Elimination Race

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In September he knew he would be all right for another chance at the big one in May. The arm was coming back, even though the doctors had said it wouldn’t. So, without letting Sally know, he had got in touch with Rikert, and Rikert had said yes, he was entering two cars, but he had the drivers all lined up and he couldn’t change. And Wade Ralson, remembering the tone of Rikert’s voice, the cool politeness, knew that the word had gone out, knew that the owners considered that Wade Ralson, after twelve tries at Indianapolis, was bad news. Experience couldn’t cancel out bad luck. A third and a fourth in twelve years. And finishing only four times, and then that thing last year.

So one October night, after scrubbing the garage grease off his hands, and after the kids had left the kitchen table, and Sally was at the sink, her back to him, he said, as casually as he could, “I’ve been trying to get a car for next year.” It didn’t sound casual. It sounded too flat and too final.

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