Overdrive (14 page)

JAMIE SAT IN ON
the meetings with her dad and the crew as they chose a car for Indianapolis. T.J., the crew chief, wanted to use a backup they’d tuned especially for Indy.

But her dad wasn’t convinced. “I won the race in Chicago with that engine. I’m really comfortable with the car and the way it ran.”

“No modifications?” T.J. said.

“Why mess with a winner?” Dale said.

Jamie had driven a backup car on the track with him, going through his practice routine. The main thing she needed at this point was seat time. Scotty had heard about an opening at a driving course and mentioned it to Jamie. She called, but because she was only 17, they wouldn’t consider her. The fact that she had a license and was
Dale Maxwell’s daughter interested them, but they wouldn’t waive their rule.

Jamie drove to Indianapolis with her mom, Kellen, and Tim. They couldn’t get a second room at the hotel, but Scotty said it was okay if Tim stayed in his room. When Kellen begged to stay too, saying he’d sleep in the bathtub in his sleeping bag if he had to, and Scotty agreed, Mrs. Maxwell relented.

It was a gorgeous day in Indianapolis. Hot and muggy, but the sun was out and the track looked great with all the colors and the fans. Her dad came into the race 16th place in points. Not bad considering his performance in the past few years, but to jump to 12th place and make it into the Chase in five races would be difficult—if not impossible—especially with the talent ahead of him.

The sponsor problems her dad had experienced (his main sponsor had threatened to pull out in the spring) had lessened once he had won in Chicago. There were several stories in magazines and on Web sites about the “comeback” of Dale Maxwell. Each one had mentioned Jamie’s finish at the driving school. Others noted that a popular beer advertiser had offered to bail the team out, but Maxwell had said he’d quit racing before using a beer sponsor. There had been a lot of controversy—including some drivers upset that someone like Jamie could get a license
when she was barely 17 (her birthday had come in early June) when NASCAR required drivers to be 18. Because the school had been started by NASCAR, they waived the rule but gave each venue the choice to let her drive. Since Jamie had no team and she was only listed as a backup for her dad, no one thought there’d be a problem.

At the chapel session before the race, the chaplain talked about leaving a legacy to your kids. At first, Jamie didn’t think it was for her because she couldn’t imagine getting married, let alone having children. But the more the guy talked, the more she saw her dad’s influence in her life. She decided that a legacy didn’t have to start when she was older and had a family—it could begin right where she was. When the guy prayed, she closed her eyes and asked God to help her give a legacy to her family that began early.

The family went from there to the pit area and greeted other drivers. Jamie’s mom had a tradition of giving a printed verse to other drivers she knew were believers.

Jamie thought she had handed out all of them when Butch Devalon walked past them in his black outfit and black shoes.

“Hold up there, Butch,” Jamie’s mom said. “I have something for you.”

He glanced at the piece of paper she handed him.
Then he looked at her. “This supposed to be some kind of Christian curse on me?” he growled.

Her mom smiled. “Not a curse. A blessing. I wanted you to have that to show there were no hard feelings. And that God is real and wants you to turn to him.”

He shook his head and threw the piece of paper on the ground. “I needed help from him a long time ago, and it never came. Keep your religious mumbo jumbo to yourself.”

When he had gone, Jamie picked up the paper from the asphalt. It read,
Psalm 46:1—God is our refuge and strength, always ready to help in times of trouble.
“Why’d you give him that one?”

Her mom shrugged. “It was supposed to be for another driver, but he didn’t qualify. Just kind of stuck out to me.”

“What did he mean about needing help from God a long time ago?” Jamie said.

Her mom thought a moment. “There are things about people we’ll never know. I met Butch when he was about your age. Had a rough life. Real rough. Maybe one day he’ll see his need for God.”

Kellen walked by with his “Legend in the Making” T-shirt on. “I’m not holding my breath.”

“Stranger things have happened, young man.”

“Yeah,” Jamie said. “Like Kellen taking a bath.”

Kellen just laughed.

Her dad came over and hugged them. “No family fights during the race now.” He kissed her mom, and she whispered something to him and handed him a piece of paper. He read it and then wiped away big tears. “See you at the winner’s circle,” he said.

Jamie asked her mom what she had said.

Her mother smiled. “There are some things I say to only one person in the world. But I will show you the verse I gave him.” She pulled out her pocket New Testament and opened it to Hebrews.

Jamie read, “‘Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us.’”

“It’s not
exactly
about Indianapolis,” her mother said, “but it still fits, I think. Let everything else go and concentrate on the race ahead.”

TIM STOOD BEHIND
the war wagon, watching the crew chief talk to Dale during a yellow flag. A few weeks ago Dale had been the one caught in a wreck or running over debris. Now he was racing like he belonged up front. He had his extra points for leading a lap and could pick up even more since he had been in front 45 of the 160-lap race. Currently he was running fifth and gaining quickly on the leaders.

“You’re about three seconds behind the front,” the spotter said. “Separated from the rest of the field. Maintain that position high and you’ll move up in the straightaway.”

“Number 7’s backing off a lot,” Dale said.

“He’s losing downforce because of a lift in the front. Getting a lot more air down there than the other cars.”

Tim switched to the race coverage and heard the announcers talking about Maxwell. “That win in Chicago really energized old Dale,” one commentator said. “He looks like he’s a man on a mission right now, and I wouldn’t want to be in front of him.”

“And there’s one driver who Maxwell won’t have to catch. Let’s go down to the pits and hear from Butch Devalon. Butch, this is the second race in a row where you’ve failed to finish because of an accident. What happened out there?”

Tim turned and looked at the camera just outside the infield care center, where Butch Devalon stood. He was wearing a headset with a microphone on it.

“I don’t know. This is just how it goes—long season and lots of chances to hit bumps in the road,” Devalon said. “We’ll be back at ’em next week.”

Tim walked over and stood a few feet behind the cameraman, staring at Devalon. When he started talking about being confident he would finish at the top of the Chase, Tim shook his head and acted like he was laughing, doubling over and holding his stomach. It didn’t faze Devalon, but it felt good to try to distract him.

What didn’t feel good was getting a peck on the shoulder and turning around and seeing Chad Devalon. “What’s wrong with you, punk?” Chad said.

Tim shrugged and walked away.

“You’re the reason I got DQed!” Chad said.

“You’re crazy,” Tim said. “I never touched your car.”

Chad clutched Tim’s shirt and pulled him back. The guy’s face was red, and his neck veins stood out.

“Leave him alone!” someone yelled behind him. It was Kellen, who had grabbed Tim and tried to pull him away from Chad. In the midst of the commotion, Tim heard the announcer say something about “a commotion in the pit area.” He turned to see the camera trained on him and Chad and Kellen.

“I think that’s Butch’s son down there,” the commentator said. “He doesn’t look too happy.”

A guy with a badge and two big arms took the three away to a security area inside the care center.

Chad fussed and fumed until his dad came for him. He looked even madder than Chad.

“Enjoy the rest of the race,” Tim said as they walked out.

“Good one,” Kellen said.

A TV showed the lap count—only 25 to go, and Dale had moved up to third. Kellen could hardly sit still beside Tim, but when his mom came into the room with the guard, he shrank into the seat.

“Sorry, Mrs. Maxwell,” Tim said. “Chad Devalon kind of jumped me, and there was nothing I could do.”

Mrs. Maxwell talked with the security guard and he released them. “What was it about?” she said.

“I guess he’s still sore about losing that race,” Tim said. “He thinks I did something to his car.”

The crowd stood on the south stands and gasped.

Tim put on his headset and listened. “It wasn’t Dale. It was a group in the middle of the pack.”

“Yellow flag’s out,” Kellen said. “That’ll eat up a few more laps for Dad.”

When the white flag came out, it was just Dale and another driver racing for the win. Dale tried to catch him in the last turn but came in second by less than half a second.

“And that second place finish catapults Dale Maxwell all the way to number 15 for the Chase.”

“That sounds like a long way out of number 12,” the commentator said, “but with four more races to go, I wouldn’t bet against him.”

Dale made his way to the group afterward and hugged his wife. Jamie compared notes and told him what she would have done on that final turn. Dale laughed and put an arm around her. Then a cloud came over his face when Butch Devalon walked up behind them.

“Keep that Carhardt kid away from me and my family, Maxwell,” Devalon said. “You hear me?”

“I heard you, Butch. You okay?”

“Don’t pretend you care about me or anybody but yourself. Just keep that menace out of the pits. I’ve filed a formal complaint against him. He’ll never get in here again.”

OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS,
Tim spent lots of time in the Maxwell garage, watching and learning everything he could. He never dreamed he’d be this close to seeing the inner workings of a crew. When he traveled with his dad, he’d watched stuff happen from afar. Now he was right in the thick of it.

Though Tim had never been a math whiz, he tried to calculate Dale’s chances of making the top 12. It all depended on what the leaders did, of course, but if he finished in the top 10 in the next four races and the driver in the #12 spot faltered at all, Tim figured he still had a chance.

Butch Devalon’s filing had sealed Tim’s fate at races. He wasn’t allowed at any more during the year unless the officials changed their minds. He could tell Dale was disappointed with him,
especially after he’d seen the video coverage. When Tim explained, Dale nodded but said, “You could have avoided all that by not trying to distract Devalon.”

“Yes, sir,” Tim had said.

The Wednesday evening before Michigan, the day before school started again, Kellen came to get Tim in his room. “Phone call for you. Some guy who sounds like he wears a suit to bed.”

It was the man from the bank. “Mr. Carhardt, have you received the box yet?”

“What box?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. We sent the contents of the safe-deposit box to Mr. Slade in Florida two weeks ago, at his request. He said he would send the items on to you. He told me he mailed them last week. You should be getting them any day.”

“Did he say what was in there?” Tim said.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m hoping this clears up any problems for you.”

The guy was being awfully nice to him, especially for somebody who told him never to call his bank again. “Okay. Thanks.”

The next day was the first day of the new school year. Tim rode with Jamie in her Mustang, and the engine sounded like a dream. Mrs. Maxwell had bought Tim
several new outfits to wear to school, supplies like notebooks and pencils, and a new backpack that Tim couldn’t wait to try out.

“What’s it feel like to be a senior?” Tim said.

“It hasn’t really hit me yet that I’ll be done after this year,” Jamie said over the song on the radio.

“You going to college?”

“My parents want me to. I’d rather just race.”

“Maybe you can do both. Kellen said you were going to Denver with your dad.”

“Yeah, I’ve never been to Colorado. That new track out there is supposed to be something.”

“Drink a lot of water,” Tim said.

The day dragged by, and Tim wondered how he’d ever get through it. He rode the bus home because Jamie finished earlier than him. He stopped at the mailbox at the end of the driveway and found several clothes catalogs and junk mail, but there was one colorful postcardlike piece that had his name on it. He ran all the way to the house and showed Mrs. Maxwell.

“Do you know what this means?” Tim said.

“It must be the box from Tyson,” she said. “Looks like we owe some money on the package.”

“I’ll pay for it,” Tim said.

“Nonsense. How was your first day back?”

“Okay, I guess.” Tim fidgeted like a kid who had
to go to the bathroom while Mrs. Maxwell called the post office.

She came back with a frown. “The carrier still has it with her, and she hasn’t made it back to the post office yet. They said I could pick it up tomorrow morning. I can do that and bring it by the school.”

“That’s okay,” Tim said. “I’ve waited this long. I can wait one more day.”