WYATT
Within moments, the sounds of the murmuring voices go from a low volume radio channel to that of dead air. All those within the building hush, as if muted, seeing us at the vehicles. As I turn towards my cohorts, seeing the same look and silent demeanor, all the varied cars roar to life. The whines of turbos, superchargers, and the pulse pounding drone of the exhausts dumping from the row of awaiting metal create an amazing symphony.
The Pacemaster steps to the side of the chariots. One by one, each shifts forward. Some slowly creep, while others bump to life across the sticky tar as they are given a quick shove forward by helpful hands.
Slowly and methodically, pacing each other like pallbearers, we dance around the hallowed halls.
Rounding turn three, fitting into the straightaway like brightly colored crayons in a box—flashy and varied in color, advancing upon the final turn—we come upon the end of the promenade. Coming up on that fateful spot on the track, I can see the makeshift memorial that had been erected on the seating. Balloons, flowers, bottles of beer, and little toy cars litter the spot in the stands where no one dares venture. He was truly loved by the fans, and this was fitting. To end it this way was proper, no matter who disagreed. I’m not ready to stop. Knowing that once I step out of the car, it’s done. It’s final.
As each engine shuts down, the odd noise here and there can be heard within the stadium, but it’s serene and solemn overall. To say a pin drop could be heard is not far from the truth.
Taking a moment to compose myself after Carlos parks the pace car, I knew after I exited the car it was definitive. My dad was not coming back from this turn; this wreck was his last.
Standing in the blistering sun, watching as the carriage approaches, I feel the need to touch it, to give him a final farewell that is mine and mine alone. My moment of reflection, I guess, but necessary. As his white crown-emblazoned carriage pulls up, I give myself closure, just like everyone in attendance, because this is their time too.
Touching the heated wood, placing my hand directly over the family crest, I choke back the tears threatening to spill. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more for you.”
Stepping back from the carriage, the driver slowly pulls away to the specified position on the track, lining up for the best view for the presentation.
Walking over to rejoin my family, we’re silent and contained, just as Mother had asked. It’s not for her that we do it. We do this for him; for us.
Mother had requested a Catholic priest to officiate the interment. Standing in all his finery—a white frock, with black sashes that accentuate his diminutive stature. Father Michael O’Leary’s fat, stout, balding, sweaty form reeks of the sacraments that I’m sure he’s partaken.
Reciting the blessing and prepared scriptures in a monotone voice, he moves through the motions without emotion. It takes a good twenty minutes before I realize I’ve zoned out to his incessant droning. The man sounds like a pre-recorded book on tape with no inflections, no carefully drawn-out pauses for effect; just a speech about someone he never knew. My thoughts aren’t here. They’re off to the next moment when I can leave. This show is pulling every thread of sanity I have left as thousands of eyes are upon me.
Looking at the small box in my mother’s arms, I’m unsure of how something so small can hold the contents of someone who was so enormous. Dad was by no means a small man—six foot plus and over two hundred pounds of solid muscle—but it was his aura and larger than life personality. How does all that crumble down to a mere bag of soot?
Watching the soaked priest approach, he opens the onyx box and peels the small bag out before moving to settle my father in his last pole position. Two bricks in the track have been lifted for this purpose, and yes, it’s right he’s here, but I feel deep in my soul that there’s something more needed. That he deserved more from us.
“Wait,” I say. Halting with a look of incredulous wonder, I move to take the bag from the paunch clergyman before the error is made. "It should be us, not you, to do this."
Stepping forward questioningly, Mother ponders my motives. “Wyatt?”
“It should be us. Someone who knew him and understood the love for the track, not a priest who's only job is to be paid.” Even though she’s warring with it, being in public, I know she won’t disagree.
With a nod from her, the priest reluctantly gives up the satchel as instructed. Taking it in hand, it feels heavy. Not weighty, but more as in a deep responsibility. Looking to China and Jamieson, pleading with my eyes, I want them with me, taking this burden together. Wordlessly, and without a thought, China moves from beside Mother, as Jamieson steps forward to stand with me. We’re flanking each other in a move that could probably be the last time. With Whiskey’s hand on my shoulder, Doll’s tears finally fall down her perfect face. Taking a deep breath, we bend down to place Dad to rest in the hollow space, dusty from years of rubber tires skimming across the bricks. The soot of engine grease and the charred remains of other cars that hadn’t quite crossed in pristine shape is perfect. He should be here for eternity.
Carefully placing the velveteen black and white bag into the notched-out area, I pick up the brick that will be tamped back into place. Kissing it lightly, lifting the brick up, Jamieson and China do the same. It’s a light touch of the lips, but each of us smile, knowing we’ve done right by him.
Replacing the brick, we rise from the ground and stand back. Between my two kindred spirits, the three of us watch as the track official taps the brick back into its place, sealing Dad in.
This was the right way. This is the way I would want to go. This is the way that it should have been all along. No fighting, no bickering, no judgements, or injunctions, just the family, the fans, and heartfelt love expressed in its truest form.
The priest finishes his diatribe as we wait stoically, then everyone piles back into cars, heading out of the arena before the masses exit the stadium. Now, our lives will go back to races, hills, parties, and ignoring each other as if we don’t exist.
Well, for some of us that will happen.
For me? Everything changes.