Racing in the Rain (5 page)

Chapter Twelve

E
ve's condition was unpredictable. One day she would suffer a crushing headache. Another day, a terrible stomachache. A third would open with dizziness and end with a dark and angry mood. And these days were never linked together in a row. Between them would be days or even weeks of life as usual. And then Denny would get a call at work, and he would run to Eve's assistance. He'd drive her home from her job and spend the rest of the day watching helplessly.

Denny felt powerless, and in that regard, I could understand his point of view. It's frustrating for me to be unable to speak. To feel that I have so much to say, so many ways I can help, but I can't.

Denny avoided the madness of his situation by driving through it. There was nothing he could do to make Eve's distress go away, and once he realized that, he made a commitment to do everything else better.

Often things happen to race cars in the heat of the race. A transmission may break, suddenly leaving the driver without all of his gears. Or perhaps a clutch fails. Brakes go soft from overheating. Suspensions break. When faced with one of these problems, the poor driver crashes. The average driver gives up. The great drivers drive through the problem. They figure out a way to continue racing. A true champion can accomplish things that a normal person would think impossible.

Denny cut back his hours at work so he could take Zoë to her preschool. In the evenings after dinner, he read to her and helped her learn her numbers and letters. He took over all the grocery shopping and cooking. He took over the cleaning of the house. He wanted to relieve Eve of any burden, any job that could cause stress. What he couldn't do, though, was continue to engage her in the same affectionate way I had grown used to seeing. It was impossible for him to do everything. Clearly, he had decided that care of her would receive the topmost priority. Which I believe was the correct thing for him to do under the circumstances. Because he had me.

Denny did not stop loving Eve; he merely delegated his love-giving to me. I became the provider of love and comfort. When she ailed and he took charge of Zoë and whisked her out so that she might not hear the cries of agony from her mother, I stayed behind. He trusted me. He would tell me, as he and Zoë packed their bottles of water and cookies, “Go take care of her for me, Enzo, please.”

And I did. I took care of her by curling up at her bedside. Or, if she had collapsed on the floor, by curling up next to her there. Often, she would hold me close to her, hold me tight to her body, and when she did, she would tell me things about the pain.

Demon. Gremlin. Ghost. Phantom. Shadow. Devil. People are afraid of them, so they pretend they exist only in stories. In books that can be closed and put on the shelf. They clench their eyes shut so they will see no evil. But trust me when I tell you that devils like the zebra are real. Somewhere, the zebra is dancing.

The spring finally came to us after an exceptionally wet winter. It was full of gray days and rain and an edgy cold I found depressing. Over the winter, Eve ate poorly and became thin and pale. Denny was concerned, but Eve never heeded his pleas for her to consult a doctor. A mild case of depression, she would say. They'll try to give her pills and she doesn't want pills. And one evening after dinner, which was a special one, though I don't remember if it was a birthday or an anniversary, Denny suddenly took Eve into his arms and kissed her.

It seemed so odd to me because they hadn't acted that way with each other in such a long time. But their exchange seemed weak and unenthusiastic. She smiled at him, but she was pretending, I could tell, because she looked at me over Denny's shoulder and waved me off. Respectfully, I withdrew to another room and drifted into a light sleep. And, if I recall correctly, I dreamed of the zebra.

Chapter Thirteen

D
enny had started to act oddly. The clues were all there, I simply hadn't read them correctly. Over the winter, he had played a video racing game obsessively, which wasn't like him. He had never gotten into racing games. But that winter, he played the game every night after Eve went to bed. And he raced on American circuits only. St. Petersburg and Laguna Seca. Road Atlanta and Mid-Ohio. I should have known just from seeing the tracks he was racing. He wasn't playing a video game, he was studying the circuits. He was learning turning points and braking points. I'd heard him talk about how accurate the backgrounds are on these video games. How drivers have found the games can be quite helpful for getting acquainted with new racetracks. But I never thought—

And his diet: no alcohol, no sugar, no fried foods. His exercise routine: running several days a week, swimming at the Medgar Evers Pool. And lifting weights in the garage of the big guy down the street. Denny had been preparing himself. He was lean and strong and ready to do battle in a race car. And I had missed all the signs. But then, I believe I had been duped. Because when he came downstairs with his track bag packed that day in March and his suitcase on wheels and his special helmet, Eve and Zoë seemed to know all about his leaving. He had told
them
. He hadn't told
me
.

The parting was strange. Zoë was both excited and nervous, Eve was somber, and I was utterly confused.
Where was he going?
I raised my eyebrows, lifted my ears, and cocked my head; I used every facial gesture at my disposal in an attempt to glean information.

“Sebring,” he said to me, reading my mind the way he does sometimes. “I took the seat in the touring car, didn't I tell you?”

The touring car? But that was something he said he could never do! We agreed on that! I was at once happy and sad. He would be away so much of the time! I was worried about the emotional well-being of those of us left behind.

But I am a racer at heart, and a racer will never let something that has already happened affect what is happening now. I wagged my tail enthusiastically, and he smiled at me with a twinkle in his eye. He knew that I understood everything he said.

“Be good, now,” he said playfully. “Watch over the girls.”

He hugged little Zoë and kissed Eve gently, but as he turned away from her she launched herself into his chest and grabbed him tight. She buried herself in his shoulder, her face red with tears.

“Please come back,” she said, her words muffled by his mass.

“Of course I will. I promise,” he said, hopefully.

After he had gone, Eve closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes again, she looked at me, and I could see that she had resolved something for herself as well.

“I insisted he do it,” she said to me. “I think it will be good for me; it will make me stronger.”

That was the first race of the series, and the race didn't go well for Denny, though it went fine for Eve, Zoë, and me. We watched it on TV, and Denny qualified in the top third of the field. But shortly into the race, he had to return to the pit because of a cut tire. Then a crew member had trouble mounting the new wheel, and by the time Denny returned to the race, he was a lap down and never recovered. Twenty-fourth place. Denny was extremely frustrated. The following few races ended in the same way: a very poor finish.

“I like the guys,” he told us at dinner when he was home for a stretch. “They're good people, but they're not a good pit crew. They're making mistakes, killing our season. If they would just give me a chance to finish, I'd finish well.”

“Can't you get a new crew?” Eve asked.

I was in the kitchen, next to the dining room. I never stayed in the dining room when they ate, out of respect. No one likes a dog under the table looking for crumbs when they're eating. So I couldn't see them, but I could hear them. Denny picking up the wooden salad bowl and serving himself more salad. Zoë pushing her chicken nuggets around on the plate.

“Eat them, honey,” Eve said. “Don't play with them.”

“It's not the quality of the man,” Denny tried to explain. “It's the quality of the team.”

“How do you fix it?” Eve asked. “You're spending so much time away, it seems like a waste. What's the point of racing if you can't finish? Zoë, you've only had two bites. Eat.”

The crunching of romaine. Zoë drinking from her sippy cup.

“Practice,” Denny said. “Practice, practice, practice.”

“When will you practice?”

“They want me to go down to Sonoma next week, work with the Apex Porsche people at Infineon. Work hard with the pit crew so there are no more mistakes. The sponsors are getting frustrated.”

Eve fell silent. “Next week is your week off,” she said finally.

“I won't be gone long. Three or four days. Good salad. Did you make the dressing yourself?”

I couldn't read their body language because I couldn't see them, but there are some things a dog can sense. Tension. Fear. Anxiety. From my position on the kitchen floor, I could sense Eve's anger. Clearly, she had steeled herself for Denny's racing absences; she was not prepared for his practices in Sonoma, and she was angry and afraid.

I heard chair legs scrape as a chair was pushed back. I heard plates being stacked, flatware nervously gathered.

“Eat your nuggets,” Eve said again, this time sternly.

“I'm full,” Zoë declared.

“You haven't eaten anything. How can you be full?” said Eve.

“I don't like nuggets.”

“You're not leaving the table until you eat your nuggets.”

“
I don't like nuggets!
” Zoë shrieked, and suddenly the world was a very dark place. Anxiety. Anticipation. Excitement. All these emotions have a distinctive smell, many of which were coming from the dining room at that moment.

After a long silence, Denny said, “I'll make her a hot dog.”

“No, you won't! She likes the nuggets; she's just doing this because you're here. I'm not making a new dinner every time she decides she doesn't like something. She asked for the nuggets, now she'll eat the nuggets!”

Fury has a very distinctive smell, too.

Zoë started to cry. I went to the door and looked in. Eve was standing at the head of the table, her face red and pinched. Zoë was sobbing into her nuggets. Denny stood to make himself seem bigger. It's important for the head of a pack to be bigger. Often just acting tough can get a member of the pack to back down.

“You're overreacting,” he said. “Why don't you go lie down and let me finish up here.”

“You always take her side!” Eve barked.

“I just want her to have a dinner she'll eat.”

“Fine,” Eve hissed. “I'll make her a hot dog, then.”

Eve whirled from the table and almost crushed me when she burst into the kitchen. She threw open the freezer door and snatched a package of hot dogs. She grabbed a knife from the block and stabbed into the package, and that's when the evening turned really bad. As if the knife had a will of its own, the blade leapt from the frozen package and sliced deep and clean into Eve's left palm, between her thumb and fingers.

The knife clattered into the sink, and Eve grabbed her hand with a wail. Watery drops of blood speckled the counter. Denny was there in a moment with a dishcloth.

“Let me see it,” he said, peeling the blood-soaked cloth from her hand, which she held by the wrist as if it were no longer a part of her body but some alien creature that had attacked her.

“We should take you to the hospital,” he said.

“No!” she bellowed. “No hospital!”

“You need stitches,” he said, examining the gushing wound.

She didn't answer immediately, but her eyes were filled with tears. Not from pain, but from fear. She was so afraid of doctors and hospitals. She was afraid that she might go in and they would never let her out. “Please,” she whispered to Denny. “Please. No hospital.”

He groaned and shook his head. “I'll see if I can close it,” he said.

Zoë stood next to me, silent, eyes wide, holding a chicken nugget, watching. Neither of us knew what to do. “Zoë, baby,” Denny said. “Can you find the bandages for me in the hall closet? We'll get Mommy all patched up, okay?”

When Zoë returned with the box of bandages, she didn't know where her parents had gone, so I walked her to the bathroom door and barked. Denny opened the door a crack and took the bandages. “Thanks, Zoë. I'll take care of Mommy, now. You can go play or watch TV.” He closed the door.

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.