old buddy, Mikey, to come and sign some autographs!"
Earnhardt blanched and his stomach just did a couple of back-flips. No way could he ever look his old friend in the eye-hell, it would be traumatic for both of them. He mustered up a weak grin, "Y'know, I dunno…me showing up alive and well like some sort of Rip Van Winkle is sure to put a tidal wave of shit to fan…"
Burt shook his head, "Y'know, I don't even pretend to be up on any of that racin' stuff, but from what I heard, even Helen Keller could see that all you've done for that company is goin' up shit crick down there. I don't know too much about your buddy, Mikey but you've always spoke so well of him and seems to me, he'd be the man you need to talk to and hopefully set it all right again. I know shit's gonna hit the skids here but y'know what they say: `truth's gonna set you free' and all that…
"Truth's gonna set us free" Earnhardt nodded, "You all know though, that you're all gonna be in for one helluva ride when it all comes down."
"Ah…it's gotten kinda dull around here anyway and we could use a little excitement around this one-horse town!" Burt grinned and grabbed a cup of coffee.
If only he could see that far down the road. "Things are gonna get excitin' all right." The Cheshire smile spoke. The Intimidator was back.
3.
Mooresville
Junior stared into the blackness of the bedroom, pulling his knees up to his chin as he pressed his face against them. Though the room was silent, save for the ticking of the clock and the soft breathing of his lover beside him, there was no easy sleep for the pounding of his uncle's voice in his head. The argument had ended hours ago but the old man had nearly yelled himself into an aneurism and his voice still reverberated in loud echoes in Junior's mind. He willed his eyes open, even though he felt like collapsing into a dead sleep. That would bring the whole nightmarish scenario to life like a film on a never ending replay loop. The long straightaway and the dark blue and gold Chevrolet in front of him, bobbing slightly as the blood-red nose of his own car touched the rear bumper. Suddenly smoke and both cars spinning. Matt's car now spinning madly against Michael's……Junior shuddered violently as the image of Michael's car slamming hard against the wall. A mistake…a stupid, rookie mistake…..or was it….? He didn't know anymore. He didn't even know who he was anymore…other than he was sorry…so very sorry.
A sob caught in his throat as he snuggled against the broad back of the man who by all rights shouldn't have ever forgiven him. More points lost in a race that should have been a top-10 or better finish. Junior sighed as he gingerly pulled Michael close. Badly bruised on his lower back, sides, hips and two cracked ribs-Junior knew Michael would be in pure agony for the strenuous Dover race and it tore his heart out to see the results of his actions in the ugly purple and black bruises.
Michael involuntarily flinched at the other man's touch. He was still angry, though he had forgiven Junior. Angry, hurting and still exhausted and at the moment, in no mood for any human contact; all he wanted was sleep. How long could he continue to forgive Junior for his numerous transgressions? Harsh words could hurt as much or even more than any wreck and Junior had carelessly bandied a few of those around in the past couple of years. And always, Michael would simply chalk it up to a "heat of the moment" deal and forgive him. And this was a simple racing deal, right? At 190 miles per hour and inches apart, mistakes can happen and he was simply in the wrong place….right? He knew deep in his heart that Junior would never intentionally wreck him…or would he? It was no secret that it riled Junior up to no end if the 15 out-performed his car. And now, the game of "musical crew chiefs". Poor Pete-they never should have put him in that spot…he never had a chance. Old Pops had an ax to grind and sadly, Pete's head was the first one on the chopping block. Now awake, Michael stared straight ahead in the darkness as the turmoil of their lives destroyed any chance of a peaceful, healing sleep.
Junior could feel the long, sinewy body beside him begin to tense up. Michael continued to stare fixedly into the darkness. A thin, pinkish line began to stretch across the horizon as dawn began to chase the stars away. With a heavy sigh, Michael stiffly swung his long limbs out of bed and sat on the edge. He shivered slightly in the chill air and ran his hand through the wild tangle of his hair while Junior propped himself up on one elbow; quietly regarding him.
"Mike?" he whispered, though to his own ears, it practically sounded like shouting in the early morning stillness. "Y-you don't have to leave so early…please stay…you're still mad…" His voice bore such a heartbreaking tone, full of rejection. Michael turned and held his gaze for a moment. He bent low and rested his forehead against Junior's.
"It's almost 5…I gotta head north for a Napa gig, you knew that was on my agenda this week." He gently held Junior's face in his hands, "No, I'm not mad at you…not anymore…I'm over it, you should know me by now…I can't hold things that are beyond our control against you….but you gotta understand, June, that I'm driving for my life now. As long as your name's still Earnhardt, you'll never have to worry about where your next meal's comin' from….I don't have that luxury. I can't have any more bad races….you gotta help me out here, June."
"Sometimes I wish my name wasn't Earnhardt...." he whispered, burying his face in Michael's neck.
"But it is what it is, bro….it is what it is and there's nothing we can do about it."
They held onto each other as the sky turned a brilliant pink and turquoise. Junior reluctantly let go of Michael as he rose and headed for the shower. In a few hours, he'd be on his way to another autograph signing and PR function. Another day, another dollar in the life of one of the sport's most popular spokesmen.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Mexico, NY.
The crowd of racing fans snaked around the block and half-way to the firehall and it inched along with the speed of a glacier. It was a stifling hot day…highly unusual for this time of year and so early in the season. "Nascar Dads", playing hooky from work and their hordes of wriggling, giggling offspring; juggling pictures and die- cast cars, eagerly awaited their turn at the table in front of the tall, somewhat beleaguered-looking man. Despite the turmoil and fatigue behind the façade, Michael gamely put up a good front; smiling and posing for pictures. Never let them see the pain behind the smile. The average fan wasn't interested in your day, could care less if you were sick, hurting or just having a rotten day. They just wanted their autographs and pictures and you damned well better deliver like the champion that they think you are. Sometimes Michael almost had to go through these situations on pure auto-pilot, almost looking through the throngs that gathered for a hero card and a photo op.
"Holy shit, he's a tall one! How'd he get in that racecar?" Burt grinned as he grabbed a case of motor oil. Hell, he was here to shop as the store was featuring rock-bottom prices on all the essentials. He and Dale were at the back of the store, picking up parts and watching the antics of a couple of overly-endowed women in well-worn tube tops.
"Almost had to fold himself in two, both knees around the steering wheel." Earnhardt smiled wistfully, pulling his worn cap low. Nobody really gave him a second glance. He hardly looked like the man they used to call the Intimidator. His hair had long since gone nearly white, he had gotten a bit paunchy and he looked no different than any of the other old timers who frequented the store.
"Hey Dad! Hey, Mr. Coleman!" John, Burt's youngest son, wandered out of the stock room behind the counter. "Pretty good crowd, huh?"
"Ain't every day a Daytona champion comes to town." Dale whispered as the crowd around Michael slowly wound down to a few die-hards. It was almost time to close the shop. Michael was originally only scheduled for a couple hours but decided to stick it out until everybody who wanted his autograph got one. Dale honestly didn't think he could go through with this, almost decided not to go. Didn't know if he could ever look his old friend in the eyes. He never really planned on anything closer than a glimpse though…he honestly wasn't sure if he could go through with that. If Michael recognized him, he would deal with the consequences.
Burt gently nudged him, "Well…we ain't stayin' here all night. Ain'tcha gonna go up and say `hello''?" he said softly. He knew something of this magnitude might not be as easy as he originally thought. Or maybe it wouldn't be such a good idea to comeback from the dead. Come back from the dead and scare the hell out of the living…
"Ok…here goes…" Dale muttered. He fished in his pocket for the old watch that belonged to his father. It was the only thing left from his previous existence that he was allowed to keep. Teresa made sure that nothing else of his old identity remained intact. John looked curiously at Burt, but his father waved him off with an "I'll `splain it all later" look.
Dale found himself behind a woman roughly the size of a upright freezer. Hair full of curlers and legs the size of beer kegs…good grief! He thought. He looked down at Michael; he alone could see the deep lines carved by stress and sorrow. His usually bright blue eyes that always sparked with mirth and faint curl of a smile on his lips-those were gone now. He looked tired and battle worn. Finally Dale's turn at the table and Michael looked wearily up, blankly signing a hero card. "Hey…glad ya could come out…thanks…" he muttered.
"Hey, yerself Mikey…just want to give you a little somethin' to take to Dover…" Dale whispered and pushed the old pocket watch into Michael's hand. He knew how much Michael loved getting something from the fans and he knew how much this would mean to him. "Good luck this weekend, Mikey..."
Michael stared at the beautiful, worn old watch. It depicted a couple of bird-dogs and the inscription, "For Ralph, love momma. 1955". He swallowed and really looked up at the old gentleman, really seeing him for the first time. Their eyes locked for a moment, for a heartbeat Michael saw something in those old, blue eyes and a chill ran up his spine. The old stranger whispered, "Say hey to Junebug and wish him good luck too…." He clasped Michael's hand, the grip was like iron. One last smile and he was gone; replaced by another fan.
Chapter 4
Rocky, Michael's long-time pilot, glanced at his watch and quietly regarded Michael as he quietly sat staring at the old pocket watch. Something had gotten to him, Rocky decided and knew he was in for a long, silent ride home. Michael could be a deeply introspective individual, totally belying the image of racing's "clown prince". He watched as Michael turned the watch over and over, inspecting it; brows furrowed deep in thought. "Getting' time we headed back to Syracuse." Rocky peered closely at Michael. He looked a little pale, ashen even. Perhaps he was simply feeling the after-effects of the wild wreck at Lowe's, he mused. "You ok, Mike? Michael?"
"Huh?? …Yeah…sorry, just a little tired, bro…" Michael whispered, then he noticed John, who was closing up behind the counter. "Excuse me for a second, Rock….I'll be right back." Rocky curiously watched as Michael wandered over to the young man behind the counter.
"Hey there…can I ask you something?" Michael's blue eyes bore into the kid.
"Hey yourself! Wanna say `thanks' for staying so long…"
Michael chuckled, "Just part of my job. Say, I saw you talking to those two old boys at the back of the store earlier…the older guy gave me this watch." He pulled the watch out of his pocket and carefully laid it on the counter. He carefully chose his words with care as he wasn't sure himself what to say. Those piercing blue eyes. That iron-like handshake. The man's voice. It was often said that everybody has a twin…could it be…? All Michael knew was he had to know who the old stranger was and where did he get that watch….
John studied the watch then gently pressed a tiny clasp and opened up what was actually a locket compartment in the cover. Inside, was a faded black and white picture of a small grinning boy held by his father. The boy was perhaps only 12 but the images were unmistakable. John curiously studied the pictures, failing to see color drain completely from Michael's face.
"Oh dear God…" he could barely whisper. "dear God…" Large hands gripped the counter to keep from falling to the floor.
"Do you know who that is in the picture?" John asked curiously.
Finally Michael spoke, "What can you tell me about that old man…."
Shrugging, John replied. "Not much…he's a real good friend of my Dad's-he's the guy with the `John Deere' hat-and he comes from either North or South Carolina…can't remember which….He's livin' up at the old folk's home in Maple View. He's been up here for the past three or four years…said he was in a bad accident a few years back and his family pretty much disowned him…pretty sad really. He's kinda quiet, but he's one of the nicest guys I've ever met. His name's Ralph Coleman…that's pretty much all I can tell ya bout him.."
Michael's mind was reeling. How did a pocket watch that once belonged to Ralph Earnhardt wind up here? There was no mistaking who the subjects of that photo were. Perhaps he acquired it in an auction. Perhaps he was a distant relative. Perhaps this was all a coincidence and he simply needed a good night's sleep to ease his very troubled mind and aching body. Sometimes the eyes will see what the mind and heart want to see.
"How far away is Maple View?"
Rocky wandered over, curious as to what had Michael so engrossed. "We went right through it on the way down. It was that wide spot in the road after we got off from 81. We gotta go right through it again to get back on the highway."
John nodded, "Yeah…it's about four-five miles east of the village. The Maple View Inn would be right on the corner of 11-hang a left at the light and pull right into the drive. He rode in with my Dad- I'm sure they're back by now. He lives in the first floor apartment-if he's not there, he's at Dad's and he lives in the white double-wide across the road. Just look for the old tractors and the new Avalanche…that's the place."
"Thanks…I appreciate it." Michael fished around in his briefcase and pulled out two tickets to the July Daytona race. "Not sure if you can use `em, but it's on me."
"Thanks man! I'll put `em to good use!" Little did John know, he had perhaps already given a gift worth more than a lifetime of race tickets.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The rental car pulled into the driveway of the Maple View Inn. Rocky knew that Michael would not rest until he found what he was looking for. Michael hadn't said hardly a word, other than he wanted to thank the old man personally for such a thoughtful gift. Michael could be a perplexing creature at times…
"Listen, Mike…I'm starvin'. I'm gonna drop ya off so you can go visit with that old duck and I'll catch a bite at the truckstop up the road. I'll be back in a little bit, ok?" Michael nodded and unfolded himself out of the tiny car. He mounted the old, wrap- around porch and softly knocked at the door. Rocky watched as a moment went by and finally the door opened. Sighing, he grinned and shook his head. He was a well-paid employee for his services and well-paid enough not to ask any questions. "Ah..one of these days, I'm gonna write me a book…" he chuckled.
Dale was lost in his own thoughts. Should he have stayed a little longer at the Napa store? No…he couldn't take a chance on Michael recognizing him. So many questions…not enough answers. Sadly, his own memories were fading. He really couldn't remember much of 2001, try as he might. He did know that he didn't have the heart to hurt Michael again…but oh, how he longed to sit beside his old friend and laugh like they used to. Or spend a day fishing….so many wonderful memories there…thank God, those memories were still intact. The turmoil of his thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Please just go away…he honestly felt like weeping for all that had slipped away from him. Please just go away…I want to be alone….
Well, maybe it would be better to have a little company, he sighed and opened the door. And abruptly fell back as Michael's lanky form filled the doorway. Michael swallowed hard, not quite comprehending who or what he was seeing at the moment. He felt dizzy; words were almost impossible to form.
Dale resisted the urge to pull him into a bear-hug. Resisted the urge to break down. He had always been a pillar of strength and he knew the man in front of him was on the verge of falling apart. Gently, he took Michael's arm and guided him in to the tiny apartment.
"Well…I don't get much company these days…I guess I could say come on in." he chuckled. "Don't mind the mess…ain't much reason for an old man to keep house for just myself and the cats."
"I just wanted …to-to say thanks for that watch…" Michael mumbled weakly. No, that's not why you're here, his mind raged.
"Beer?" Dale offered, surely this man was in dire need of a beer. "It's nothin' fancy…"
He pulled a couple of Budweisers out and handed one to Michael, who continued to stare at him. "Not ever' day I get a visit from the likes of you…."
Michael shook the cobwebs from his head and looked Dale in the eye for the first time, studying his face.
"Who are you?"
"Name's Ralph Coleman and it was an honor to meet ya!" Dale smiled awkwardly, trying to keep his cover. For Michael's sake, for it looked as though he was one step from going over the edge.
"No…who are you really…?" Michael whispered. "How did you get Ralph Earnhardt's watch?..." Michael looked closely at the old man's visage. "Are you related…what are you doing up here?" The scraggly mustache, deep lines carved into his face, around his eyes and the soft cadence of his voice. No. It couldn't be! He saw him laid to rest, was a pall-bearer for Christ's sake! He had looked so peaceful laying there, in state….Michael uttered a soft moan as the room began to spin. Then, just before he blacked out, he thought of Junior. Oh God…Junior! He shouldn't have come here! The wound that had cut the very heart out of him four years ago at Dayton was now reopened as he slumped to the floor.
"Shit! Michael! C'mon Mikey!.." Dale shook the large form on the floor, finally in desperation he dumped the ice-cold beer over the big man's head.
Blearily, Michael struggled to rise. He wanted to cry; to scream. At once longing to embrace for all the world a ghost come to life. To kill the old man with his bare hands for breaking his son's heart. For leaving them. Emotions crashing, he slowly leaned against the old man and sobs wracked his body. "It is you….it is you…why Dale? Why? WHY?!" He screamed.
Dale closed his eyes. He had never prepared himself for a moment that he thought would never happen. It wasn't supposed to happen. He cursed himself for ever revealing his true identity. He held Michael's violently shaking body tightly against him, gently caressing his head. "Oh Mikey, if it was only so easy to answer…if only…" God, help me now.
"Shhhh…just sit and listen to me…I'll try and explain as best I can….but ya gotta just hear me out. I didn't plan it like this and you sure as hell ain't gonna feel too good about some things but I guess it's my cross to bear now."
Michael looked up at him as Dale went on. By the time they parted later that evening, Michael returned to North Carolina with a secret that would rock the very foundation of his and Junior's world. The problem therein-would he bring himself to share it?
Chapter 5
Crickets and tree frogs lent their own brand of music to the night as Dale stared at the canopy of stars above him. Time passed but he paid it no mind-just as he had since that day he woke up in a world he was no longer part of. He aimless rocked back and forth on the porch; the old calico cat, Hilda on his lap. She turned her orange and black face upward, regarding the kind visage of her benefactor. Copper eyes narrowed and a deep, rumbling purr resonated as if to comfort the man's troubled soul. He responded with a gentle rub behind her tattered ears, "What are we gonna do now, Ol' Girl?" he whispered.
He wished that Michael had simply dismissed him as a demented old kook with a twisted delusion of identity. In fact, he questioned him, grilled him on topics that only Dale Earnhardt would know. Not the simple stuff any ambitious fanatic could get from history books and the internet either. Names of children, spouses, relatives and shirt-tail cousins, places and races-any one could memorize that. Strangely, he remembered the story of Anastasia, the long-lost daughter of the Czar-oh..what was his name? Alexander? No-Czar Nicholas... So many had been obsessed with the child's tragic story. So many had claimed to be her. Now here he was, a lost, old man who most would think should have a one-way ticket to the laughing academy and a nice, cozy padded cell. Unlike Anastasia and her many incarnations, imposters and perhaps the genuine article, there were questions only he could answer and only Michael would the truth.
"You hated my brother but somehow we ended up thicker than ticks…how did this happen?" Dale could still here that beloved Kentucky drawl, still see those bluer-than-blue eyes piercing him. Images of a talented but troubled young driver fresh onto the Cup circuit and already in with a bad crowd. A legend by the name of Tim Richmond who's flame sadly burned out too soon. He was too late to save Tim but he'd be damned if he'd let them destroy Michael too. He remembered Darrell finally breaking down; knowing how much his little brother looked up to Dale, and begging him to get Michael away from that scene. He remembered getting a frantic call from Kyle Petty-Michael's old partner in crime at the time-Michael, unconscious and naked on the floor of an empty apartment in a bad part of Charlotte….Dale shook his head, trying to rid himself of these pictures. Lord only knows what they did to that boy....Since then, Dale had always taken Michael under his wing as if he was the little brother he never had. He loved Michael as deeply as he did his own children and although he was ashamed to admit it, in some respects, even more. They shared secrets that only they knew and now he was looking at the very real possibility that it was time to go home.
"Hildy…don't know what we're gonna do...." He thought about how Junior was going to react. This could very well send the boy over the deep end. As if he didn't have enough troubles already. At least, Junior had Michael to lean on, he thought. Junior and Michael. He knew there had always been a bond between the two but there was something in Michael's eyes that unsettled him whenever they brought up Dale's youngest son. Dale knew and accepted what he referred to as Michael's "wild side". The fact that his dear friend was obviously bi-sexual was accepted. It was no secret that the Waltrip marriage had been on the rocks for years-long before his daughter was born. Michael often took his comforts wherever he could since his relationship with his wife could be best described as a business arrangement and little more. Aside from only a very few on the Cup circuit who knew about his extramarital excursions and a few intriguing rumors regarding his sexuality, most regarded it all part of Michael's eccentric nature.
But what if his own son was somehow involved with Michael on this level? He had hoped that Junior had settled down by now; had himself a wife and a little boy of his own. In the end, he knew it would take somebody very special to tame that kid. While he always had a gang of buddies over and a chain of girlfriends-usually going for the "wrong" type of girl-he usually ended up alone, in his room with his computer. Over time, Junior had successfully built a wall around himself where only a select few were welcomed in-not unlike the wall Dale himself had built. And Michael was one of the chosen few in both men's worlds. Well, Dale decided, what can you do except love `em both and just accept the situation for what it was? He had made too many mistakes as far as Junior was concerned. He was his own man, he had chosen his own path in life to walk. And a second chance to get close to his son was all Dale wanted right now.
Oh, how he wished he could take the past back! A solitary tear drifted down one wrinkled cheek as he remembered all the harsh words, the distance he alone put between them. Images of a teary little boy clinging to his waist as he pushed the boy back towards the military school chaplains. A boy, often scared to death of his own father, gazing longingly from the shadows of the garage while he celebrated in Victory Lane. That little face in the window while he left for another hunting trip with Richard and Neil. How those images haunted him now….Dale winced as he remembered bawling the kid out for bothering Michael just before a Busch race and how Michael himself stood between father and son. "He's not bothering me, Dale… Junebug's never any bother!" No, he was never any bother at all…
Michael never had a kid brother-like Junior, he usually found himself simply "in the way" as far as old Darrell was concerned. No wonder the two found comfort in each other's company, Dale thought. He smiled as he remembered how the two used to horse around together; tag-wrestling, fishing and simply just goofing off. Ah well, if Junior's going to be with anybody, might as well let it be Michael. At least he was secure in the knowledge that Michael would never break Junior's heart as he had. Michael's love and friendship were pure and unconditional. Junior never had to be anything other than himself around Michael while his own father had never given Junior the satisfaction that whatever he did, said, believed-it was never good enough. Granted, he wanted the boy to grow up strong and independent but perhaps his "tough love" tactics went too far? All he succeeded in accomplishing in the end was alienating his youngest son.
Michael and Dale discussed the possibility of going back home. It could be kept as discreet as he wanted. But what would he return home to? Teresa would surely be out for blood. It had been a sort of agreement that his former life and existence was over. He was supposed to be dead after all! Ashes to ashes, dust to dust along a concrete wall in the asphalt embrace of Daytona. A fitting ending to a great warrior falling to see his greatest triumph in the victory of his successors-Michael and Dale Jr. Dale shook his head, "damn woman is in for one rude awakening!"
No, he didn't want to come home and take over his team. Jesus Christ himself probably couldn't do anything with that team now. Maybe later, when the shock wore off….when and if the world would accept his existence. All he wanted right now was to fix a few fences that needed mending-badly. Teresa could take his millions and stick `em where the sun don't shine. All the money in the world couldn't make up for miles lost between himself and Junior.
He glanced at his watch and pulled out the cell phone Michael had given him. He wondered if Michael had gotten home yet, wondered how he was holding up. Probably he's sitting downstairs in his bar drinking himself into oblivion, Dale thought with a smirk. The phone rang for a moment then a woman's voice answered.
"'Lo?" It was Buffy. Dale's heart fluttered a little and he spoke softly into the phone.
"Michael there?"
No recognition at all. Good. He faintly heard her shouting for Michael, never even bothering to inquire as to who was on the other end. Hell, I could be an escaped lunatic! Dale chuckled to himself.
Finally, Michael's weary voice came through the receiver. "Yeah."
"Hey boy…just wonderin' if you made it home ok. I won't keep ya… just wanted to hear your voice."
"Hey yourself, ol' man." He could almost see Michael's radiant smile. "Just gonna head out and hang with Junior soon as Macy's in bed."
"Mike…don't say anything…just yet. This is gonna be one helluva shock to him…"
"…and everybody else. Don't worry, I'll be careful. I'll talk to you tomorrow…'night Dale."
When they finally hung up, both men were startled to realize that the last time they held such a conversation was on the eve of the 2001 Daytona 500.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
"You ok, Mikey?" Junior frowned, his fine features etched with concern for his companion. Michael had been so quiet, so contemplative since he returned from the Napa gig up north. He hardly ate any of the broiled chicken breast the Junior had grilled. That in itself was abnormal and grounds for concern. Normally, Michael was a ravenously hungry whenever he returned from a sponsor function.
Michael picked half-heartedly at a chunk of macaroni salad and shook his head, "Just tired June…still kinda sore too." He stretched and sighed, "Just been a real, real long day and I've gotta look at this new revision of next years' contract too." He hated talking business now, all he wanted to do was curl himself up around Junior. No, he couldn't bear to bring up the subject of suddenly finding Junior's father alive. Plus, another thought had occurred to him; how would Dale take his relationship with Junior? All the events since finding himself in the wall at Lowe's gave him the feeling that the whole world was spinning out of control. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes while Junior quietly regarding him.
Suddenly, the world began to melt away as Michael felt Junior's long fingers gently but firmly massaging his shoulders. Junior grimaced as his fingers slid across sinewy muscle as hard as concrete. Michael was one, raw, taunt nerve on the verge of breaking in half. Slowly Michael relaxed as he gradually leaned against Junior's chest. Tension melted away as Junior wrapped his arms around the big man and rested his face against Michael's tangled hair. There was something so distant in his eyes tonight, Junior thought. Michael seemed as if he were a million miles away. That damned contract! That was it!
"Mikey, you don't have to worry…you know you'll have a ride with us next year. All this shit that's been happening ain't your fault….."
"June…really, it's not the contract. It's not the 600…or you runnin' over me. Or shit hitting the fan with Buffy. Or my Busch team that's running like shit …It's something that I can't and don't want to get into right now."
"D-does it have to do with us? M-me an' you…uhm together…?" Junior asked quietly. Both men knew that there might come a time when they'd have to put an end to the intimate side of their relationship. Neither was willing to ever bring up the subject and even when they tried to go their separate ways, it never worked out, neither willing to live without the other.
Michael's eyes snapped open and he shook his head fiercely, "NO! That's the last thing I need or want right now." He pulled Junior onto his lap and held him tightly, "June..please….let's just go to bed. I promise I'll fill you in on as much of the details as I can."
Bodies entwined again, this time with much more urgency as clothing found its way to the floor and various parts of the room. Junior grinned and pulled Michael to the bed where they wound around each other, frantic with desire and need. All through the night, the two occupied themselves with turning pent up frustrations, anger and sorrow to sweet bliss by the time the sun made its appearance on the horizon. Michael stirred and lazily eased an arm around Junior's still sleeping form. It felt so right being here together. Junior, in turn, pushed himself even closer to Michael's warm flesh, burrowing his face against his broad chest. Here, he felt safe, loved and wanted-never alone.
"Mikey?"
"Yeah, kiddo…"
"Promise me something?"
"Anything June."
"Don't ever, ever leave me alone"
Michael took his face in his hands, "You know I'd never leave unless you wanted me to. You're never gonna be alone again. I promise."