Chapter 1

Back there in August of 1954 it was hard to get my head around it all as I lay there in my hospital bed trying to make sense of everything.

When I could think halfway clearly, which wasn't often, strange images flooded my mind, starting with Sandy's race car getting sideways in front of mine. I know I tried stomping on the brakes a thousand times, but my leg wouldn't move. I kept seeing my car – number 66 – sliding up over his, seeing the crowd, seeing the dirt, and then seeing nothing.

Along in there I had a few other dim impressions. At one time I thought I heard Frank and Spud talking to me, but I couldn't make out what they were saying, 'cause they weren't making any sense at all. A couple times I was sure I'd seen Arlene, all dressed in white. That didn't make any sense. What would she be doing dressed in white unless she was an angel? If she was an angel this must be heaven, so why did my head hurt so much? No idea; it didn't make sense. Nothing much made sense at all. But slowly, things began to come into focus, and I began to become aware of where I was and what had happened, though a lot of things still hadn't started making sense yet.

I'd had some good years and memorable years driving for the Midwest Midget Sportsman Association, but this was halfway through my fifth year, and I'd been feeling for some time that it was getting to be time to grow up and get on with my life. I'd seen a lot of country roads and tank towns driving those little oddball midget cars – it was really more of a show than it was a racing circuit, but we really did race, and I was pretty good at it. In fact, I was good enough at it to win the MMSA championship three years running.

It had all started back when I met Frank Blixter and Spud McElroy back on Okinawa just before the end of World War II. Both of them were pre-war midget racers, and often after a day's work in the motor pool the rest of us would sit around and listen to Frank and Spud tell stories of racing in the bullrings of the thirties and early forties. Frank was mostly an Upper Midwest racer while Spud was an East Coaster, mostly running in New York, New Jersey, and eastern Pennsylvania. After the war they went back to racing while I went to college to get a teaching certificate, but one day in early 1950 I ran into Frank in Milwaukee. He talked me into driving for the racing show for the summer, and, well, the summer turned to fall, and one year turned into the next. I couldn't quite give it up until forced to. As I finally found out, a tie rod end broke on Sandy's car that evening at a dirty, little beat-up dirt track in Bradford, Michigan, which was why I was lying in this hospital bed trying to figure out what was going on.

Along the way, about a year before, the MMSA was racing in Schererville, Indiana, where we met Arlene Pewabic. She was only weeks back from being a surgical nurse in Korea – the war was still going on – and she wanted to get it out of her system. She was a pretty good driver, and we were short on drivers at the time, so somehow she wound up traveling with the show. She and I had started on a pretty good romance, but when there's just one woman among a bunch of guys, well, tensions arise, so we'd pulled back from each other a lot. It was only when I came to in that hospital bed with her hovering over me in a bad-fitting white nurse's uniform that a few things started to make sense. I somehow began to realize that our romance wasn't over at all. The kiss she laid on me the first time I was awake enough to appreciate one wasn't far short of rape, not that I wouldn't have been willing, even if not physically able with that catheter I had in a necessary spot. She'd stuck with me rather than go on racing, which was a bit of a surprise. At least to me.

I mean, I had gone the last couple months figuring that any hope of setting anything up with Arlene was gone, and I had just totally missed the signals. Maybe I'd missed them for a reason, since she'd been laying low herself, and it wasn't exactly as if I had been sending any to her. Now it seemed like there was a chance to get something going. Maybe more than a chance – in fact, it looked pretty likely. There was no telling how it would come out, but right about then I figured I'd put the Midwest Midget Sportsman Association behind me for most purposes. At least we wouldn't have that standing between us anymore. She made it clear to me she was planning on us staying together.

There were still plenty of other problems to solve, but as Arlene was with me for at least a while, a good many of them seemed manageable. It was clear that I couldn't stay in the hospital until I was all the way better, even though I was clearly going to be here for a while yet. I hadn't gotten all that good of a look at the tourist court out north of town where we'd been staying, but as I recalled it wasn't a bad place. I supposed I could survive there for a month or six weeks if I had to, especially with Arlene around to help out. Even if she was working, if I had a radio and something to read I'd probably be all right, even if I was likely to get bored to tears. And at least Arlene would be working, so we'd be able to pay for the place. After that things were a little hazy, but at least I'd be on my feet and be able to do something useful.

It wasn't as if I was totally broke, either; I'd always been careful with my money, and over the last several years I'd managed to put some money back at the end of the season each year. It wasn't a whole lot, maybe fifteen hundred dollars, which was a lot of money in the '50s. The only problem was that we'd have to go up to the MMSA's home base in Livonia to get it, and I wouldn't be able to do that for a while. Maybe, I thought, I could call up Vivian, the MMSA business manager, and maybe there would be something she could do.

But there was more than just the room and eating money. Hospitals and doctor bills were expensive, even in those days. I had no idea how much this was going to cost me, but I suspected that I could blow through that fifteen hundred and still have a lot of bills left over. There was no question that I'd pay them, but it might take years.

I was still stewing over the money when Arlene came back into the room, carrying a tray. "Dr. Bronson said it's time to try to get you back to eating something," she said. "You've been on IVs all this time, but you've had time to heal in your belly some. This isn't very much but it'll be a start."

"I don't think I'm going to mind," I said. "But you know, until now I haven't really even thought about eating. Now I guess it sounds a little interesting."

"I thought so," she smiled. "Your body is usually pretty good about telling you when you're ready for something. This is lime gelatin, nothing special. Do you think you can handle it or do you want me to feed you?"

The cast was on my right arm and I hadn't tried to do much with it. I fumbled around for a little then said that I thought she'd better be the one to do the honors. Right then, I didn't mind, so long as it was Arlene doing the feeding. In fact, it felt pretty good. In fact, it was just about the best lime gelatin that I ever ate.

I didn't get around to talking about the money with Arlene that afternoon. I guess I knew I was still not in very good shape or thinking very clearly. Besides, there was no rush and no point in worrying about it just then; I could worry about it all I wanted to in the future. I guess I must have slept most of the afternoon, anyway.

The next morning I was feeling quite a bit better, and was surprised to discover that I had a visitor. He was a guy about medium height, thick black hair and a face that must have been chiseled out of a pine knot with a dull knife. He seemed to be around fifty, give or take, and had on shop pants and a pinstriped gray shop shirt. He had the look about him that he'd know what to do if someone stuck a wrench in his hands. He seemed familiar, but I couldn't put a name with him.

"Smoky Kern," he introduced himself. "I'm the owner and promoter of the track here." That made him swim into focus a little. I'd seen him talking with Frank, but I hadn't actually spoken with him. "I hear tell you're getting better," he continued.

"I'm alive and awake," I said. "That counts for something."

"Beats hell out of the alternative," he smiled. "Sometimes you have to take what you can get and like it. Anyway, they told me you were up to having visitors, so I thought I might as well drop by."

"It's good to see someone," I told him. "The only people dropping by have been hospital people. Guess that's not surprising, since I'm a stranger here and all."

"Yeah, your guy Frank told me that he hated like hell to have to move on without you. He said it was going to be rough to leave his best driver behind, but I guess that's the nature of the business, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it's part of the risk you take," I told him. "I always wondered what would happen if I had to get left behind in a strange town like this. I'm not quite alone, I've got Arlene here with me, that counts for a lot."

"Arlene?" he frowned, then brightened. "Oh, the gal that was driving the car behind you. Strange to see a woman driving a race car, especially something like one of those midgets. I tell you what, when that crash happened she stood on the brakes, did a bootlegger turn in the middle of the track, and was out of that car next to you just about as soon as you stopped moving. Darndest thing I ever saw. Then she really gave everybody hell when they wanted to move you, she was afraid your neck was broken. Can't say that it didn't look like it, either."

"I can imagine," I told him. "I've seen her in action. That's how I met her the first time, except that I wasn't the guy driving the car that got wrecked."

"Is she really a good driver, or was she just along for the show?"

"She's a darn good driver," I said. "Frank may have said I was his best driver but I'm of the opinion that she was. That number 2 car she drove never was all that great until she sat down in it, and right from the beginning she was better in it than anyone else I'd ever seen driving it."

"Darndest thing," he shook his head. "You think of women drivers, you think they drive like, well, women drivers."

"Lot of people thought that," I told him. "I think it sold a few tickets."