Miles apart, p.10
Miles Apart, page 10
“Like touch each other without wiping both of you out,” the crew chief contributed.
There was a reason Formula 1 was called open-wheel racing. The most exposed parts of Formula 1 vehicles were the four wheels, which meant coming in contact with another object, be it a barrier, a wall or another moving vehicle, just about guaranteed serious problems, loss of control and incapacitating damage.
Grand Prix driving etiquette, therefore, centered on establishing and maintaining distance from other vehicles, not proximity, and because Grand Prix tracks were road courses with plenty of twists and turns, drivers had few opportunities to safely pass each other.
The things that were paramount in open-wheel racing, consequently, were winning the pole and working out a strategy for pit stops. It wasn’t unusual for the order of cars crossing the finish line to be very close to their starting positions, all of which was much different from NASCAR racing where cars moved in tight packs, touching each other didn’t necessarily bode disaster and one’s position in the pack could and often did change dramatically a dozen or more times in the course of an afternoon.
Mac grabbed a cold drink from the refrigerator and resumed his place on one of the vinyl benches while Steiner rewound to the part where Johnny had been nailed by Nordstrom. He and Roberts pointed out a host of things going on around Johnny at the time, many of which Johnny had ignored or been unaware of.
“How was I supposed to know that?” Johnny demanded in frustration, when Steiner commented on Nordstrom shifting lanes two rows behind him only seconds before getting into position to deliver the bump that sent Johnny careening into the wall. “He wasn’t in my field of vision.”
“You have to anticipate other drivers’ moves,” Steiner replied, “and trust your spotter to keep you informed of what’s going on around you. Brad is a good spotter. He knows who to watch, what to look for and what to pass on.”
“He told you Jem was moving up,” Mac added sharply.
Johnny shot his crew chief a startled glance.
“I checked the audio tape,” Mac explained, “to make sure my memory wasn’t playing tricks on me. He told you Nordstrom and O’Bryan were drafting in your right rear quadrant.”
Johnny’s brow furrowed. “I was focusing on Dolman. He was directly behind me. He’d been dogging me—”
“As a result of concentrating on one driver you lost track of the real challenger,” Steiner said. “Nordstrom is one of the most aggressive drivers out there. He’s good, not just because he knows how to handle the wheel, but because he thinks ahead.”
Johnny had screwed up. They all knew it, but only he knew why.
MARGARET DEBATED Jack’s invitation to follow him on the NASCAR circuit. Not that she didn’t enjoy the races—or his company, but she’d checked into the local hospice organization and been provisionally accepted as a visiting nurse. It would be only part-time during the initial period, essentially on-the-job orientation to see if she was suited to the work and really wanted to do it. As eager as she was to get started, she demurred.
Spending time with Jack was definitely appealing, but the bigger issue, the concern that convinced her to go with him, was Amber. Margaret was worried about her daughter. Something was wrong; she didn’t know what, and every attempt to elicit information from her resulted in the young woman’s denial that there even was a problem.
How times had changed. She didn’t consider herself a prude, but her upbringing had been fairly straitlaced. No underage drinking, no premarital sex and definitely no drugs. Now she was, as Amber had phrased it, shacking up, or at least considering shacking up, with Jack Dolman, while her nineteen-year-old daughter was doing the same with Jack’s estranged son.
It wasn’t that Margaret didn’t trust Johnny to treat her right. The Italian Grand Prize, as one pundit had crowned him, might have received a terrible example from his adoptive father, but Johnny wasn’t a predator. Margaret wasn’t worried about him hurting Amber or allowing anyone else to. The problem, as Margaret saw it, was that he wasn’t with her most of the time, nor was she his primary responsibility. But she was Margaret’s, and though Margaret couldn’t babysit her daughter 24/7, she could stay close at hand, keep an eye on her and be available if she was needed.
Margaret drove down to the Atlanta racetrack on Thursday before the race and located Jack’s motor home in the drivers and owners section of the infield late that afternoon. Predictably he wasn’t there. No matter. Right now she had a more important mission to perform.
After freshening up, she left the motor home, ensuring the door was securely locked behind her, and set off in search of Johnny’s place. Finding it one row over and four rows down, she knocked and waited.
She was surprised when he opened the door a minute later. She’d expected Amber.
“She went shopping with Mac’s wife,” he explained, after ushering her in and bestowing a kiss on her right cheek, then her left in European fashion. “I’m glad you’re here. We need to talk.”
“I agree.”
He invited her to sit on the couch. He took the love seat.
“You staying with Jack Dolman?” His tone was polite but clearly disapproving.
“I have a hotel suite in town,” she said. “In fact, that’s one of the reasons I’m looking for Amber, to give her a key in case she wants to come by.”
His eyes, so startlingly like Jack’s, were the identical blue color, and held the same intensity. “But you won’t be there.”
“I may or may not.” Matching his veiled hostility, she asked, “Is that your concern?”
“I don’t think it’s wise,” he stated.
“And I don’t recall asking your opinion or advice,” she retorted. “He’s a good man, Johnny. I know you don’t believe that, but if you’d give him a chance you’d find out for yourself.”
“You may think so, but can you be sure?”
His stiff-necked attitude irritated her. She was tempted to tell him he’d been duped. If he’d just open his eyes—and his heart—he’d see that. But Jack was right. His son simply wasn’t ready yet.
“I know what you’ve been told about him, Johnny,” she said after a pause, “but it’s not true.”
“I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
Frustration screamed through her. It was as though he hadn’t heard anything she’d said, and yet, despite his patronizing tone, she didn’t doubt the sincerity of his statement.
“Jack isn’t going to hurt me,” she insisted.
“I don’t think you should be staying with him.”
The irony of the conversation wasn’t lost on Margaret. Here she was being asked to justify her relationship with a man she’d known since high school to the nearly thirty-year-old international playboy who was sleeping with her teenage daughter.
Praying for patience and wisdom, she closed her eyes, but only for a moment.
“I appreciate your concern, but I know Jack Dolman a lot better than you do, and I can assure you what you’ve been told about him is incorrect and your judgment of him wholly unfair.” In the frigid silence that followed, she added, “If at any time you want to discuss what you think you know about him, I’ll be glad to oblige. Until you’re willing to listen, however, there’s not much point in my wasting my breath.”
His jaw shifted.
“Let’s talk about Amber.”
He exhaled, relieved at the change of subject. “Yes, let’s. She’s different lately.” He crossed one leg over the other and draped one arm along the back of the seat. “She’s changed since she’s come home. Why?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. You accused her of taking drugs. Is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would you tell me if you did?”
He seemed both surprised and offended by the question. “I’m sorry you have to ask that, Margaret. You and I may not see eye to eye on Jack Dolman, but don’t for a minute think I don’t care about Amber. I would never do anything to hurt her, and I certainly don’t want to see her hurt herself.”
“So you’ve seen no evidence of her using drugs?”
“Aside from the mood swings, no. No needle marks, for instance.”
“Have you been able to discern any pattern to when she has these mood swings?”
He shook his head and brought his upraised arm back to his side.
“Not really. She’s fine for a while, then she has what I call one of her crazy days. Sometimes she’s giddy and silly. Other times she’s hyper. It lasts maybe a day or so and then she’s back to being her old self.”
His experience pretty much matched Margaret’s. “Have you seen her take anything…or found anything? Pills, tablets, crystals?”
“Never,” he replied. “Well, once. She was complaining of having a headache, so I gave her a couple of aspirin. Seemed to do the trick. An hour or so later she was fine. But I gave her tablets out of my bottle.”
“Something’s going on,” Margaret muttered, downcast, staring into space. “I wish I could figure out what it is. She’s never had a problem with drugs or alcohol,” she assured him. “This doesn’t make any sense.” She got up from her seat and moped to the door. “If you think of something or find anything, will you call me?”
“Of course.” He had risen with her and trailed behind her to the door. “And if you discover anything…Margaret, I really want to help any way I can. I care for her more than you know.”
She turned and studied him a moment. “Thank you.” She put her hand on the doorknob. “Tell Amber to call me on my cell if she wants to get together for dinner or just hang out. Otherwise I’ll see her tomorrow.”
“I will.”
She opened the door and stepped outside. “Good luck qualifying tomorrow. I hope you get the pole.”
JOHNNY DIDN’T GET the pole the next day. He took fourth place and on Sunday again held his own, that is, he finished fourth. His owner and crew chief seemed happy with the result, and in Grand Prix it would have been respected, but Johnny wasn’t content. This was NASCAR, he reminded himself. The objective was to maneuver and win.
Bristol, which followed, was another matter altogether, a complete contrast to any challenge he’d come up against in Formula 1 or even NASCAR. Grand Prix courses varied in length from about two and a half to nearly six miles. Bristol was the shortest track on the NASCAR circuit: half a mile. The five-hundred-mile race encompassed a thousand laps, each lasting less than twenty seconds. It was dizzying for the driver.
Johnny started in seventh position but ended in fifteenth. With nerves tingling and head still spinning he wound his way out the window of his black-and-silver car. Laughing at his obvious light-headedness, Vaughn Steiner and Mac Roberts assured him he’d done well.
In the races that followed, Martinsville, Texas, Phoenix, Talladega, Johnny continued to make good showings, always coming in among the top ten. He didn’t win any races, but with each competition he was moving up and feeling more confident. He was also racking up significant points toward the Chase for the NASCAR NEXTEL Cup. Both the media and the racing world were beginning to take notice.
Jack Dolman was doing well, too. He won twice, at Darlington and Pocono, but he also had a few unlucky breaks. He was eliminated in Richmond because of a pileup that destroyed his car—he walked away without a scratch. His engine blew there, also. Pointwise, however, he and Johnny were a statistical tie.
“You’ve won so many races on the Formula 1 circuit in Europe and Asia. Did you expect to be doing so well at NASCAR here in the States, too?” a television sportscaster asked Johnny after he came in second in the first of three races in Charlotte.
“I’m pleased and excited by it all,” he responded. “The reception I’ve received from the NASCAR community and the fans has been unbelievable.”
“So you’re not surprised by your good showing?” the reporter persisted.
He refused to fall for the gotcha question. If he said he was surprised he came across as lacking in confidence. If he said he wasn’t, the impression drawn would be that he was arrogant and full of himself.
“Every race brings its own challenges,” he said with a good-natured chuckle. “And every result is something of a shock. It’s the unpredictability of the sport that makes it so exciting for driver and spectator alike.”
It wasn’t until the last of the three back-to-back races in Charlotte, however, that the media began to link the names of Jack Dolman and Johnny Rendisi as the primary contenders for the season’s championship.
“Johnny, you and Jack Dolman have been trading number one positions for the last five races. Even now you’re only ten points apart. Your closest competitor is fifty points behind you. Do you think you’re going to win at the end of the season?”
“Time will tell, won’t it?” He flashed his best, most confident smile, knowing the camera was focused on him. “I can tell you this. I’m going to be giving it my best shot, and I expect Dolman will, too.”
“He’s going to win. I know he is,” Amber told the reporter. She had her arm around Johnny’s waist. “He’s the best.”
THE RESPONSES the media received from Jack to similar questions were equally diplomatic, except that once he slipped and called Johnny “the kid.” The reporter reminded him Rendisi was almost thirty years old and already a world-class racing champion.
“I plead seniority,” Jack quipped, “in years and experience in NASCAR. He’s young enough to be my son.” He wondered how “the kid” would react to that when he saw it on TV.
“But there’s also no denying Johnny’s good,” Jack continued. “Not too many drivers make a successful crossover from open-wheel racing to stock cars and do well in both. Looks like Johnny’s one of that rare breed.”
No one seemed to notice that Dolman never referred to Rendisi by his last name. It was always Johnny.
“So you think he has a chance at the Cup?”
Jack laughed. “I sure hope so. Isn’t that what we’re racing for?”
“You wouldn’t be…upset, even offended by being beat by a rookie who’s never driven a stock car before this season?”
“Like I said,” Jack replied with a grin, “we’re all in this to win, and of course someone will. I just hope it’s me. I’m going to do everything in my power to come out on top, but we’ll have to wait till the very last lap of the very last race to find out.”
Interviews with owners and crew chiefs for both teams yielded similar reactions—cautious confidence that their man was going to prevail.
Amber was interviewed on her own several times and came off, in Margaret’s estimation, like something of an airhead, bubbly and excited, and not particularly smart. It broke Margaret’s heart.
MARGARET DIDN’T SAY anything to Jack or Amber about her conversation with Johnny in Atlanta. Since then Johnny had continued to be polite and well mannered. She doubted an outsider would notice any difference in their attitudes toward one another. Even Amber seemed unaware of a growing distance between them.
The situation had Margaret doing a lot of thinking—or rather rethinking.
Johnny was convinced his father was the villain in his life and seemed determined to shut out any arguments to the contrary. The diaries might change his mind, but would they? His mother had already told him Antonio’s version of events was false, and he’d refused to listen.
Margaret had to agree with Jack’s assessment that Johnny wouldn’t thank her for destroying his illusions about Lillah and Antonio. But this wasn’t about Margaret. Any hope of Johnny altering his opinion of Jack would have to arise from Johnny seeing a quality in his father that contradicted the stories he’d been told. Again she considered the diaries. They were proof, written in Lillah’s own hand over a period of more than twenty years that Jack had acted honorably. They revealed her slow awakening to her own selfishness and gullibility, her growing awareness of her second husband’s deceptiveness and dishonesty, and finally her acceptance of blame for what she’d done to both her son and his father.
But if Margaret turned the diaries over to Johnny now, she wasn’t sure he’d read them—or read them accurately. Prejudice had a way of distorting truth.
Which left her in a quandary. She wanted desperately for Jack to get his son back, and she was sure she had the means to effect that—except Jack had forbidden her to use it. Maybe forbid was too strong a word. He didn’t have the power to forbid her from doing anything, but she agreed not to show them to his son. Passing them on to Johnny now might or might not change the young man’s attitude toward his father. For sure, though, it would turn Jack against her for violating his trust in her.
She wondered what had possessed her to leave him all those years ago. No, she didn’t wonder. She knew. Jealousy. She’d been jealous of his love of racing. He’d loved cars, it seemed to her back then, more than he’d loved her. In a way it had probably been true. He’d certainly taken her more for granted than he had them. They constantly needed tuning and adjusting, continuous attention, whereas she…He assumed she’d always be there for him. Dependable. Faithful.
But a girl didn’t want to be taken for granted, like a wrench or screwdriver. She wanted to be coddled, cooed over, treasured and worried about.
So she’d tried to make him jealous.
Gary Truesdale, the transfer student, came along. He was handsome, too, talented and gregarious. Jack never dedicated a race to Margaret, but Gary dedicated songs to her. Jack never told her she inspired him to win races, but Gary said she inspired him to blow his horn better, to express his music in a way that was distinctively hers.
At least that was what he’d claimed.
She learned later he was better at playing games than she was, but by then it was too late. What she’d failed to realize back then was that Jack didn’t play games. Not that kind, at least. Not with people’s emotions.
When she told him she’d found someone else, he believed her. She’d expected him to fight for her, but the only kind of competition he understood was on four wheels.
