Yellow Flag (14 page)

When he got to the race shop at eleven on the nose, Sir Walter's office was already packed. The way people looked up and nodded, he knew they had been waiting for him. They cleared space for him to come into the room, but he shook his head and stayed by the door. Kris was on the couch between Jackman and Randall, smiley and mellow, his eyes barely open. At least somebody got some last night.

“We all here?” said Dad. He was perched on a corner of Sir Walter's huge desk. Uncle Kale was leaning against the opposite corner. Sir Walter sat back in his throne, scanning the group. Spotting, Kyle thought. He felt those cold deep-blue eyes flick over him.

Kyle looked for Jimmie. She was squatting in a corner,
alongside Billy, who was in a wooden chair. Most of the crew members and mechanics were squatting.

“Okay, here's the deal,” said Dad. “Family Brands sold truckloads of Jump and Yum Cakes in the tristate area last week, and they figure it was Hildebrand fans who bought them. So they're starting their big ad campaign next week around the Charlotte race. They expect two competitive cars in that race, and they're thinking about a third by the end of the season. Can we deliver?”

Jackman and the crew stomped and yelled as if they were at a football pep rally. Dad grinned and looked at Sir Walter, who smiled and nodded. Uncle Kale's face didn't change expression. When the noise died down, Uncle Kale said, “Here's how it's going to happen. Shop opens at six
A.M
., closes when we're done. Every day. Don't matter if you're in the seat or in the rear with the gear, everybody's expected to do his”—he paused to blink at Jimmie—“or her job. Any questions?”

“Yo.” Kris waved from the couch. “Who's driving the second car?”

Kyle was surprised to see Uncle Kale and Dad both turn to Sir Walter, who leaned forward across his desk. “Not decided yet. No secret, we've been talking to Lloyd Rogers. Among others. Family Brands would prefer a Hildebrand in the seat, and they don't mean me.” He chuckled and a few people laughed along, but his eyes
stayed cold, and Kyle felt a chill run up his back.

He slipped out the door. He imagined all the eyes in the room burning into his back. Hot and cold.

 

Mom was sipping coffee on the deck when he got home. She was in her robe. He grabbed a soda and went out on the deck.

“Just back from church?” She sounded sarcastic.

“Team meeting.”

“I know. Big decisions.”

He sat down alongside her and gazed up Hildebrand Hill at Grandpa's wraparound porch.

“Mr. Sievers called. He wants to know if he should keep the Saturday hour open for you.”

“What do you think I should do?”

She took his hand and squeezed it. “I think you should find out if there's room for a trumpet in a race car.”

“Keep your options open.”

“I'm glad it's not my decision,” she said. “How can you choose between your husband and your son?”

They sat quietly until Dad came home. Dad kissed her on top of her head. She raised her other hand to hold his.

Dad said, “Sir Walter wants to see you, Kyle. He'll be back up the hill in about an hour.”

He drove into the Goshen High parking lot without a plan. Mr. G had called the rehearsal for noon. There was still time to show up and claim his chair. But he wasn't sure that was what he wanted to do. He felt as though he was looking for a sign, a waving green flag telling him to go, a red flag to stop. A black flag signaling him out of the race.

He was going to have to make his choices all by himself. The only flag for a work in progress was the yellow flag: Keep moving ahead with caution.

He drove around to the back of the school into a staff lot that band members were allowed to use on weekends. It was outside the door closest to the music rooms. He spotted Mr. G's Chevy Suburban, Todd's
Escalade, Jesse's Jeep, a Toyota he didn't recognize, and a delivery van from Del's family's restaurant. He didn't see Nicole's Honda. Either she wasn't there or she had come with someone else. She could use a ride this morning, the way she'd been drinking last night. Jesse probably picked her up. Todd would be too weird. But I'm not sure of anything.

He circled the lot, half hoping someone would come out and wave him in, or Nicole would drive in and he'd have no choice except to park. Half hoping. He wondered, If I never saw these people again, would I miss them? Nicole's honk and the smart-ass talk about Mr. G and movies? Would I miss playing with them? Would I miss the trumpet? That feeling of safety in the music? Is it all the same choice?

I don't have to make that choice, remember? Keep your options open.

He remembered Nicole in the parking lot asking him, “You going to be able to handle it all?”

I still don't know. But I want to try.

He drove out of the lot and back onto the main road toward Goshen.

Jimmie's black Mustang was parked outside the race shop. Jackman's Harley was nearby, along with Dad's pickup, Uncle Kale's Explorer, and Billy's ancient Corvette. He wondered where Kris was. He wouldn't
mind talking to Jimmie, but not in a crowd. He remembered her saying, “I'm sure you'll do the right thing.”

I hope I figure out what the right thing is.

He drove on aimlessly, almost reaching the foothills of the Buckline Mountains before he turned back. After a while he found himself circling Goshen Raceway. He passed the airport behind the parking lots. A small plane was taking off. Probably a student pilot, he thought. Dad had worked out a deal with a flying school. There had been big plans for the airport once, but they were based on Goshen Raceway becoming a stop in one of the NASCAR regional series. Another casualty of Dad's accident. Monroe Speedway had gotten the races. But Goshen Raceway could make a comeback with the Hildebrand family. Grandpa had been talking about extending the runway for small jets. Once Hildebrand Racing was running two cars, three cars, at least one of them on a major NASCAR circuit, we'd need a jet runway for drivers who wanted to test at Goshen or maybe even race here if we made the track bigger.

We?

He circled the raceway on the access road that ran around it. He parked outside the chain link fence, on the little hill near the rear gate, his favorite spot. He remembered tearing around the little go-kart track that
had been here, his first racing track, little more than a circular dirt path ringed with rubber tires. Racing was fun then.

When had it started being fun again?

That thought surprised him. It
had
become fun again.

The answer didn't surprise him.

After Kris got hurt.

He felt guilty, then remembered how Mom had gotten back to the piano after Dad's accident. He wondered if she felt guilty about that. Someday he would find a way to talk to her about it. I can talk to Mom.

He heard a truck motor growling and looked down at the track. A pickup filled with camera equipment was pulling out of the garage area toward the main entrance. He remembered that the assistant director was coming back today for shots of the show car circling the track. Distant shots, no close-ups, so a member of the crew would drive the car.

A Family Brands number 12 Ford pulled out of the garage area and drove slowly around the track. He could tell from the sound of the engine that it was the show car. From the way the driver drove deep into the corner and let the car drift up the track on the straightaway, Kyle imagined him learning the track, finding the line, studying for a future race. One of the crew had driver dreams.

Did he?

The car passed the grandstand. He was surprised to see his name still up there. Did you think it was just for the commercial?

A noise overhead drowned out the show car's street engine. Kyle looked up to watch the student pilot circle the airport before coming down for a bumpy landing. By the time the plane was on the ground, the show car was gone and the sky and the track were silent.

He was alone.

Without thinking about it, he pulled his gig bag out of the trunk and took out the trumpet. He walked to the top of the hill where the go-kart track had been. He blew a few long notes before he found himself playing “Autumn Leaves.”

He imagined Mom's Oscar Peterson piano version spilling a waterfall of notes down the hill and through the chain link fence, rippling over the freshly painted grandstand seats and onto the black ribbon of track while his Dizzy Gillespie trumpet version found the line and held it, lap after lap, until the checkered flag came down.

He closed his eyes, and the raceway and the bright spring afternoon disappeared. He was lost in the music.

When he was exhausted, when his breath was gone and his lips throbbed, he stopped. He felt chilled.

“That was beautiful.” Jimmie's green eyes looked damp. The show car was parked behind her.

“That was you on the track.” When she nodded, he said, “Gonna race?”

“Thinking about it. You?”

“Thinking about it.” He suddenly realized how that must sound to her. He had choices. She was the one with driver dreams.

“That's okay.” Had she read his mind again? She pointed at the trumpet dangling from his hand. “I had no idea how good you were. I thought you just—” She stopped.

“What?”

“I thought it was something you did because Kris didn't.”

“It started that way, I guess.”

“And now they're going to make you choose.” She came close enough to touch the trumpet, run a finger along the tube until it flared out into the bell. “I talked to your girlfriend yesterday. She really wants you to concentrate on music.”

“Everybody's got their own idea what I should do with my life.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to do it all.”

Then they were kissing. He felt the heat rising
through his body, chasing the chill, reviving him. She smelled of sweat and gas.

She pushed him away. “Not here, not now.” She put her hand on his face. “A trumpet player can always get a girl,” she said, “but even a great driver needs a spotter.”

Sir Walter was waiting for him on the porch, sitting in a white wicker armchair. He was holding a picture of himself and Grandma Karen in Victory Lane after he won his first Cup race, forty years ago.

“Miss her every day,” he said. “She was the one kept Hildebrand together after I was finished and your dad was hurt.”

Here it comes, Kyle thought. Sir Walter is going to order me into the car the way Great-grandpa Fred ordered him in and he ordered Dad and Dad didn't have to order Kris…. That sounded like the begats in the Bible.

“Wanted to tell you, meant a lot what you did these past couple weeks. You were the one kept Hildebrand
together. Gave us time to make the deal that's gonna put us back in the show. I'm hoping you'll stay with it, starting in Charlotte next week.”

“What if I don't want to drive?” It burst out and left a sour taste in his mouth.

Sir Walter didn't blink. “Don't want you to act against your nature. Never work.”

“Didn't work with Uncle Ken.”

Sir Walter blinked this time. “I made a mistake with Kenny. Drove him so hard, I drove him away. I think about that a lot. You look surprised.”

He was. Hard to think of Sir Walter as a mirror driver. Keep your eyes on the road ahead. Sir Walter put the picture down on a table and pushed himself up out of the chair.

“Might've made a mistake with your dad, I was so set on somebody following me. Kris was a natural. From day one you could see he was born to race. No fear. He could feel the air change around a car when someone was coming up on him. All he wanted to do was get to the front and stay there.” Sir Walter put a hand on Kyle's shoulder and steered him forward. “Let's walk a lap. My legs stiffen up when I just stand.”

Shoulders bumping gently, they began to circle the porch. Kyle could see his house tucked into the foot of Hildebrand Hill. Were Mom and Dad looking up at the
porch, wondering what Sir Walter was saying to him? Or did they know?

“When you drove off the track yesterday, when you didn't let Kris get your goat, that was something. Your uncle Kale said to me, ‘You woulda done that, Daddy.' You know he calls you the Baby Blue Shadow.”

“Uncle Kale?” He didn't believe it, then felt guilty. Sir Walter couldn't be playing me, could he? Got more words out of him in the last few minutes than in my whole life. Maybe he thought I was never worth talking to before.

“Always liked Blue Shadow better than Sir Walter, which sounds kind of nose in the air, but it's what the fans like that counts.”

He couldn't get it out of his head. “Uncle Kale called me the Baby Blue Shadow?”

“Never say it to your face, 'fraid it might swell your head.” Sir Walter chuckled. “That boy took the lawn mower motor apart when he was two. Couldn't get it back together till he was three.” He laughed out loud, eyes shining. “They was some pair, Kale and Kenny. I thought they was headed right to the top. Maybe I could've got Kenny back, but I had a stiff neck those days. And I had Kerry, who was almost as good. I think Kerry might've won the cup that year he got hurt. Kale's been looking for a racer ever since.”

“Now he's got Kris.” The Buckline Mountains heaved up and disappeared. Lake Goshen shimmered.

“Looks that way, don't it? Kris drives like Dale Sr., like Tony Stewart. Straight ahead, get out of my way. You drive like I did. Patient, think laps ahead, never wreck a man just to win.”

Dale and Tony won a lot more races than you did, thought Kyle.

“You don't need to have the mean streak, the killer instinct, to be a winner,” said Sir Walter. “Of course it depends on what you call a winner.”

They were back at the front door. He could see his house. Sir Walter stopped. One lap on the porch. What was he really saying to me? “Winner does his duty, treats people right, lives a life he's proud of. Winner is tough. Your dad's a winner. Very few drivers come back after getting hurt bad as your daddy did.”

Cagey old fox setting me up, the Blue Shadow creeping up on me, then slinging past. He wants me to drive. For my dad. For the family. For the Brand.

And I want to drive. But my way.

“I'm not giving up music.”

“Up to you. I won't let Kale or anybody pressure you to stop.” Sir Walter squeezed Kyle's shoulder. “You're tough, boy. That's good.”

“I'd like to see Uncle Ken.”

He couldn't believe that Sir Walter's eyes were watery. “So would I.”

“Bet he'd come to watch his nephews race.”

“You think so?”

“If you invited him.”

Sir Walter took out a handkerchief and blew his nose, an excuse to wipe his eyes. “Sounds like we got a deal, Kyle.”

“Deal, Grandpa,” said Kyle, trying not to cry. He stuck out his hand to shake.

Sir Walter hugged him. Kyle felt his pens digging through his shirt.

After a while Sir Walter held him out at arm's length. “Remember, Kyle, you got to establish your territory and hold it.”

“I'll remember, Grandpa,” he said.

“And always have a spare Sharpie so no fan walks away disappointed because they didn't get an autograph.”