Authors: Steven Manchester
Tags: #Adult, #Contemporary, #FICTION/Family Life
Twelve Months (10 page)
Though I didn't take many notes, I was impressed by our young instructor. He was informative and well spoken. The rest of the morning was spent on accident avoidance. “To finish first, you must first finish,” Jeff explained. “Whenever a racer is driving wheel-to-wheel or nose-to-tail with another car, whenever he is about to pass another car or is being passed, some portion of his mind should be considering accident avoidance. âWhere will I go ifâ¦..? âWhat will I do ifâ¦.?'”
I nodded and looked back at my classmates. Most of the guys, to include Maia, were anxious to get behind the wheel and weren't paying complete attention. I found it disturbing.
“Accidents are avoided in the driver's head, not in his driving skills and techniques,” Jeff went on. “It's imperative to look well ahead of the car and be aware of your surroundings at all times. It's about anticipating dangerous situations and responding to each of them, as needed. And remember, guys, the single most important element of accident avoidance is space.”
The morning instruction didn't seem long enough. We were dismissed for lunch â which was comical considering that it was delivered to us in the form of a stainless steel roach coach. “Get whatever you want,” one of the other instructors announced. “It's on us.”
“Yeahâ¦with the help of our three thousand dollar tuitions,” one of the students called out.
The guy smiled and walked away to eat his sandwich.
As I picked at a veggie wheat wrap, I took a seat near Billy and Evan.
“What the hellâ¦it's only money,” Evan said. “We only go around once.”
I started to nod in agreement when Billy drove the message home. “You got that right! We gotta drive this thing until the wheels come off and we head into victory lane out of gas, all banged upâ¦the doors torn right off it.”
I finished the nod and laughed to myself. Though I missed Bella and the kids, I realized my wife was right â as usual.
I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
The afternoon was spent on learning how to properly corner, braking to slow and braking to stop. When we wrapped up for the day, Jeff said, “Life is not a spectator sport, people. Starting tomorrow we're going to prove why.”
Everyone stood and stretched. Billy approached me. “Me and some of the guys are heading out on the town tonight. You're welcome to come with us, if you want?”
I looked up to find Maia and a few of the boys waiting for my answer. “I appreciate it, but I'm really beat. I think I'm just going to head back to the motel and get caught up on my beauty sleep.”
“So you'll be sliding into a coma then?”
I laughed.
He patted my back. “See you in the morning, Teacher.”
I bought a tuna fish sandwich from a convenience store near the motel, ate one bite and threw it up. For the next half hour, I sat on the toilet and tried to push out the pain in my guts. But nothing would come out â not even the usual pencil stools.
Great
, I thought,
constipation should be a real hoot.
I then called Bella. We talked for most of the night like teenagers. The fact that all I'd done was sit in a classroom all day took nothing away from the excitement for either of us. Bella wanted every detail and I offered each one twice.
“The kids okay?” I asked. “Riley?”
“Everyone's fine,” she said. “Stop worrying.”
I chuckled. “That's somethingâ¦
you
telling
me
to stop worrying.”
“I know.” She laughed. “I guess I'm trying to remind myself, too?”
“I love you, Bell,” I whispered.
“I know. I can feel it.”
As expected, Maia and most of the guys looked like they'd prayed for death the next morning. They were hung-over, the whole lot of them.
The morning briefing covered safety issues. Once completed, we left the classroom for the garage area where Jeff and his partners explained the controls, gauges and features of the Winston Cup style racecars. Each car was exactly how I'd imagined it â beautiful. They were designed to accommodate different student heights and weights, so we had to try out a few until seating became comfortable.
Once fitted properly, we took a track orientation ride in a long, white van. As we puttered around the track, Jeff explained the meaning of the orange cones as specific slowing areas. He went over establishing the correct racing line, as well as other reference points “to assist you in maximizing your track time.” He then covered the rpm limits that would be used throughout the course. This took some time. Three of the four turns had different degrees of banking, while the front straightaway seemed to go on forever. We returned to the garage for another lunch on wheels.
As we ate, Evan turned to me. “Why are you here?” he asked. “I mean, aren't you a few years late to be trying out for the circuit?”
“It's never too late to try anything,” I told him, “and if you ever get too old to think this way, then you're only waiting to die.”
Billy listened attentively and grinned. “I guess it's not really about where we came from, but where we're heading that counts, right?”
As I nodded, the hair on my neck prickled up. I was going to respond when Jeff came back into the garage and announced, “It's time to draw your racing suits and helmets. Please make sure you find your right size.”
In the early summer sun, the driving suit was warmer than I'd imagined. We stood around one of the racecars for a final explanation of the switches and fire suppression system. “Okay, people,” Jeff concluded, “let's go have some fun!”
With all the classroom instruction behind us, we were finally ready to take our seats behind the wheel. My stomach turned once, but it had nothing to do with cancer or the medicine that sometimes numbed its pain. This was from nerves and it was astounding. The cars had already been warmed up by the mechanics and were ready to go. The exhaust fumes gave off the sweetest smell.
I jumped into my assigned car and headed out behind Jeff's lead car into the bright afternoon sun. My heart pounded hard in my ears. I'd never felt so alive.
The first session started out slow. We went around the gigantic track at no more than 140 mph which didn't feel all that fast in a professional racecar. By the time the second lap session was done, we'd already reached our top speed for the day. As we pulled into the pit, I realized that the practice was done.
Tomorrow's the big day.
Before dismissing us for the night, Jeff explained, “Although everybody races under the same sun, not everybody enjoys the same horizon. If you're willing to learn, grow and overcome any obstacle in your path, the sky is the limit. It's just a matter of pulling it down and driving it home.”
Everyone applauded and headed for the parking lot.
Maia and the boys went out to drink whatever they couldn't finish the night before. Once again, I decided to stay in. Between the exhaustion and crippling constipation caused by the medication, I wouldn't have lasted another hour on my feet. Bella and I talked for hours. “Sweet dreams,” she finally said.
“I'm living one of them, babe,” I told her and could feel the warmth of her smile.
After we hung up, I laid in bed for the next hour, thinking about what I'd already experienced since receiving the devastating news â an unforgettable trip to Martha's Vineyard, our engagement and wedding; making dinner for Bella and peace with Vietnam â and not even the worst physical torment could have wiped the smile from my face.
I can't wait to experience whatever lies ahead
, I thought, and dozed off excited about the immediate future.
Morning arrived in a wink.
Anxious for the roar of racing motors and the smell of burning rubber, I donned my helmet and fired up the late-model Chevy Monte Carlo. In a line of other drivers, I sat in the belly of the fiberglass beast and adjusted my safety harness. On cue, I rolled out of the pit, allowing every horse under the hood to gallop into the concrete arena. A last minute check of the gauges made me smile. The hour of unbridled competition was at hand. Then, for whatever reason, Seth Cabral's face popped into my head; my old Vietnam comrade who did nothing but talk about fast cars. For a moment, I wished he'd been able to experience this day for himself.
The first lap was driven at 5000 rpm, allowing me and the car to get acquainted with the track. It was also an opportunity for the slick racing tires to heat up to their proper operating temperature. Our second lap was quicker at 6000 rpm. Our third lap was even faster at 7000 rpm, firing down the long front straightaway at 155 mph. Slowing to negotiate Turns 1 and 2, I juiced the throttle down the back straight. Turn 3 required an earlier lift off the throttle and a little patience, and then we were roaring down the front straight again. The car handled flawlessly.
After two separate sessions of ten laps each, we were instructed into the pit to receive our critiques and an early lunch. “Just get on the throttle earlier coming out of the turns,” Jeff told me. “Trust the car and let it run for you. I promise, she won't let you down.”
The afternoon format changed to two cars lining up side-by-side. The instructions were as follows: “If you're going too slow for the person in front of you, you'll be shown a blue flag with an orange stripe. This means you should move to the bottom of the track to allow the driver behind you to pass.” He scanned our faces one last time. “Now let's go racing.”
While imagining the roar of the crowd and the other engines waiting to jump, I stayed focused. From behind tinted glass, the last minute felt like an eternity. I calmly waited. At last, the green flag dropped. With lightning reflexes, my callused hands shifted through the gears. A lifetime full of anticipation was disappearing at every turn.
Within two laps, I passed the student in front of me. The speedometer wasn't working, but I could tell how fast I was going by the tachometer. A few laps later, Billy Hutchins, Evan Jacobs, Maia Julius and I were drafting past another group of four cars. I didn't know whether to soil my pants or scream out in joy. Thanks to the constipation, I let out a howl.
Toward our final track sessions, even though it felt like we were slowing down, our lap times started to decrease. Since we'd already conquered top speed on the straight-aways, we must have begun picking up time in the turns. The training was already paying off. I could hear Jeff say, “The faster you get through the turns, the less you have to accelerate coming out of the turns.”
By the end of the day, the car and I came to a mutual trust. I got her up to 8500 rpm. Due to the restrictor plate, we weren't going to go any faster than that. We'd topped out at 170 mph. Jeff was right. She never let me down.
No matter how hard I tried, though, I couldn't catch the others in my pack and accepted my place in the rear.
There's no substitute for youthâ¦or practice
, I thought. Even still, I imagined taking the checkered flag and slowing for the victory lap. I could picture the cheering crowd, smell the oil and burned rubber drifting north. It was an unspoiled moment of glory and I savored it; the thrill of a lifetime.
Yesâ¦yesâ¦yesâ¦
I repeated over and over in my head.
Before I knew it, we were being ordered back into the pit. Exhausted and covered in sweat, I met Billy, Evan and Maia for a round of high fives. “Well done, Teacher,” Billy said and then searched my face for a moment. “If I'm out of place, please tell me, but I have to know,” he began, pulling me aside. “What in hell are you really doing here?”
I understood his curiosity. “I'm dying of cancer,” I told him and explained my honey do list.
His forehead folded in wonder. “Then you're crazyâ¦'cause this is the last place I'd be, if I only had a year left to live.”
“Oh, really. Then where would you be?”
“I'd be out asking for forgiveness from some people and offering it to others.” He shrugged. “It's all about karma, if you ask me. And you don't want to carry any extra baggage into the next world, if you don't have to. My daddy used to say, âAlways give someone the benefit of the doubt and never allow a suffering from the past destroy what could be.' I don't think he was only talking about this world.”
“Your father was a wise man,” I said.
He laughed. “Yeah, when he was sober enough to remember his own name.”
I was astounded by the wisdom Billy showed for such a young age. I shook his hand for the last time. “Good luck on the upcoming racing season,” I told him.
With a sincere smile, he nodded. “Thanks, Teacher, but I make my own luck.” As he gathered his things to leave, he said, “You make sure you take care of yourself, okay?”
I promised I would and headed for the rental car. I couldn't wait to get home, kiss my wife and cross the first item off my list. Then I planned to sleep for a week.
It's gonna take at least that long to recover
, I figured.
To Pudge's hanging jaw and Madison's loving eyes, I shared my tales of North Carolina and the pride of a dream finally realized. They listened in awe.
The words of Billy Hutchins, however, were already haunting me, and it wasn't long before the shoe box from the hallway closet called out to me again. I grabbed the letter I'd received from Dewey years earlier and brought it out to the deck.
Dewey and I had grown up together and were best friends since childhood. When I got his letter, it had been seven years since we'd talked. I remember thinking it was odd that he'd send a letter and not just call.
I'm sure this letter may come as a bit of a shock to you. I realize it's been so long that even the craftiest excuse won't do. So I'll save it, grateful that there's never been a need for excuses or apologies between us. Consider yourself my New Year's resolution and trust that I forgive you for not writingâ¦
Kidding aside, I hope that you, Bella and Riley had your typical Christmas. Trust me, it's not the same outside of New England. The shallow pond I now call home wouldn't know the difference between mistletoe and marijuana. It has its good points, I suppose. Even though Los Angeles is the land of the fake and superficial, all in all, it was a fine holiday; everything we ever dreamed for as kids â top-shelf liquor, good food, stimulating conversation and enough beautiful women to make even Santa forget his hectic schedule.
In any event, if I ever learned anything from you, Don, it's that truth has many perspectives. So, I'm looking for a different perspective from one of the few people in the world who truly knows me. The crystal on my moral compass is fogged from anger and bitterness, and I have some very important decisions to make that will affect many lives. But I don't have the slightest idea what to do. There are two options, and no matter how frantically I search for a third, I don't see it.
Two years ago, I met an attractive woman through some mutual friends. Her name was Maria and she was gorgeous. She was also enslaved by her career, but spent most of her off-hours avoiding a violent ex-husband. All this baggage aside, we hit it off right away and began dating exclusively.
Three weeks in, Maria called me and told me she was “late.” I gave the only response I could. “Don't worry about it. I'll push the dinner reservations up to eight o'clock. Not a problem.” She began crying and within seconds, I felt sick. We weren't going to dinner at all. We were going to have a baby. God, I thought, I'm going to have a baby with a woman I hardly know. I was terrified!
Maria and I talked for weeks, but there was really nothing to talk about. Accident or no accident, the baby was on its way. I broke up my home and moved in with her.
To make a very long story short, it didn't take long for me to realize that Maria was psychotic and we could barely stand to be around each other. I slept on the couch and spent all of the time I could away from the house.
Then I fell in love! Cameron Alexander was born at an even eight pounds, with light hair and blue eyes. For three days, it was a happy time. But Maria decided to breastfeed, so the doctors wouldn't prescribe meds for her mental turmoil.
Still, I chose to stay and take responsibility for my actions. I needed to insure there would be no regrets later on. Don, I tried harder with this woman than anyone else I've ever been with. It was a futile attempt. She's a bona fide fruitcake!
After lots of accusations, several domestic disputes and one conversation with the police, I moved out. I set up temporary camp at a friend's home, sent weekly support checks and even visited with Cameron for three consecutive weeks. The first road sign to hell popped up when I dropped Cameron off and Maria questioned, “Where did the bruises on his legs come from?” I felt sick. The real cruelty had begun.
Since last seeing Cameron, my attorney has advised me to lay low and let Maria's rage enter into a calmer state. Though it pains me not to see my boy, there doesn't seem to be a choice. I understand this is a long-term issue, so maybe it's the best strategy. I'm not so sure. When did the world actually decide that fathers are of less value than mothers?
So my dilemma is this: I haven't seen Cameron in eight months. So do I step into a ring, knowing I can never win, for the sake of saying that I tried? Understanding that there's no chance for an amicable resolution, do I pull on a baby until he snaps in half? Knowing I'm at the mercy of a woman who will go to any means to keep me from him, can I live with the fact that I may never be allowed Cameron's friendship â never mind maintaining the hope of being his father?
Well, buddy, although I thank God for flight delays, my plane was just called to board so I've got to cut you off here. I'm sure you'll be relieved. It was good spending time with you in Atlanta. It really has been too long. I look forward to hearing from you.
Take care,
Dewey
P.S. One last question: I'll love Cameron every day of my life, but does it really count if he never knows it?
There was no phone number, so I sent an honest reply to the return address. Basically, I told him:
As I recall, I closed with, “Let's not wait so long before we hear from each other again.” But I never heard from the jackass again. I saw his dad a year or so later and learned that Dewey “did not appreciate the advice.” I remember thinking,
Too damn bad
. From then on, our friendship had become estranged.
I sat on the deck for a long while with the letter in my lap, thinking about Dewey. I also thought about how I didn't make peace with my father before he passed and how it had haunted me ever since.
It was Dewey's fault we parted ways
, I told myself. But when you got right down to it, it didn't matter who owned the blame. No matter how difficult it was going to be to face him, I decided not to give Dewey the same guilty gift my father had given me. It was time to make peace.
Forgiveness has to be more important than pride
, I thought, and told Bella so.
“That's a great idea,” she said, “I bet it'll be like you two never parted ways.”
“I doubt that,” I said.
“Wanna bet?”
“A dozen clam cakes at Flo's,” I said and we shook on it.
After keeping my uneventful appointment with Dr. Rice, one phone call to Dewey's cousin confirmed that he now lived just outside of Chicago. I jumped back on the Internet to earn us a few more frequent flyer miles.
I took one look at the puzzle on the dining room table and snickered.
Looks like you're going to have to wait
. I grabbed Bella's hand, and we were off and running again.
When we got to Dewey's front door, I was surprised to find the lack of grandeur I'd imagined. My childhood friend hadn't made the money I'd expected him to. I was also surprised to feel as nervous as I was. I suppose I could have blamed the queasiness on the cancer that grew inside me, but I knew better. Wobbly knees weren't a symptom of my illness. I rang the doorbell, looked at my wife and took a deep breath. We waited.
The door slowly opened and the old friend I'd expected to be standing there was nowhere in sight. Instead, an old decrepit fellow appeared in the threshold, hunched over and in obvious pain. I searched his face and gasped.
It's Dewey.
He was still heavy, but this time it wasn't from food. He was swollen; sick and swollen â especially his bottom lip.
Oh, God,
I thought and felt a sudden pang of guilt for missing out on his obvious struggles.
“Yes?” he asked. “What can I⦔ He paused and studied my face. “Don?” he asked, and his eyes immediately showed signs of disgust.
I was taken aback and skipped a breath or two. As I stood there, frozen, Bella stepped forward and extended her hand. “Hi, Dewey. It's Bella.” She glanced over at me. “Don and I traveled a long way to come see you.”
He nodded at her, but turned his gaze back to me. His face remained stoic, though I knew he was anything but happy with our unannounced visit. After an awkward moment standing in his threshold, he took a step back and turned sideways. “Alright, come in,” he said.
I'd be lying to say it was easy to step into that house.
This was a big mistake
, I thought, and brushed past him as he closed the door behind us. This wasn't going to be easy and I could feel it. Any wrongs that occurred between us were not yet forgiven â or forgotten.
Taking the lead, Dewey escorted us into his humble living room. There, seated on the sofa, was a young man who Dewey reluctantly introduced. “This is Cameron, my son,” he said.
I nodded, thinking,
Dewey did the right thing, after all
. “Nice to meet you,” Bella and I said in unison. We shook hands with the young man, as we joined him on the couch.
There was an awkward pause, when Dewey told his son, “This is Don DiMarco and his wife, Bella.” He shrugged, adding, “We were friendsâ¦once.”
A sharp pain shot through my upper abdomen, but I never let on. Again, I wasn't convinced it was from the cancer. Bella grabbed my hand and squeezed it. We both knew that she'd just lost a dozen clam cakes.
Cameron politely excused himself. He obviously did not want to witness any of this. As he walked away, I envied him. Don took a seat in his worn recliner and I wondered whether the ridiculous distance between us was too great to overcome.
After an obligatory offer of food and drink â which Bella and I both declined â Dewey cut right to the chase. “Why are you here, Don?” he asked.
I didn't know what to expect by coming here, but it wasn't this. I swallowed hard. Although Bella didn't say anything, she gave my hand another squeeze â clearly trying to transfer some of her strength over to me. “To make peace,” I said. “Dewey, listen. I've come to say I'm sorry for⦔
“Peace?” he interrupted, with a snicker. “Why now?”
“Because it's been too long,” I told him, my tone growing in volume.
It was your damned fault we went our separate ways
, I yelled in my mind. As he shook his head, I still chose logic and added, “Because you and I have been friends since we were kids and life's too short to hold grudges.” My body tensed with equal amounts of anxiety and a growing anger.
He shook his head again. “There was a time when I needed you, Don, but you⦔
“But I didn't tell you what you wanted to hear,” I interrupted. “Right?” I shook my head. “You were looking for an easy out and I wouldn't give it to you, right?”
He stared at me hard, with hate in his eyes. If it had been decades earlier, we would have been throwing punches right there and then â and we both knew it.
I turned to Bella and half-shrugged. “I tried,” I said and started to get up. “Let's go home.”
Bella nodded and began to push herself up from the couch.
The look in Dewey's eyes instantly changed. “Wait a minute!” he said, his voice rising an octave. “You're right.” He stared at me again, collecting his thoughts. “If you leave now, we'll never see each other again,” he said. As Bella and I sunk back into the couch, he slowly extended his hand. “I'm sorry, too.”
I took his hand in mine and shook it hard. Every bad feeling that I'd just experienced was instantly replaced by a sense of gratitude for having finally made the trip. “Okay then,” I said.
“Okay then,” he repeated, offering his first smile.
While Bella squeezed my hand again â trying to reclaim her clam cakes â I used my other hand to point to his lip. “What the hell happened?” I asked.
He half-chuckled and rolled his eyes. “I got on the morphine and wanted to see how powerful it was, so I started chewing on my lip and couldn't feel a thing.” He shrugged. “I guess I should have stopped long before I did.”
His slurring dialect was tough to understand, but I was all ears. “Yeah, you probably should've,” I kidded him. “But why the morphine?”
“Let me get you a cold drink,” he said. “This may take a while.”
We all carry our own cross
, I thought.
Upon his return, Dewey handed us our drinks and began to explain, “A while back, life seemed too good to be trueâ¦and it was.” He shook his head. “It was July. I was in the company warehouse, horsing around with a few of the guys when I tripped over a box. As I went down, I braced my fall against a wooden shelf that held some cleaning supplies. I fell hard, but my left hand prevented me from going to the floor. If I hadn't braced myself, I would have landed head first. I kept thinking how lucky I was â idiot! Right away, my hand and wrist began to swell and it was painful.
Damn
, I thought,
I've got a sprained wrist
. I actually had to remove my watch because of the swelling.
“Two weeks to the day of the initial sprain, I awoke to find my left hand so swollen that it didn't even look human. The pain was incredible. I mean, I honestly can't even explain the pain, except to say that I felt like my skin was on fire. I couldn't bear my own wedding ring. The only way to get it off would have been to cut it, and that wasn't an option. I woke Maureen, my new wife, and showed her. She couldn't believe it. We both thought I must have broken a bone in my hand. I had never gone to the doctor for the sprain. I meanâ¦it was only a sprain. Now, I was thinking I probably should have gone because something wasn't right. The pain was mind numbing. I couldn't think of anything else. It just took over everything â my body, my mind.