Chapter 25

 

Karting had thrilled him, testing cars gave him experience with the powerful V-8 engines, but in the middle of the hunt, jostling for position in the season-opening race the next February, Harry transformed. The stock car’s raw power resonated in his core. He embraced it as a rite of passage and knew himself to be a man, virile, stronger than his nineteen years and empty heart.

Within a handful of races he solidified his place on the team and justified his sponsor’s faith in him. Roaring over the tarmac fighting the other cars consumed him. He practically lived at the track between races, pushing his skill to new levels.

The gruelling pace kept his mind off the hollow place Tracey left inside him. Questions threaded through his nights. Had he done the right thing? What if he took her back? But he couldn’t, he’d barely contained his rage long enough to send her away. She’d get over him. Harry would find his own healing in speed.

After two stunning seasons with Team Delaney, he accepted an invitation to move from stock cars to the open-wheeled IndyCar circuit. Aaron Delaney grieved the loss of his star, but agreed it was the best career move and wished him well. Harry knew his former mentor kept an eye on his progress as he rose to fame.

He started as a test driver. When one of the regulars suffered multiple fractures in a pile-up, the season was his to finish. The following year saw a contract to drive each race. His career was in motion, and he never looked back.

Harry’s age, and his sizzling debut with his new team, won him a large following among the younger fans. His manager encouraged him to play to the crowd. He flaunted a ‘drive fast, live fast’ lifestyle. Flashy, albeit lonely. After Tracey, he’d resolved women would be passing flings, nothing more. He couldn’t risk loving again—not when betrayal might follow.

He never answered interviewers’ never-ending questions about past tragedy in his life. The public happily invented deep wounds to fill the gaps, and loved him more for his brave face. His long bangs and haunted looks left his female admirers dreaming of being the one to banish the shadows from his eyes.

Harry was surprised at how much it meant to him when Matt agreed to move to his pit crew as head mechanic. The offer had been a formality—he knew his father was happy at Team Delaney. Harry read the change as an expression of the love Matt was never able to verbalize.

Matt took a fierce pride in the car’s performance, and it transferred to the whole crew. The car was a red and white torch, crafted by the mechanics, passed to Harry to deliver to the checkered flag.

Harry tore in for a pit stop one hot day in Cleveland and was instantly aware of Matt’s absence from his usual position on the pit wall. The helmeted crew slid a new set of tires onto the car, filled the tank, and Harry took off.

He felt a vague sense of unease without his father’s customary double thumbs-up sign to send him out. Matt must be checking the telemetry readout—the car hadn’t been handling well for the last ten laps. Somewhere in the endless stream of electronically-transmitted data would be a clue to the problem.

Wrestling with his vehicle, Harry re-took second place. All other thoughts submerged by the demands of racing. By the second-to-last lap he was in the lead car’s slipstream, alert for the slightest opening. On the next corner the driver in front braked a fraction too late and ran wide.

Harry launched his car into the opening even as the other driver tried to shut him out. Knuckles tight around the steering wheel, foot to the floor, Harry held his position on the racing line. If the two cars tangled, they’d both be out.

His side mirror showed his rival slot in behind, almost close enough to be in his blind spot. One mistake and their positions would swap again.

“Sorry, pal, not today. This one’s mine.” Harry kept the other car behind him through the final corner while executing an almost textbook braking sequence, then squeezed more power from his complaining motor for the run to the finish.

The checkered flags waved Harry home for his first victory with the new team. He’d won for Team Delaney, but triumph never grew stale. Each win consummated his passion for the sport, validated his skill, his inner strength.

He strode to the winner’s circle, waving at the cheering fans, cheeks aching from the width of his grin. Manny Clark, the team owner, escorted him. At the base of the podium, Clark grabbed his arm. “You did great, kid.” He pulled Harry closer. “Keep the interview short.”

Harry nodded and tossed his sweat-drenched hair out of his eyes with a practiced flick of his wrist. “Sure, boss.”

Manny was probably afraid winning would make him shoot off his mouth. Shoulders stiff, Harry mounted the steps with the second and third-place drivers. His rookie season with the team, and he was young compared to the veteran drivers, but he was born to race. There was more to him than the twenty-two-year-old that Clark saw.

He’d finished third a few times already, and taken second once, but there was an extra thrill about mounting the top step of the podium. Harry stood tall, head thrown back and arms raised, absorbing the roar of the crowd.

He’d shown them he had what it took to make it in this league. This was validation, but not victory—he’d tasted that at the checkered flag. Already, his body was starting to relax as the rush of adrenaline ebbed.

Still, he didn’t have to force the smile that split his face as he went through the post-race ceremony and interviews. The fans deserved it, and without them, the sport he loved would die.

A grim-faced Clark intercepted him after the press conference. Harry felt his own jaw tighten. What was the man’s problem? Harry had followed instructions, kept his answers brief.

He held his peace until they were alone. Manny was a decent boss over all, and rumours of friction in the team wouldn’t help anyone.

As soon as the team motor home’s door closed behind them, Harry let loose. “What’s eating you?” His eyes drilled into Clark’s, then faltered at what he read there.

The older man laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “There’s no easy way to say this, son. Your father had a heart attack during the race. He never made it to the hospital.”

Harry reeled away. Punched his fist through the closet wall beside him. He pulled his arm free, dimly aware of the splintered panelling tearing his flesh.

Grief crouched in his mouth, blocking the words his brain couldn’t form. He choked it down and rounded on Clark. “You let me keep going? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You had a chance to win. He said to let you go. Those were his last words, Harry.”

Harry’s knees buckled and he collapsed into the nearest seat, face in his hands.

“The track chaplain says he’ll come if you want him.”

Harry jerked his head up. His face twisted into a snarl. “Keep him away from me.”

The older man stepped back, palms outstretched. “Whatever you want. I just thought—what have you got against him, anyway?”

“It’s not him, it’s who he belongs to.”

Clark shook his head. “I’ll be outside if you need me. Gotta check on the rest of the team. We’re all pretty shaken up.”

He paused in the doorway. “He was a good man, Harry. You meant the world to him.”

Cold black emptiness condensed in Harry’s heart and trickled away, leaving him hollow as blown glass. He was alone.

He stayed in his seat a long while, twisting his fingers into his hair as if the screams from his nerve endings could dull the pain inside.

A few hours later, showered and changed, Harry had as much of a grip on himself as could be expected. He phoned directory assistance for his sister’s number, then resolutely punched it in. Harry knew she wouldn’t come, but he had to give her the news. And to ask.

She must have caught the unshed tears in his voice as he forced the words out, but her voice stayed cool. “I can’t.” She might have been rejecting a telemarketer.

“What’s the problem this time?” He knew his tone was acid.

She’d never forgiven their father’s abuse, and Matt disowned her when she chose teen pregnancy to force his consent to marry a loser musician five years her senior. Harry had tried to keep in touch, to bridge the rift, but she’d never softened. Nor had Matt.

Still, not even to come for her father’s funeral? “I’ll pay your ticket.” Was he actually begging?

“No, thanks.”

“He was your father, for crying out loud. Sure, he had his faults, but don’t you care at all?” His free hand hurt, and he loosened his fist.

No more punching walls. It was lucky he hit flimsy panelling last time. If he’d connected with something solid... A broken finger he could race with, but not a broken wrist. And he had to race. It was all he had left.

On the other end of the phone, Carol’s sigh was almost a growl. “What do you want me to do? The kids were sick all last week. If I miss any more time from work, I’ll get fired.”

Harry winced at the raw desperation in her voice. “Carol? Are things all right there?”

“They’re as good as they get,” she snapped. “Not everyone’s dreams have a happy ending. Listen, I am sorry about Dad, but I can’t come. What good would it do, anyway? It’s too late to fix things between us.”

Harry hung up, still alone. All he had left was speed, and he vowed to be back in the car the next day for testing, despite Manny Clark’s offer of bereavement leave.

He kept to himself in the weeks that followed. His fans showered him with sympathy every chance they got, and the media wanted a window on his grief. He pulled the shades down firmly over his loss—and his anger.

Matt was gone. It would have been easy to turn to Aaron Delaney as a surrogate father. The older man came to Matt’s funeral. Harry drew on all the strength and comfort his former mentor gave, but only for that day.

He was glad their respective careers were busy enough to keep them apart. Delaney genuinely cared for him, but he couldn’t have many years left. What was the good of caring, when every person Harry cared about was taken from him?

The shadows in his life grew longer, and he ran faster to stay in the sun. He lived to race, and grabbed any pleasure offered along the way. His career was his anchor. He had nothing else he could trust.

~~~

Harry’s memories shifted without warning or reason, and the indefinable prison smell rose again in his nostrils. He sat in a solitary cell, waiting out the days until the trial that would bare the full extent of his depravity to the public.

This was another type of grief, deeper than feelings, mourning the career that should have saved him, shattered and dead by his own hand. He supposed he should feel something. Fear, shame, remorse for his crimes, but he’d been there, done that and it hadn’t helped.

He was numb, his emotions spent. He’d sold himself to desire, and now he had to pay. Hours blurred into weeks and the weight of his remaining years, cut off from his reason to live, left him barely able to function.

The heavy door creaked open. “You have a visitor.”

Harry stayed as he was, chin cupped in his hands, staring at the scuffed concrete floor between his feet.

“Please follow me.”

Without lifting his eyes, Harry muttered, “There’s nobody I want to see. Tell them to get lost.”

The guard didn’t retreat. “He’s come a long way. Says he’s a friend of yours.”

A friend? Who would make that claim now? Dully curious, Harry followed the guard along a windowless corridor and into a cramped visitation room.

Sitting in a cold metal chair at a grey metal table, he waited. The wall clock ticked off five minutes before the door opened for an elderly man in a wheelchair. Harry frowned. He’d never seen this man before.

The attendant positioned his charge with care and withdrew from the room. The guard remained.

The man in the wheelchair was shrunken and frail, his laboured breathing unnaturally loud in the silence. He made no effort to speak, but Harry sensed an alert mind behind the piercing gaze.

Harry refused to flinch under the assessment. Who was this old coot? If he’s some wacko preacher, there’ll be one more death to charge me with, guard or no guard.

“Harry, my boy, are these accusations true?” The voice was a croak now, but the intonations hadn’t changed.

Aaron Delaney. It was only a few years since their last meeting, but the man looked at least ten years older.

Harry felt a twinge of concern at the change in his former mentor, but his strongest sensation was a terrible, sinking dread in the pit of his stomach. Why had the old man come? Couldn’t he have left him alone with his guilt?

Delaney cleared his throat. “I asked you a question.”

Harry had trouble finding his voice. This one simple question from his old sponsor humiliated him more than the whole court proceedings to date. At last, he mumbled, “Yes, sir, it’s true.”

“Speak up, boy. I’m not hearing that well.”

Hot with shame and angry because of it, Harry shot back, “Of course it’s true, you old fool. Do you think I’d let them do this to me if I could fight it? You must have heard their evidence on the news. What did you think I’d say?”

He hated to hurt the old man, but it was too late now. Eight lives too late.

Delaney’s eyes bored into his. Harry faltered, then looked down.

“Of course I heard the news coverage. I was in hospital and forbidden to travel. I dare say my doctor will have my hide for being here today.” Delaney paused, gasping for breath. “I say this out of respect for your father, and for the person you used to be: If I can help you in any way—pay for counselling or anything—contact my lawyer. From here on, I want nothing more to do with you.”

He turned to the guard at the door. “I’m finished. Please call my attendant.”

With a stiff movement, he withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket and placed it on the table. “My lawyer’s card.”

The attendant backed him away from the table. Delaney glanced at Harry. “For a kid who lived to race, this was a pretty drastic way to commit suicide. I expected better of you, my boy.” He raised a shaky hand to brush at his eyes. “The curse of being old—you get sentimental. Goodbye, Harry.”

The door swung shut behind him. Harry remained seated, under the impassive gaze of the guard. At last, he stood and took the white card from the table.

Help? He was beyond help.

He crumpled Delaney’s card and tossed it into the dented metal trashcan to join his dreams.