Yellow Flag (4 page)

As usual Kyle slept through most of church with his eyes open. It was a gift, the one thing of his Kris envied. Kris needed to wear dark glasses to sleep through church, on the rare occasions he showed up anymore. Kyle wondered where he was, on the road beating the hell out of the old Camaro that had once been his or just waking up in a motel room with the redhead. He wondered why he should care, then slipped into a dozy half sleep. The heavy-handed organ music felt like a blanket.

Before he could get all the way under, Dad jabbed an elbow into his ribs. Pastor Mike must be talking about us. A camera crew was kneeling in a corner, cutting back and forth between the pastor and the
Hildebrands in the front pew.

“How many times have I said that prayers don't weigh you down, they give you downforce? Well, your prayers worked yesterday. I know Kris Hildebrand's win was a result of his own skill and daring and faith, but I believe he never would have gotten to the finish line without that unseen hand that guides us all. Yesterday that unseen hand swept him past three other cars on the last turn of the last lap. Thank the Lord. The Hildebrands are with us today, and they've brought some friends from Family Brands, the fine folks who make Yum Cakes and Jump and all those great cereals we love in God's good morning. Make them welcome. They've got a little treat for you after the service.”

Kyle kept a smile on his face until the camera turned back to Pastor Mike. Kyle noticed Grandpa's face was frozen in its usual Sir Walter smile. Wonder if he sleeps with his eyes open too. Can't imagine having that discussion. But after last night's big breakthrough in the limo, who knows? That is so pathetic, considering that little chat a breakthrough with your own grandfather. Mom's dad had died before Kyle got to know him. We hardly see her side of the family. Too far away. They're a lot looser than Hildebrands—you can talk to them.

He felt jangly after the service. He usually came out of church feeling mellow, but now he felt like marching
up to Pastor Mike and saying, “Want to shake the unseen hand?” What's your problem, Kylie?

Outside the church, Dad muttered, “Kris should be here,” and Kyle said, “Probably got back too late after the medical exam. And the crash inquiry.” Why am I always covering for him?

“I was there, took all of five minutes.” He lowered his voice. “We got to talk.”

“What about?”

“The sling.” He looked more hurt than angry. “Without telling me?”

“It worked.”

“That's not the point.”

Kyle thought, What is the point?, but before he could think of something to say, Pastor Mike pushed between them and grabbed Kyle's hand. “Hope to see you at Youth Group, Kyle. We're planning a musical evening.”

Kyle nodded. Before he had to come up with something noncommittal, Pastor Mike turned to give Sir Walter a double-handed pump and then shake with the Family Brands suits. One of them was the chubby note-taker, Winik, who gave Kyle a big smile and wave, like they were buds. The camera crew was walking backward, shooting everything. In the church parking lot tables were piled with paper shopping bags covered with the Family Brands green-and-red logo. He wondered
how that logo was going to look on Hildebrand deep blue.

Mom grabbed his arm and whispered, “How's the unseen hand?”

It smoothed a little of the morning's rough edge knowing she was still on his side. “Dad's ticked off.”

“And he's right. It was dangerous.”

Dad caught up with them. “What are you guys plotting?”

“Slinging out of here,” said Mom.

“Not funny, Lynda.”

They watched the congregation swarm around the paper bags. They were filled with Family Brands food and drinks.

Mom said, “Famine relief comes to Goshen.”

“C'mon, Lynda,” said Dad. “It's a good thing.”

“I hope so.”

Kyle felt edgy and sour. He'd tried to get Nicole, by cell phone and IM, but there was no answer. He imagined her spending the night in Charlotte with Todd. Or maybe even with Mr. G, who was married but liked to look down girls' halter tops.

“Hey, Kylie.” Uncle Kale lumbered over. “You ever try something like that again, I'm gonna stuff that trumpet where your brains are.”

“Kris won.”

“Only reason I'm not doing it.”

Kyle watched him lumber off. Always hard to believe he and Dad were brothers, long, thin Dad so calm and kindly, humongous Kale always angry and know-it-all. People said Kale was a genius in the garage, he could put his ear on a car's hood and diagnose what was wrong with the engine, but he could be such an asshole. Kris said Uncle Kale never got over wanting to be a driver instead of a crew chief, but Sir Walter had spotted his mechanical ability early and made the decision for him. Besides, he was too fat to squeeze into a car.

Winik bustled up. “Where's Kris?”

Not my brother's keeper. “He know about this?”

“He promised to be here when I gave him my hotel key.” Winik glanced at his watch. “Camera crew's got a plane to catch.”

So Kris had slept over in Winik's hotel room with the redheaded girl. Why is she stuck in my mind? Sir Walter strolled by, his arms around Pastor Mike and the organist. Winik signaled the camera crew to shoot them.

“This going to be in a commercial?” said Kyle.

“Certainly in a sales presentation,” said Winik. “Hildebrand is a Family Brand. That's the new slogan. What do you think?”

It stinks. Kyle said, “Catchy.”

“There's our boy,” said Winik, pointing.

Kris was pale and wobbly. His smile looked pasted on. Jackman's shoulder was against his, supporting him and moving him along like a sheepdog. The big crew captain was almost always by Kris's side, ready to play with him or fight for him, but today he looked prepared to catch him. Must have been some night with the redhead, Kyle thought, until he remembered the crash at the end of the race and felt a splash of fear. You never can tell about those crashes. Head injuries.

The video crew surrounded Kris and herded him to the tables, where he hugged and high-fived his way through the congregation. Kris always knew what to do. He shook hands with Pastor Mike, threw an arm over Sir Walter's shoulder, slapped palms with Dad, and hugged Mom. The camera recorded every move.

Jackman steered Kris through the crowd and into the back entrance of the church. Just before he closed the door behind them, Jackman called out, “Kyle!”

By the time Kyle was inside the church, Kris was on his knees in the bathroom, vomiting.

Jackman looked worried. “All morning.”

Kris wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Some bad pepperoni—it's all out now. Listen, Kyle, you got a leak. Bad pan gasket, for one thing. The car's in the garage now….”

He fainted.

The doctor came out of the examining room in golf clothes. “X-rays of Kris's head showed nothing.” When nobody else smiled, he added, “Old joke. A mild concussion. We'll do an MRI if symptoms persist.”

“Such as?” asked Mom.

“Memory loss, dizziness, extreme fatigue…”

“He can drive next week,” said Dad. It sounded to Kyle like a statement, not a question.

“Tell you in a couple of days,” said the doctor.

“Need to know before that.”

“Do the best I can, Kerry. What did the track doctors say?”

“Those quacks,” said Kris, buttoning his shirt as he came out of the examining room.

“What did they say?”

Kris was avoiding the question. “Just got my bell rung, is all. Happened all the time in football.”

“Why we made you quit football,” said Mom. “You had two concussions, remember?”

The doctor said, “What did you feel on impact?”

“Don't even remember crossing the finish line.”

“Really?” The doctor frowned. “Call me tomorrow morning, Kerry. We'll keep a close eye on this.”

“You're coming home with us, Kris,” said Mom.

Kyle expected Kris to object, but he just shrugged. “Anything to make you happy, Mom.”

 

Kyle hitched a ride to the garage with Jackman, who kept shaking his head. “I should've just taken him to the ER in Monroe this morning. He didn't look right.”

“Maybe he had a rough night with the redhead.” Where did that come from?

Jackman shot him a glance. “He got to the hotel and went to sleep. By himself. Now that shoulda told me something right there.”

There were a dozen cars in the parking lot behind the Hildebrand Racing garage. The glass-and-stone building rose three stories high, a football field wide. When Fred and Sir Walter built it, only Dale Earnhardt's garage was bigger. Kris and Kyle had grown up playing
in the gift shop and the museum, chatting with fans, and then working in the repair bays and the fabrication rooms. Kyle had even practiced his trumpet in a back room until Uncle Kale complained that it was drowning out engine sounds. Once Kyle stopped racing, he never hung out when he didn't have to. Kris was here all the time, talking to the mechanics and the engine builders. For Kyle spending three weeks at music camp last summer had felt like an escape.

Jackman unlocked a back door. Kyle heard the clang of barbells from the gym. Jackman had called a rare Sunday crew meeting to screen the video of their pit stops and to work out. The screwup with the gas can could have cost Kris the race. Jackman went into the weight room.

Kyle spotted his Camaro in a repair bay, on a lift. The redhead was peering up at it. Her braid was tucked inside a cap. When she saw him, she said, “Don't you ever listen to your car? You drive like Kris.”

It was no compliment the way she spat it out. He felt off-balance and blurted, “What are you doing here?”

“Drove your car back. Kris rode home with Jeff.”

It took him a moment to remember Jackman's name was Jeff Myers. He'd been calling himself Jackman for years, ever since he had talked Uncle Kale into letting him take over the top spot on the pit crew. “Well,
thanks. You going to fix it or just take it apart?”

“I can fix it.” She sounded insulted. “I'm a certified mechanic, and I've crewed in modified and late model. Drove 'em, too. What?”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You don't believe me?” She waved a wrench in an oily hand. “You thought I was some groupie?”

“No offense—I didn't think about you at all.” He liked the way that rocked her back, but she recovered, nodded, and turned again to the underside of the Camaro.

“When's it gonna be ready?”

“When I fix what you broke.”

He walked away. Three bays down, Dad was circling number 12. The car was scraped and dented. The back panels were smashed in where the green Ford had rear-ended it at the finish. “Took some shot there.”

“You know Slater?” said Kyle.

“He ran Busch and Craftsmen Truck, did okay, woulda gone up to the Cup series, but he couldn't get along with anybody. He's trying to restart his career.”

“Some start. He should get set down for that.”

Dad shrugged. “Hard to prove it was deliberate.” He took a breath. “You kind of leave yourself real vulnerable with the sling.”

“Wouldn't've won otherwise.”

“True. When you boys cook that up?”

Never lie to Dad. “Just before the race.”

He nodded. “Kris been practicing it?”

“Not that I know.”

“Kale's pretty wound up. If Kris misses any races, he's gonna chew your ear.”

“Did already.”

“That's his way.” He put his hand on Kyle's shoulder. “I know you thought you were doing the right thing.”

That made Kyle feel worse. Kris better be okay. For me as well as for him.

He thought he'd be glad to have Kris home even though he didn't expect a return to the days before he had moved into a condo in town with Jackman last year. Back then Kris'd invite Kyle into his room for video games, TV football, a wrestling match. At the very least Kyle figured he'd have someone to talk to who wouldn't be laying on a guilt trip for calling the sling or missing the Brooklyn Brass in Charlotte.

But he hardly saw Kris even though he was next door in his old bedroom. Meanwhile, Mr. G and the other brass players didn't give him a hard time. They weren't angry or disappointed that he had missed Charlotte; they just felt sorry for him. The trip had energized them, brought them closer as an ensemble, and left him
out. When they played, he felt he was missing signals. On breaks they reminisced about the trip, discussed techniques they'd picked up. They didn't try to include him. Were they punishing him? Did they think he wanted to bail on them? He avoided Nicole, who didn't seem to notice.

His makeup lesson with Mr. Sievers was a little tense. He had barely practiced the new piece. Mr. Sievers already thought he was giving Mr. G and the quintet too much time.

Kris was asleep when Kyle left for school and at the garage when he got back. The family didn't eat together until Tuesday night. Kris looked tired. He picked at Mom's lamb shanks, usually a holiday meal and one of his favorites. Dad frowned through dinner, something on his mind. Mom didn't try to get a conversation going. The silence was so uncomfortable, they were glad when Uncle Kale dropped in for dessert. He was a lot nicer in the house than in the shop.

“Brought your beast back, Kylie. Runs sweet.”

It took him a moment to remember the Camaro had been in the shop. He'd been driving one of the pickups to school. “Thanks.”

“That girl's a wrench, let me tell you. She was working the NASCAR Dodge series before she came here. Gonna let her temp in the shop.” There was no edge in
his voice. Uncle Kale was up to something. He shoveled down Mom's cobbler. “Top of your game, Lyn.” He stood up. “Gotta go feed the dogs. Susan's got a meeting tonight.” Aunt Susan ran Hildebrand Construction along with a haircutter franchise. Uncle Kale was at the door when he turned and said casually, “Gonna want you around next weekend, Kylie.”

Kyle looked around the table. Mom was looking down, and Dad was nodding at him. A group decision, but they let Uncle Kale deliver the message. Made it official business, not a request from Dad.

“How come?”

“Just in case,” said Uncle Kale.

Just in case of what? thought Kyle, but he was already thinking ahead to an answer. Billy can't make it. Changes in the pit crew. Backup driver for Kris. That one stuck in his throat. No way.

Uncle Kale was out the door and Dad was turning on the Speed Channel. End of discussion.

Kyle gave homework a run but couldn't stay with it. No interesting e-mail. He realized that most of his friends were in the band, especially in the quintet. He tried to practice the trumpet, but his mouth stayed dry.

The bass line of country music slapped against the wall he shared with Kris. It was the music Kris played when he was down. It was also a signal to come on in.
He'd pull a bottle of Makers Mark from under the bed.

Kris was sprawled in the ratty old leather lounger they had salvaged years ago from one of Grandma Karen's spring cleaning binges. He barely looked up. “What part of knocking's too hard for you?”

“Hitting the door 'stead of you.” An old routine that almost got a smile out of him. “Wassup?”

“Siddown.” Kris waited until Kyle had plopped down on his bed. The room was exactly as he had left it a year ago, trophies and video games everywhere. Kris pointed under the bed and nodded as Kyle found the bottle and pretended to take a big pull. He liked the sharing ritual more than the taste. He held the bottle out to Kris, who shook his head. “My head's loose.”

“What the doctors say?”

“They don't know diddley. I'm taking pills.” He thumbed the remote to lower the volume, and whispered. “Kyle, I'm seeing double.”

“You tell anybody?”

“You kidding?”

“You gonna race?”

“Wait and see.”

“How long?”

“Dad could replace me last minute. Don't give me that look—you haven't been in the garage last two days. Sponsors all over the place, fabricators on overtime,
painters, even a gay tailor from Hollywood making the fire suit. You imagine if I said I was seeing double? Family Brands can still back out.”

“Be better than seeing double in a race.”

Kris's laugh had a nasty edge. “No problem. Instead of thirty cars, you drive against sixty.”