Racing in the Rain Read online

  Zoë looked at me for a moment with concern in her eyes, and I wanted to help her. I walked toward the living room and looked back. She still hesitated, so I went to get her. I nudged her and tried again; this time she followed me. I sat before the television and waited for her to turn it on, which she did. And we watched Kids Next Door. And then Denny and Eve appeared.

  They saw us watching TV together, and they seemed somehow relieved. They sat next to Zoë and watched along with us, not saying a word. When the show was over, Eve pressed the mute button on the remote.

  “The cut isn’t very bad,” she said to Zoë. “If you’re still hungry, I can make you a hot dog. . . .”

  Zoë shook her head. And then Eve started sobbing.

  “I’m so sorry,” she cried. Denny put his arm around her shoulder and held her.

  “I don’t want to be like this,” she sobbed. “It’s not me. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to be mean. It’s not who I am.”

  Beware, I thought. The zebra hides everywhere.

  Zoë grabbed her mother and held tight, which unleashed a flood of tears from both of them, and they were joined by Denny, who hovered over them like a firefighting helicopter, dumping his bucket of tears on the fire.

  I left. Not because I felt they wanted their privacy, believe me. I left because I felt that they had resolved their issues and all was good in the world. And, also, I was hungry. I wandered into the dining room and scanned the floor for droppings. There wasn’t much. But in the kitchen I found something good. A nugget.

  Zoë must have dropped it after Eve cut herself. I sniffed the nugget, and I recoiled in disgust. It was bad! I sniffed again. Foul. Disease laden. This nugget—and probably all the others on the plate—had definitely turned bad.

  I felt sorry for Zoë: all she’d had to do was say that the nuggets didn’t taste right, and this incident would have been avoided.

  In racing, they say that your car goes where your eyes go. The driver who cannot tear his eyes away from the wall as he spins out of control will meet that wall; the driver who looks down the track as he feels his tires break free will regain control of his vehicle.

  Your car goes where your eyes go. Simply another way of saying that you make your own destiny.

  I know it’s true; racing doesn’t lie.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Denny went away the following week, we went to Eve’s parents’ house so they could take care of us. Eve’s hand was bandaged up, which indicated to me that the cut was worse than she had let on. But it didn’t slow her down much.

  Maxwell and Trish, the Twins, lived in a very fancy house on a large parcel of wooded land on Mercer Island. It had an amazing view of Lake Washington and Seattle. And for having such a beautiful place to live, they were among the most unhappy people I’ve ever met. Nothing was good enough for them. They were always complaining about how things could be better. When we arrived, they started in about Denny right away. He doesn’t spend enough time with Zoë. He’s neglecting Eve. His dog needs a bath. Like my cleanliness had anything to do with it.

  “What are you going to do?” Maxwell asked Eve.

  They were standing around in the kitchen while Trish cooked dinner, making something that Zoë would inevitably hate. It was a warm spring evening, so the Twins were wearing polo shirts with their slacks. Maxwell and Trish were drinking Manhattan cocktails with cherries, Eve, a glass of wine.

  “I’m going to get in shape,” Eve said. “I feel fat.”

  “I mean about Denny,” Maxwell said.

  “What do I need to do about Denny?” Eve asked.

  “Something! What is he contributing to your family?” said Trish. “You make all the money!”

  “He’s my husband and he’s Zoë’s father, and I love him,” replied Eve. “What else does he need to contribute to our family?”

  Maxwell snorted and slapped the counter. I flinched. “You’re scaring the dog,” Trish pointed out. She rarely called me by name.

  “I’m just frustrated,” Maxwell said. “I want the best for my girls. Whenever you come to stay here, it’s because he’s gone racing. It’s not good for you.”

  “This season is really important for his career,” Eve said, trying to remain steadfast. “I wish I were able to be more involved, but I’m doing the best I can, and he appreciates that. What I don’t need is you going after me for it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Maxwell said, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. I just want what’s best for you.”

  “I know, Daddy,” Eve said, and she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I want what’s best for me, too.”

  She took her wine outside into the backyard, and I lingered. Maxwell opened the refrigerator and retrieved a jar of the hot peppers he liked to eat. He opened the jar and squeezed his fingers inside, took one, and crunched into it.

  “The dog is watching you,” Trish said after a moment. “Maybe he wants a pepper.”

  Maxwell’s expression changed.

  “Want a treat, boy?” he asked, holding out a hot pepper. That wasn’t why I had been watching him. I was watching him to better understand the meaning of his words. Still, I was hungry, so I sniffed at the pepper.

  “They’re good,” he prompted. “Imported from Italy.”

  I took the pepper from him and immediately felt a prickly sensation on my tongue. I bit down, and a burning liquid filled my mouth. I quickly swallowed and thought I was done with the discomfort. I thought surely the acid in my stomach would cancel out the acid of the pepper. But that’s when the pain really began. My throat felt as if it had been scraped raw. My stomach churned. I immediately left the room and the house. Outside the back door, I lapped at my bowl of water, but it did little to help. I made my way to a nearby shrub and lay down in its shade and rested until the burning went away.

  That night Trish and Maxwell took me out, as Zoë and Eve had long been asleep. They stood at the back porch and repeated their silly saying, “Get busy, boy, get busy!” Still feeling somewhat queasy, I ventured away from the house farther than I usually did, crouched in my stance, and went. After I did my business, I saw that it was loose and watery, and when I sniffed at it, it was unusually foul-smelling. I knew I was safe and the ordeal had passed; still, since that time I have never accepted food from someone I didn’t fully trust.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The weeks tripped by with tremendous haste. There was no letup: Denny got his first victory in Laguna in early June, then third place at Road Atlanta, and he finished eighth in Denver. That week with the boys in Sonoma had worked out the kinks with the crew, and it was all on Denny’s shoulders. And his shoulders were broad.

  That summer, when we gathered around the dinner table, there was something to talk about. Trophies. Photographs. Replays on television late at night. Suddenly people were hanging around, coming over for dinner. Not just Mike from work but others, too. We were even introduced to Luca Pantoni, a very powerful man at Ferrari headquarters in Maranello. I never broke my rule about staying out of the dining room. I have too much integrity for that. But I sat upon the threshold, I assure you. My toenails edged over the line so that I could be that much closer to greatness. I learned more about racing in those few weeks than I had in all my years of watching video and television.

  Zoë chattered away constantly, always something to say, always something to show. She would sit on Denny’s knee with her big eyes, absorbing every word of the conversation. Then, at an appropriate moment she would declare some racing truth Denny had taught her—“slow hands in the fast stuff, fast hands in the slow stuff”—and all the big men would be impressed. I was proud of her in those moments; since I was unable to impress the racing men with my own knowledge, the next best thing was to experience it through Zoë.

  Eve was happy again: she took what she called “mat” classes and gained muscle tone. Her health had greatly improved with no explanation: no more headaches, no more nausea. She and Denny seemed to be happy together
like in the old days.

  Yet for every peak there is a valley. Denny’s next race was very important. A good finish would solidify his position as rookie of the year. In that race, at Phoenix International Raceway, Denny got into a crash at the first turn. This is a rule of racing: No race has ever been won in the first turn, but many have been lost there.

  He got caught in a bad spot. Someone tried to pass him going into the turn and his brakes locked up. Tires don’t work if they aren’t rolling. In full-out skid, the other car slammed into Denny’s left front wheel, destroying the car’s alignment. The front of the car was skewed so badly that his car crabbed up the track, taking seconds off his lap time.

  Alignment, brake lockup, crabbing—mere jargon. What matters is that Denny’s car was broken. He finished the race, but he finished dead last.

  “It just doesn’t seem fair,” Eve said. “It was the other driver’s fault.”

  “If it was anybody’s fault,” Denny said, “it was mine for being where I could let it happen.”

  This is something I’d heard him say before: getting angry at another driver for a driving incident is pointless. You need to watch the drivers around you, understand their skill, confidence, and aggression levels, and drive with them accordingly. Know who is driving next to you. Any problems that may occur have ultimately been caused by you, because you are responsible for where you are and what you are doing there.

  Still, fault or no, Denny was crushed. Zoë was crushed. Eve was crushed. I was, too. We had come so close to greatness. We had smelled it, and it smelled like roast pig. Everybody likes the smell of roast pig. But what is worse, smelling the roast and not feasting, or not smelling the roast at all?

  August was hot and dry, and the grass all around the neighborhood was brown and dead. Denny spent his time doing math. By his figuring, it was still possible for him to finish in the top ten in the series and likely win rookie of the year. Either result would assure him of getting another ride the following year.

  We sat on the back porch basking in the early evening sun, the smell of Denny’s freshly baked oatmeal cookies wafting from the kitchen. Zoë running in the sprinkler. Denny massaging Eve’s hand gently, giving it life. I was on the deck doing my best impression of an iguana. Soaking up all the heat I could to warm my blood, hoping that if I absorbed enough, it would carry me through the winter. And it would likely be a cold, dark, and bitter winter, as a hot Seattle summer usually signifies.

  “I miss you when you’re not here,” Eve said.

  “So come with me next week,” replied Denny. “Zoë will love it; we’ll stay where they have a pool. She loves anything with a pool. And you can come to the track for the race.”

  “I can’t go to the track,” Eve said. “Not now. I mean, I wish I could, I really do. But I’ve been feeling good lately, you know? And . . . I’m afraid. The track is so loud, and it’s hot, and it smells like rubber and gas, and the radio blasts static into my ears, and everyone’s shouting at each other so they can be heard. It might give me a— I might react badly to it.”

  Denny smiled and sighed. Even Eve cracked a smile.

  “Do you understand?” she asked.

  “I do,” Denny answered.

  I did, too. Everything about the track. The sounds, the smells. Walking through the paddock, the inner circle of the track where they work on the cars. Feeling the energy, the heat of race motors coming from each pit. The electricity that ripples up and down the paddock when the announcer calls the next race group to start up. Watching the frantic scramble of the start, and then imagining the possibilities. Denny and I fed off it; it gave us life. But I totally understood that what filled us with energy could be irritating to someone else, especially Eve.

  Denny and Eve looked out to the lawn and I looked with them and we all watched Zoë, her wet hair clinging to her shoulders in glistening locks. Her childish bikini and tanned feet. She ran circles around the sprinkler, her shrieks and squeals and laughs echoing through the Central District streets.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Your car goes where your eyes go.

  We went to Denny Creek, not because it was named after Denny—it wasn’t—but because it was such an enjoyable hike. With Zoë clumping along in her first pair of waffle stompers, me cut loose of my leash. Summer in the Cascades is always pleasant and cool under the canopy of cedars and alders. The beaten path is packed down, making long strides easy. Off the beaten path—where dogs prefer—is a soft and spongy bed of fallen needles.

  And the smell! Richness and fertility. Growth and death and food and decay. Waiting. Just waiting for someone to smell it, lingering close to the ground in layers. A good nose like mine can separate each odor to identify and enjoy each distinct scent. I rarely let myself go, practicing to be restrained like men are. But that day, I ran through those woods wildly, like a crazy dog. Diving through the bushes, over the fallen trees, giving gentle chase to chipmunks, barking at the jays. Rolling over and scratching my back on the sticks and leaves and needles and earth.

  We made our way along the path, up the hills and down, eventually arriving at the Slippery Slabs, as they are called. Where the creek runs over a series of broad, flat rocks, pooling at some points, streaming at others. Kids love the Slippery Slabs as they slide through the stream.

  And so we arrived and I drank the water, cold and fresh, the last of that year’s snowmelt. Zoë and Denny and Eve stripped down to their swimsuits and bathed gently in the waters. Zoë was old enough to slide by herself, and Denny took the lower and Eve took the upper and they slid Zoë down the stream of water, Eve giving a push and Zoë slipping down. The rocks weren’t slippery when dry, but when wet, there was a film on them that made them quite slick. Down she would go, squealing and squirming, splashing into the frigid pool at Denny’s feet; he would snatch her up and whisk her back to Eve, who would slide her down again. And again.

  People, like dogs, love repetition. Chasing a ball, going around a track in a race car, sliding down a slide. Because as much as each incident is similar, so it is different. Denny and Eve passed Zoë back and forth safely between them. Until once. Eve dipped Zoë into the stream, and Zoë suddenly pulled her toes from the icy water, upsetting Eve’s balance. Eve shifted her weight and managed to set Zoë down safely on the dry rock, but her move was too quick. Her foot touched the creek, and she didn’t realize how slippery those rocks were, slippery slabs like glass.

  Her legs went out from underneath her. She reached out, but her hand grasped only the air; her fist closed, empty. Her head hit the rock with a loud crack and bounced. It hit and bounced and hit again, like a rubber ball. We stood, it seemed like for a long time, waiting to see what was going to happen. Eve lay unmoving, and there was Zoë, again the cause, not knowing what to do. She looked at her father, who quickly bounded up to them both.

  “Are you okay?”

  Eve blinked hard, painfully. There was blood in her mouth. “I bit my tongue,” she said woozily.

  “How’s your head?” Denny asked.

  “—Hurts.”

  “Can you make it back to the car?” With me in the lead herding Zoë, Denny steered Eve. She wasn’t staggering, but she was lost, and who knows where she would have ended up if someone hadn’t been with her. It was early evening when we got to the hospital in Bellevue.

  “You probably have a minor concussion,” Denny said. “But they should check it out.”

  “I’m okay,” Eve repeated over and over. But clearly she wasn’t okay. She was dazed and slurring her words and she kept nodding off. Denny would wake her up, saying something about not falling asleep when you have a concussion. They all went inside and left me in the car with the windows open a crack. I settled into the pocketlike passenger seat of Denny’s car and forced myself to sleep.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In Mongolia, when a dog dies, he is buried high in the hills so people cannot walk on his grave. The dog’s master whispers into the dog’s ear his wishes that the dog
will return as a man in his next life. Then a piece of meat or fat is placed in his mouth to sustain his soul on its journey. Before he comes back to life as a man, the dog’s soul is freed to travel the land, to run across the high desert plains for as long as it would like.

  I learned that from a program on the National Geographic Channel, so I believe it is true. Not all dogs return as men, they say; only those who are ready.

  I am ready.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was hours before Denny returned, and he returned alone. He let me out, and I could barely scramble from the seat before unleashing a torrent of urine on the lamppost in front of me.

  “Sorry, boy,” he said. “I didn’t forget about you.”

  When I had finished, he opened a package of peanut butter sandwich crackers he must have gotten from a vending machine. I love those crackers the best. It’s the salt and the butter in the crackers mixed with the fat in the peanuts. I tried to eat slowly, savoring each bite, but I was too hungry and swallowed them so quickly I barely got to taste them. What a shame to waste something so wonderful on a dog. Sometimes I hate what I am so much.

  We sat by the parking lot for quite a long time, not speaking or anything. He seemed upset, and when he was upset, I knew the best thing I could do was be available for him. So I lay next to him and waited. Denny and I sat at length and watched the people coming and going from the parking lot. We did nothing more than breathe. We did not need conversation to communicate with each other. After a while, a car pulled into the parking lot and parked near us. It was a beautiful Alfa Romeo in mint condition. Mike got out slowly and walked toward us.

  I greeted him, and he gave me a perfunctory pat on the head. He continued over to Denny and sat down in my spot on the bench. “I appreciate this, Mike,” Denny said.