Quarter Mile Hearts(2)

“You have your key?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back tomorrow, and then I’ll check on the garage.”

“Thanks.” He winces as the nurse rearranges his pillows and then stifles a cry of pain. “It’s in good hands; I’ve left… argh.”

“Don’t worry. I love you,” I call and leave him in peace.



• • •



Born and raised in a small town, I never imagined living anywhere else. Why would I? My dad was there, my best friend, family, and my dad was the Hank in Hank’s Auto Shop. It was the town’s only garage, and therefore, he kept busy. There wasn’t anything that my dad didn’t know about cars, and he taught me a lot of it. Early on in his career, he made a name for himself by kitting out cars for the street racers.

Racing was a part of the town’s culture. My dad was a racer and so was his best friend, who also happened to be my mom’s brother, so it was the norm for me growing up. Because there wasn’t much to do for entertainment, as soon as you could drive, you went up to the quarter mile. Sometimes even before then. It was the place to go to hang out with your friends and to show off your car and your girlfriend. And for the older, more dangerous element, it was the chance to race, and money was to be made by those who bet on the races. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday were generally race nights. No one raced during the week when I was growing up, but you could sometimes find the odd youngster up there trying his hand at the quarter mile so as not to embarrass himself on race night.

As a child, I wasn’t allowed to go to the races, but I knew that when my dad came home with bandaged ribs and stitches on his head, it was because he’d been racing and had an accident. The arguments that followed weren’t pleasant. The front door would slam to signal that my mom stormed out. I would curl up into an even tighter ball and pull the covers over my head. Heavy footsteps would trudge up the stairs and my dad would come into my room to make sure I was okay. Even when I pretended I was asleep, he would lean over and kiss me good night and tell me that he loved me.

“Night, Storm,” he would say at the door and turn off the light.

My mom would always be back by morning, but you could cut the tension with a knife, and my dad would take me to the garage with him for the day. The closer it got to the weekend, the more tense my mom would grow, knowing that my dad would race. It didn’t help that her brother raced, too. Uncle Donnie and Dad were best friends all through childhood; it is how Dad and Mom met. She was always hanging around the two of them, following them to places, and developed an interest in cars because that was what they were into. Then my dad started to take an interest in her, and the rest is history.

According to my Aunt Lynda, it all changed after I was born. My mom didn’t want my dad racing because she knew how dangerous it was and hated when he got injured. It all came to a head when Uncle Donnie was killed in an accident. He and Dad had traveled to a race two hours away. My dad wasn’t racing, but he’d been helping Donnie get the car ready and made some modifications. The stakes for the race were stupidly high, and my dad tried to get Donnie to back out, but he didn’t want to lose face. There were four racers—Uncle Donnie, Tom Anderson—a guy they knew, and two others. They were racing along backroads, and although he knew the circuit pretty well, something happened on the last turn, which caused him to spin out of control and hit a tree. The car exploded, and he was killed outright. That was the final straw. Mom left after the funeral and never came back.



• • •



The next stop is my dad’s house. Well, my house too, I guess. It’s the same house we lived in while I was growing up. When I push open the door, everything is exactly as I left it, and I head straight up the stairs to my room. Dad hasn’t changed anything, and there are still some clothes hanging up and in the drawers. You hear of some parents changing their child's bedrooms into a home gym or cinema room when their kids leave, but thankfully, not my dad.

I flop down on my bed and wonder why I haven’t heard back from Aaron or Beth by now. I am itching to see them, but I’ll wait until later and track them down. It’s a Sunday night, so there is only one place they could be.

A framed picture on the nightstand catches my eye, and I roll over to pluck it up. It was taken a few months before I left. We were at the quarter mile, as was the norm on a Saturday night. Beth gave her phone to someone and asked them to take a picture of the three of us. Aaron, Beth, and I are standing in front of my car. Aaron’s arms are wrapped around our shoulders. He shouted ‘show me your come face’ just before they took the photo and had us in stitches. I peer closer at the figure captured in the background—Max Morgan.