To Love and to Perish

To Love and to Perish - By Lisa Bork


DEDICATION


For the Ladysleuths:

Kathy, Kelly, Shelley, and Teresa.





ONE


“LOOK AT THAT TR3 … and that Porsche 914-6. Awesome!”

I grabbed Danny’s elbow and steered him from the path of an oncoming golf cart. “I know you’re excited, but please watch where you’re going.”

“I am, Jolene. I am.” He yanked his arm from my grasp and darted over to a nearby Datsun Bluebird, bending down to get a closer look at the dashboard. “Ray, come look at this! It’s right-side drive.”

“Be right there.” My husband, Ray Parker, shook his head in mock dismay. “Our boy takes after your side of the family, darlin.’ He’s got the fever.”

Danny most certainly had the fever, but I suspected he’d come by it from his father, a wanted car thief of considerable skill and talent who had relieved me of a pre-owned but pristine F430 Ferrari Spider at the end of last year. Of course, I was forever indebted to Mr. Phillips. Not only had the Ferrari been tainted by the dead man found in it, but Mr. Phillips had left Danny behind with us when he took off with my unsalable car. Perhaps he’d known living on the run would be no life for his son. Regardless, Danny had filled Ray’s and my childless void and brought us new joys daily.

I continued to follow Danny and Ray down the main drag in Watkins Glen as Danny shouted out the names of the vintage and classic sports cars lining both sides of the road, which was closed to all but golf cart and foot traffic. We had driven an hour and a half southeast from our hometown of Wachobe, New York, in order to see this Vintage Grand Prix Festival. Danny had revved his engine the whole drive here and the moment Ray put my Lexus in park, Danny leaped out and raced toward the cars on display. Ray and I had to hustle to catch up.

I understood his excitement. My father used to bring me to the Watkins Glen racetrack to watch all different kinds of cars race. It was our special time together, and one of the many reasons that added up to my opening Asdale Auto Imports, a boutique that sold pre-owned but pristine sports cars in Wachobe, our small but popular upscale tourist town located on the western edge of the Finger Lakes region. I hadn’t thought twice about hanging the “Closed—Gone Racing” sign on the shop’s front window for a three-day weekend. This race always drew a huge crowd from not only all over New York State but from points all over the country … even the world.

The dark clouds overhead spit raindrops on the crowd, but no one seemed to mind. We passed by the beer tent where a crowd was enjoying the Miller Lite, Yuengling, and Samuel Adams offered. One light-haired man in a Binghamton sweatshirt stepped from the tent and off the curb right in front of me. I gave him an irritated glance. He looked to my left then my right, his dark eyes vacant, and made no move to get out of my way. I decided to go around him when it occurred to me that he might be too drunk to move any farther.

The scent of Philly cheese steaks and the tang of pulled BBQ pork made my stomach rumble. It was close to five o’clock, and we were supposed to meet my sister, Erica, and her husband, Maury, for dinner at the food tents in front of the courthouse in half an hour. Meantime, I’d spotted a sign for the Girls Varsity Soccer Bake Sale across the street by the store that sold Carhartt. Maybe a little brownie would tide me over to dinner. I started to move toward the treats.

“Jolene, come on. You’re missing all the cars. Look at this three-wheel Morgan.” Danny grabbed my forearm and dragged me away from the delicious cakes, cookies, and Rice Krispies treats. “Isn’t it awesome?” He pointed to the dark blue, open-top race car with two wheels in front and one in back.

“Very. You know this is the 100th year anniversary of the Morgan. The company switched to manufacturing a four-wheeler around 1950 when no one outside of England really wanted to buy their three-wheeler. This is a rare car in the U.S., but Morgans have been racing at the Glen since 1954.”

“Cool. Oh, wow, look at that Camaro.” Danny crossed the street and disappeared into the throng.

“Hey, wait up.” I looked for Ray, who was always easy to spot at six-foot-three, 220 pounds of masculine muscle. He was examining the interior of a 1957 black Corvette with silver coves. “Ray, Danny needs to stay close to us. There are a lot of people here. We don’t want to lose him.”

He straightened and put his arm around me. “What do you think this car would go for?”

“Around sixty thousand.” I tugged on his sleeve. “We need to catch up to Danny.”

With a look of regret, Ray pulled himself away from his dream car. “He’s fine. He’s having a good time. Leave him alone.”

“He is alone, Ray. That’s my point.”

Ray’s arm dropped from my shoulder. “Listen, Jolene, Danny is almost thirteen now. He needs his space. I know the word ‘mother’ is included in smother, but you’ve got to loosen the leash a little. He’s not going to get lost. Let him enjoy himself.”

Ray only called me by my given name when he was irritated—or in the mood, which wasn’t likely at the moment. This wasn’t the first time we hadn’t seen eye to eye on how to care for Danny.

“Okay, if you say so.” I continued down the street, pretending to look at the array of cars, but I didn’t stop moving until I caught sight of Danny out of the corner of my eye. I needed to know he was safe.

A moment later, Ray appeared at Danny’s side, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Danny was only twelve, and although he had many skills and experiences other children his age did not, he still needed to be protected from evil. Unfortunately, evil wasn’t so easy to recognize or anticipate as one might think.

I walked across the street to join them. We continued on, reaching an intersection where the street was painted like a black and white checkerboard pattern. Danny pointed to it with glee. “It’s a race flag.”

“You know what else is cool?” I beckoned for him to follow me over to the sidewalk. “See this stone marker?”

“Yeah.” Danny’s gaze moved over the inscription.

“It’s part of the Drivers Walk of Fame. The markers have the names of the greatest drivers who have competed at the Glen since 1948. They have them all up and down Franklin Street, beginning at the starting line of the original race course and heading north. This year, Paul Newman gets a marker.” Posthumous. To match his stone on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, a place Danny had probably never heard of or been.

“The spaghetti sauce guy?”

Ah, the gap between generations. Approaching forty, both Ray and I remembered a slew of celebrities, politicians, and athletes Danny would never see. “He was also a famous actor and race car driver. I saw him win a race driving a Nissan at the Glen in 1985.”

“Cool. Hey, Ray, look at this Mini Cooper. Think you could fit in it?”

I followed my boys as they took in the sights, bemused by the fact that even though I knew way more about cars and the Glen’s history than Ray, Danny seemed more willing to stay by Ray’s side. Of course, it was natural for a boy his age to prefer spending time with men, especially Ray, who had a more exciting career as a county deputy sheriff, an excellent poker face that I referred to as his “good-cop, bad-cop, whatever-you-need-me-to-be-cop face,” and the ability to put a wicked spiral on a football. Even when Danny came to my shop after school, he always wanted to be out in the garage with my mechanic Cory, learning about engines, suspensions, brakes, and all the other technical stuff instead of my “boring” sales and bookkeeping.

Yes, Danny was definitely becoming a little man, as evidenced by his height, now an inch over my own five-foot-four, the smattering of acne on his forehead, and the frequent crack in his voice. He preferred to keep his dark hair long, but neither Ray nor I would allow it so long as to cover his face. I liked to see Danny’s high cheekbones and even the little nick the size of a pinhead on his right cheek just underneath his eye. He never told us where he got that. We weren’t sure we wanted to know. The knowledge might add more gray hair to Ray’s already light temples and a deeper furrow to my brow.

It tickled me that both my boys had beautiful brown eyes and that our whole family had brown hair, Ray and Danny’s both straighter and darker than my bobbed hair. To a stranger, Danny looked like our child, and that pleased me. I had no doubts that it pleased Ray, too. He’d do almost anything for that boy, as would I. Funny how quickly one can bond to a child.

I checked my watch. “Hey guys, it’s time to meet Erica.”

As usual, they didn’t race to respond.

Ray and Danny checked out a few more cars while I tapped my toe to the beat of the four-piece rock band playing from a nearby bar’s porch roof. I didn’t mind keeping Erica waiting. She’d kept me waiting many a time; in fact, she was prone to disappearing altogether, both literally or just inside herself. But Maury was always on time or early. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

“Come on, guys.”

Reluctantly, they fell in step with me, and we headed over to the food tents, where hamburgers, sausages, fried dough, ice cream, and a whole slew of culinary treats waited. One vendor even had a “Weenie Wagon,” which sent Danny into a fit of laughter.

I spotted Maury sitting at a table near the street. “Hey, Maury. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No problem.” Maury stood to shake Ray’s hand and slap Danny on the back.

“So where’s Erica? Is she in line for food?”

“No, she didn’t want to come.” Maury sat again and toyed with a discarded straw wrapper, his baby-cheeked face the epitome of despair.

Ray gave me a look that said “you deal with this.” “What do you guys want to eat? Danny and I will get in line.”

Maury didn’t respond, so I told Ray to get everyone a cheeseburger, fries, and Coke. I seated myself across from Maury and wondered what my sister saw in him. True, at a well-built five-eleven and one hundred-seventy pounds with a shiny head of dark hair, he had a certain physical appeal but his wimpy personality detracted from that significantly. All he needed was the horn-rimmed glasses he’d worn in high school to complete his geek image.

“Is something wrong with Erica?”

“She said she didn’t feel like it.”

Immediately I was on alert. Erica was bipolar and had been in and out of the psych center for years, most often because of attempted suicides. “Is she taking her medicine?”

“Yeah. I see her. She’s taking it.” He squished the straw wrapper into a ball and pitched it into the grass.

“Is it a cold? The stomach flu?” I’d heard both were going around now that school had reopened last week, two days after Labor Day.

“No. She doesn’t want to be with me.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He heaved a sigh. “I think we’re in a rut.”

I managed to choke back my laugh. The two of them hadn’t been married a year and had rushed into marriage after only knowing each other a few weeks. How could they be in a rut? I wasn’t sure they even knew each other’s favorite color yet.

“Either that, or she’s having an affair.” He looked at me as if I might be able to confirm or deny it.

I tried to freeze my expression neutral so as not to give my thoughts away—my face can be entirely too readable. I hadn’t talked to my younger sister in a week. A lot can change with Erica in the space of an hour. She had a long history of relationships, broken ones. This marriage could easily be the next casualty. She’d married Maury during a time when I’d been too busy wallowing in my own problems to pay attention to her. I had no idea if she was having an affair now. It wouldn’t surprise me, but I wasn’t going to say so … at least, not until I talked to Erica.

Maury didn’t seem inclined to say more either. I sat with him in silence until Ray and Danny appeared with the food. Even in his defeated state, Maury managed to inhale his cheeseburger and fries faster than anyone else. Danny finished a close second.

“What time is the race?” Danny’s gaze swept the street behind me, raring to move onto the next activity.

I licked the last of the French fry salt from my fingertips. “I think the cars will go up to the track for the start of the race a little after six and come down shortly thereafter.”

The festival was known for its “race,” which was really a parade lap or two around the 1948–1952 race car course. In those years, the racing took place on the streets and hills of Watkins Glen with hay bales lining the roads to protect the spectators. The town gave that up soon after a car lost control, plowing through the hay bales into a spectator and killing him. When the international track was built on top of the hill above the town, all the real racing moved there. But in the early 1990s the festival took advantage of growing nostalgia and asked the Sportscar Vintage Racing Association to bring their race cars down from the track to participate in tribute laps. Nowadays, different groups of car classes descended the hill from the Glen, raced up Franklin Street, and ascended the hill to the track with roaring engines, squealing brakes, puffs of exhaust and flashes of racing color. It was an exciting tribute and a beautiful setting, just steps from the base of Seneca Lake and the glorious gorge in Watkins Glen State Park.

Danny leapt up and took a few steps from the table. “Can we get a spot to watch the race? I don’t want to miss anything.”

I helped Ray gather our trash. “Sure. I think the best view will be near Milliken’s Corner.” The corner was an almost ninety-degree left-hand turn where my dad had witnessed a car plow into the hay bales many, many moons ago. It wasn’t so easy to turn a race car after riding its brakes down the hill. With today’s drizzle, it was going to be that much tougher on the cars and their drivers. Things could get a little squirrely—and exciting for the spectators.

The four of us retraced our previous path down Franklin Street and headed left onto Route 409. A white and blue sign marked the famous Milliken’s Corner, courtesy of the Glen Region Sports Car Club of America. Several spectators had already taken seats on the few hay bales available. A handful of folding chairs were turned face down on the sidewalk, keeping the seats dry while waiting for dignitaries or local store owners, no doubt.

“Where should we stand?” Danny looked at me for guidance.

“Well, if we stand at the base of the hill, we can see the cars come down and make the turn. If we stand closer to the corner of Franklin, we could see them on both turns and as they roar up the street, too.”

Danny moved his gaze to Ray for a decision.

Ray wasn’t listening. He’d spotted a local county deputy sheriff he knew and was waving to him. “I want to say hello. Be right back.”

Maury sidled closer to me. “I think I’m going home. I’m not that into the race.”

I felt guilty for inviting them to join us. Clearly, he’d only shown up to be polite. Erica could take a lesson from him in that regard. “Okay, sorry, Maury. Tell Erica I’ll call her tomorrow.”

With a nod, Maury melted into the crowd.

The cars lining Franklin Street roared to life as the drivers revved their engines in preparation for heading uphill to begin the race. Danny and I decided to stand on the inside corner of 409 and Franklin. We had a view of Milliken’s Corner and the main drag. The spectators started to get a little dense as everyone jockeyed for position. I lost sight of Ray.

My cell phone rang.

I answered, expecting to hear Ray’s voice. Instead, it was my friend and mechanic, Cory Kempe.

“Have you seen Brennan?”

I glanced about in surprise. Cory and his boyfriend, Brennan Rowe, had entered Brennan’s Mini Cooper in two events this weekend: tomorrow’s sprint race and Sunday’s endurance race. They also planned to drive in the tribute laps this evening.

“No. I thought he was driving with you in the parade lap.”

“He told me to go ahead without him. He said he had something to do.”

“In town? Not at the track?” Cory and Brennan had been at the track all day, prepping the Mini for the sprint race tomorrow. Brennan had driven in the qualifying race today and done well even though it was his first time on the track.

“I don’t know where. He took off an hour ago. He didn’t say where he was going. I thought you might have seen him.”

“Sorry. I’ll keep my eyes open, though.”

“Please do. Let me know if you see him with another man.”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard Cory correctly. “What do you mean?”

“I think Brennan’s having an affair.”

That didn’t sound like Brennan, who called the shop at least twice a day for almost a year now to talk to Cory. He was the most attentive boyfriend Cory had ever had, and, unlike my sister Erica, a stable and responsible person. “Why do you say that?”

“He’s been weird and standoffish ever since we got here. He keeps disappearing with no reason or excuse. And the other night at home he got a phone call from a guy. He locked himself in his office and talked for over an hour, then got angry when I asked who it was.”

All right, that would make me suspicious, too. I couldn’t even think of a way to put a positive spin on it. “Are you still driving in the race?”

“I guess so. Maybe I’ll see him on the sidewalk.”

“Okay. Well, be careful and concentrate. It’s pretty slick out.”

“Yes, mom. Keep your eye out for Brennan.”

“Done.” I snapped my cell phone closed.

The noise of approaching engines drew our attention to the street. First a local sheriff’s SUV appeared, lights flashing, then the official Chevrolet Camaro pace car, and finally the vintage and classic cars. First an Allard passed us, followed by a Bugeye Sprite, a Porsche 356 Bathtub, and an open-top Formula Junior, the driver wearing old-time leather headgear and goggles, his yellow scarf embroidered with his car number flapping in the wind. All the cars’ passengers waved to the crowd as their drivers cleared the turns and gunned their engines up Franklin. Dozens of cars passed by, including the Mini Cooper with Cory, who didn’t seem to notice Danny and me waving to him. It didn’t seem like as many cars as in years past, but the weather conditions might have put some drivers off. Open-top cars and racing slicks mixed with rain didn’t make things festive.

After the first parade lap ended and the roar of the engines faded into the hills, I noticed Danny was fidgeting. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

“We can go over to the store across the street. The cars won’t come around again for a few minutes.” I started to step off the curb.

Danny pushed ahead of me. “I can go by myself.”

“Ah … okay. I’ll wait right here. Come right back when you’re done.” I watched as he crossed the street and disappeared into the store, wondering when Ray would rejoin us. Danny would have let Ray accompany him. I wasn’t certain I’d done the right thing in letting Danny go alone. This crowd was huge and filled with all sorts of unknowns. What was keeping Ray anyway?

The cars were approaching again. I hesitated, trying to decide if I should dash across the street ahead of their arrival to follow Danny.

As I checked the cars’ locations, I spotted a sandy-haired man with a deep tan a few yards away from me. He seemed to be in a heated conversation with a red-haired man who had his back to me. The redheaded man’s arms waved through the air and the sandy-haired man’s face appeared flushed. All I could see of the redhead was his royal blue windbreaker and jeans. A woman in a bright pink raincoat, her face obscured by its hood, clung to the redhead’s arm. It looked like she was trying to pull him away.

I recognized the sandy-haired guy. After all, not very many men had Robert Redford’s movie star looks and charm. It was Brennan Rowe.

He had an expression on his face I’d seen last Thanksgiving when Danny got angry, stole my Porsche, and backed it into the rear quarter panel of Brennan’s Mercedes by accident. It was a tolerant, patient, understanding expression. His flush may have related to anger from the redhead’s words or embarrassment from the unwanted attention of the surrounding crowd who pretended not to listen as the redhead ranted, but, either way, Brennan seemed to be keeping his cool.

I tried to move a little closer to him to listen, all the while keeping one eye on the store entrance that had swallowed my boy.

The sheriff’s car passed in front of us again, followed by the pace car. One after another, the vintage cars made the right turn off 409 and hit the gas to fly up Franklin, putting on a show for the admiring crowd.

Brennan broke off his conversation and headed toward me. I called to him but he didn’t seem to hear. The cars were too loud.

The crowd closed in around him. Although the majority of spectators remained stationary roadside, a throng continually moved up and down the sidewalk, making it too difficult for me to grab Brennan as he passed. The man and woman he had been talking to disappeared in the mass.

I moved down the curb toward Brennan, who had gotten stalled by a woman trying to weave her wheelchair against the crowd. I turned to check again for Danny. No sign of him. Must be the store restroom had a line. The race had drawn one heck of a crowd.

Rising on my toes, I waved my arms like a crazy person, trying to catch Brennan’s eye as he jockeyed around the woman. I was about to give up when he spotted me and waved back.

I motioned for him to come over. Cory hadn’t passed by a second time yet, so maybe I could get Brennan positioned next to me in time to catch Cory’s eye.

Brennan nodded and gave me the “there in one second” finger.

A brake squealed nearby. I turned to catch sight of a Triumph Spitfire rounding the corner in front of me.

Again, I checked on Brennan, who had started to move in my direction against the pedestrian traffic flow. The masses on the sidewalk surged, shifting him closer to the street.

I took my eyes off him and craned my neck in the opposite direction to look for Danny again.

A TR2 flew around the corner and hit the gas. The crowd cheered.

My gaze moved back to the store entrance. What was taking Danny so long? And where in the world was Ray? I started to sidle back up the curb toward the store, trusting Brennan to find me.

The next car took the corner even faster, brakes squealing in protest, before accelerating on the straight. Applause broke out.

A BMW 2002 rounded the corner, almost on two wheels, squealing. The spectators let out an appreciative gasp.

The Cobra behind it took the curve still faster. Too fast.

Brakes squealed. I heard a sickening thump.

A woman started screaming.

I swung around. I couldn’t see the screamer or determine the reason for her screams. I couldn’t spot Brennan anymore either. The mass of people was too thick.

I turned back to check for Danny again and watched in horror as the oncoming line of race cars slammed on their brakes, the ones coming around Milliken’s Corner struggling for control. For a second, it looked like one of the Porsches was headed into the crowd. But no, all the cars came to a safe, if off kilter and herring-bone shaped, stop.

People poured into the street. Sheriff’s deputies appeared. Ray was with them.

Then I heard, “Oh my God, is he all right?”

“Call 911. Somebody call 911.”

“Is he dead?”

“Did he fall?”

“Did anyone call 911?”

A woman shrieked, “That guy pushed him. He pushed him!”

The other deputies cleared the crowd from the street. I held my ground on the curb. Danny would never find me if I moved now.

I was left with an almost unobstructed view of the road. The redheaded man lay in the street a few yards away, his legs bent at an impossible angle and a pool of blood beneath his head, soaking the shoulders of his royal blue jacket. The spectators were now silent, eyes wide, as the sheriff’s deputies moved fast to secure the area.

I choked back my cheeseburger and fries as they rose in my throat. I scanned the other side of the street, fearing Danny would see the man.

A sheriff’s deputy approached the group nearest the victim. “Are there any witnesses?”

A dark-haired woman tumbled off the sidewalk and grabbed the sheriff’s deputy’s arm. Tears streamed down her face. “That guy pushed him. He deliberately pushed him.”

My gaze followed her finger.

She was pointing at Brennan Rowe.