Death at a Fixer-Upper (11 page)

Back home, I found Max throwing gear into a duffel bag. I stared. “What's this?”

He rolled a nylon windbreaker into a ball and stuffed it in the bag. “Did you forget?”

“Forget what?”

“Mac and cheese at Peter's house tonight. We're carbo-loading for tomorrow. I told you. I'm spending the night there, too, so we can make an early start in the morning.”

I slapped my forehead. “Sorry. Shoot. Can I help? You have everything you need?”

“I think so.”

“Change of clothes?”

“Check.”

“Extra water?”

“In my bag.”

“Trail mix?”

“Got it.”

“Clean underwear?”

“Mom.” His expression was pained.

My throat felt strangely tight as I looked him over. It was just a race, right? So why did I have this ridiculous feeling I was launching my son into the world? I placed a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye. “What's the most important thing I taught you about sportsmanship?”

“Don't skimp on the deodorant.”

“You're ready.” I removed my hand and held my arms open. “Hug?”

“For crying out loud.” But he wrapped his arms around me as gingerly as if I were a hedgehog and gave me a squeeze, then bounded for the exit.

“Have fun!” I yelled after him. “Be careful! Don't forget to brush your teeth!” I heard the door slam at the foot of the stairs. He was gone.

I wandered around the apartment, sorting and packing in an aimless fashion that didn't accomplish much. Twice I reached for the phone, intending to call Bernie and see if he could move our date up a night. But both times I stopped myself. It smacked of neediness. I'd survive an evening alone. It would make Saturday all the more spectacular.

I made a peanut-butter-and-mayonnaise sandwich for dinner and washed it down with a bottle of beer. Then Harley and I curled up on the couch to watch a movie. And that's where I was when I woke up the next morning.

Race day dawned under a veil of gritty fog that clung to the rooftops, but it was already burning off by the time I made my way on foot to downtown Arlinda. The streets that converged on the Plaza were choked with cars, many of them creatively, if not illegally, parked, which is why I'd left mine at home. Pedestrians scurried toward the center of town, anxious to stake out a section of sidewalk before all the best vantage points were claimed. The sun broke through, its rare benevolence adding to the giddy high spirits of the crowd.

By the time I was a block from Eighth Street, the crush of people forced me to slow to a crawl. Bodies hemmed me in from all sides: multigenerational families, college kids, out-of-towners, scruffy hemp-clad locals. The air was redolent with the odor of tightly packed, marginally washed bodies; my nose picked up traces of sunscreen and sweat, overlaid with a hint of cannabis. Above the hum of conversation multiplied a thousand times, I could hear the distinctive sounds of the race: the voice of the announcer describing the order of festivities, the percussion-and-brass beat of Redwood State's marching band, and occasional roars from the crowd as the machines made their entrance onto the race course. I felt a rush of anticipation. It was impossible not to have a good time.

I negotiated the corner by the Jacobsen building, where canny spectators had secured panoramic views by climbing out the building's upper-story windows. It made me a little giddy to see them juggle cameras and adult beverages fifty feet above the pavement, but I envied their sweeping vista. In front of the building, a judge's stand had been erected from scaffolding draped with cloth skirts. The mayor, portly and puffed up with civic importance, was presiding over the crowning of the Turnip Queen, one of the race rituals the crowd adored. The previous year's queen removed her garland of intertwined kale leaves and placed it on the head of the current queen, a muscular brunette who towered a good ten inches over the mayor, the shelf of her bosom almost level with his eyes. She was dressed in a Lycra bodysuit, white below swelling to purple above. As cameras clicked, she accepted a declaration and handshake from the mayor, then bent down and planted a kiss on his lips. The crowd roared, and the little man went beet red. A nearby news crew caught it all on video.

I still had a city block to traverse in order to meet Gail at the corner of Eighth and G, so I set out. I was working my way against the flow of foot traffic like a spawning salmon fighting its way upstream, and I apologized so many times to so many people my voice took on a raspy edge. At one point, half a dozen German-speaking tourists surged by in a tight pod, mashing me against the plate-glass window of a wine boutique. I was gripped by claustrophobia and began to wonder if there was enough oxygen to go around; all the available air seemed to have been recently exhaled by garlic-eating strangers.

I spotted Gail's purple curls not far from the corner. She'd staked out a pretty good locale in front of the bead store, with only an elderly couple in portable camping armchairs, the kind with the drink holders built in, in front of her. Clearly the couple had been there all morning, judging by the sunscreen smeared across their noses and the red- and-white cooler at their feet. It always amazed me how people had the stamina to hold their positions for hours. I figured it involved precision timing and adult diapers.

By the time I'd inched up to Gail, I recognized her husband, Jim, with their youngest daughter, Celia, up on his shoulders, much to the displeasure of the woman behind him. Their other daughter, Annie, was at her mother's elbow, her eyes round as bicycle tires. The festivities were getting into full swing and the crowd noise ratcheted up several decibels.

I touched Gail's arm and we exchanged a smile. She cupped her hands around her mouth. “You see Max yet?”

I shook my head. I wasn't even sure what to look for, so closely guarded was the secret.

Across the street, human bodies covered every square inch of the Plaza, except for a small space carved out for the brass band, waiting for the racers to take a couple of practice laps before the official start. Spectators had climbed the hemlock tree like monkeys. Others spilled over the fence that encircled the statue and stood shoulder to shoulder with our twenty-fifth president. A rakish “Where's Waldo” cap had been affixed to McKinley's brow.

Suddenly the noise reached a crescendo and race officials urged the crowd back. Cheers went up as a twelve-foot-long human foot rolled by, powered by four pilots in matching red shirts with “North Coast Podiatry” stenciled across the back. The machine, throbbing big toe in front, cracked heel in back, weaved a little uncertainly across the course, supported by a triangle of three oversized bicycle wheels. I spotted a couple of pontoons laced to the framework of the rig for tomorrow's water stage. The rules required every stitch of gear to be on the machine from start to finish.

Another contraption hove into view, this time an explosion of red and white fungi from Badger and Bros. Organic Potting Soil Mix (“You need your stinkin' Badger!”). The frame was a wooden planter filled with what looked like potting soil but I guessed was foam rubber painted dark brown and pebbled with white Styrofoam vermiculite. The whole thing rolled along on four wide-diameter rubber tires with plenty of bounce. The two pilots, a man and a woman, mashed the pedals, their torsos rising and falling like the keys of a trumpet. A pit crew of mushroom-topped cyclists followed on bicycles, tossing sample packets of fertilizer to the crowd.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and looked behind me. A woman smiled apologetically into my face and said, “I wonder if you'd mind if my little boy moved in front of you. He can't see any of the racers.”

“Of course not,” I said. Courtesy had always been a hallmark of the race.

“Oh, thank you,” she said. She reached back and guided a hulking eighth grader forward until he was positioned between me and the street. He was half a head taller than me and could have played right tackle for the Arlinda High Fighting Plovers football team next fall if the entire offensive line hadn't been suspended for smoking dope under the uprights at the end of last season. My view was effectively cut off, except for what I could glimpse through his armpit.

Gail gave me a tap. “Isn't that Max's team?”

I craned my neck, jostling her aside to get a better view. A gigantic hammer rolled past. It was at least fifteen feet long, painted bright green, and supported by a four-wheeled steel frame with pilots at each corner. With every revolution of the wheels, the hammer rose ponderously, then came down on a foot-tall roofing nail at the front of the rig. The crowd roared with approval. It was easy to spot Max on the back right in his SmithBuilt jersey, pedaling away. I whistled and stomped.

“Go, Max!” Gail shrieked directly into my ear. I felt my anvil vibrate and made a mental note to get my hearing checked later.

Pit crew members flew by on their bicycles, papier-mâché crescent wrenches strapped to their helmets. Hot on their heels came a long chili pepper with a single pilot, representing Hempstead's Hot Sauce. The pilot waved to the crowd, then clutched the steering mechanism as one of the wheels spun off its axle. The crowd groaned as the machine pulled off to the side for repairs.

Someone screamed and the crowd edged back as a giant red ant rolled into view, beady eyes and all. Its pincers moved left and right as if it might pluck a spectator out of the crowd. Six representatives of Bayside Exterminators, including a man I recognized as Walter Wagstaffe, plied the pedals, while pit crew members dressed as fat white termite larvae kept up on bicycles. A few odd cyclists were in the mix now, including two women wearing nothing but chicken feathers and a man sporting an Uncle Sam hat and long white beard. He swung toward Eighth Street, and my heart jumped.

“Wayne!”
I hollered.

His head swiveled my way. I saw his eyes widen under the striped top hat. He stood up on the pedals and surged ahead with a burst of speed.

“Wait!” I screamed after him. I left my berth and wriggled through the crowd, which was packed as close as pins at a bowling alley.

“Excuse me!” I said, trying to work my way south. I spotted him just ahead of me, weaving through the other cyclists. If I could get through to the street, I might be able to—

“Do you
mind
?” A dark-haired woman with arms like baked hams blocked my way.

“Sorry, I—”

“I've been saving this spot since nine o'clock this morning,” she snapped. “Back off.”

I tried a winsome smile. “If I could just—”

She stuck a finger in my face. “How 'bout you
just
go somewhere else, sister? I drove six hours to get here and I don't plan on missing a goddamned thing.”

A visitor to our fair town. I felt it incumbent on me as a native to act as a goodwill ambassador.

“Welcome to Arlinda,” I said. Then I gave her a hard shot to the shoulder.

“Bitch,” she said, and shoved me back. I bounced off the surprised gentleman to my right, ruining his camera shot.

“Sorry,” I murmured, then launched myself into Ms. Crankypants. It was like crashing into a cement pillar. She fended me off effortlessly and made a grab for my hair, but I ducked out of reach, swatting her hand away.

A trio of male unicyclists dressed in loincloths and nothing else pedaled by, and my new friend and I ceased hostilities by unspoken accord. She clapped and shouted encouragement, pumping her fist in the air with such vigor the flesh of her upper arm was set a-tremble. As soon as the cyclists were lost to view, I stomped on her instep and slipped around her meaty behind when she doubled over, losing myself in the crowd.

I caught a view of Eighth Street from a gap in the front line a little farther south, and saw the backside of Uncle Sam disappearing around the corner. Too late to catch up, but I only had to wait until he made a second lap. Then, by God, I'd have him.

No one here seemed to object to my presence, so I watched more racers fly by. From my vantage point looking down Eighth, I could see each rig slither to a stop in front of the judge's stand, some with more success than others. Working brakes were a requirement of every machine, but where mechanics failed, bribery stepped in. I watched a race judge accept a fat envelope from the mushroom crew as the crowd cheered wildly.

Two more racers rolled by, both simple designs of welded tubes without much decoration. A big pink crab with waving claws from Pacific Fish came next, sporting the logo, “The Crustacean Sensation: We Got Crabs!” A pirate ship followed, helmed by a sword-wielding woman with an eye patch and a wooden leg. A live parrot was perched on her shoulder. She exhorted her crew to greater speed and they responded, screeching around the corner at a pace that ruffled the bird's feathers.

A race official in black and white hurried along the course, urging the crowd back. “All the way to the sidewalk, folks,” he said, pointing right at me.

I took a shuffling step backward, loath to lose my position. A big shout went up from the corner of G and Ninth. Something big was on the move, headed our way.

I leaned forward along with everyone else, straining to catch a glimpse. Bright sunlight glinted off stainless steel. Rolling down the street was a massive silver dragon, its hide armored with pie pans, colanders, muffin tins, and hubcaps. Corrugated sheet metal had been cut to shape the plated ridge down its spine, and a long spiked tail trailed behind it. Its scaly head moved slowly from side to side, scanning the crowd. I recognized the pilot in front: Fenton Ziegler, with two more crew members behind him. So this was his carefully guarded secret.

The dragon's mouth dropped open, revealing rows of razor-sharp metal teeth. Then, to my astonishment, a ball of yellow flame shot forth, rippling the air with heat waves. The audience shrieked and applauded furiously.

“Amazing,” said the woman at my elbow.

The beast turned the corner, and I checked my watch. One minute to noon. The human foot came by again; one of the toenails had come off. Other familiar machines rolled by, but no sign of Uncle Sam. I cursed under my breath. Lost him again. Max and his team came by, and I waved and shouted.

The noon whistle sounded, a piercing blast from the Arlinda Fire Station. Everyone screamed and clapped as the racers leaned into their pedals. The Turnip Queen grabbed the microphone from the mayor and shouted, “For the glory!”

“FOR THE GLORY!” the crowd echoed back.

The foot was the first past the judge's stand, headed east on Eighth and leading by a half step. The chili pepper was right on its heel, followed by Team SmithBuilt, the four pilots pedaling furiously.

Ziegler's flaming dragon passed my spot again, dead last. Once again the flames erupted from the scaly head and the crowd leaped back in mock horror. The metal jaws swung back and forth, spewing more flames. Enough was enough, I thought. Then I saw Ziegler wrestling with the controls. The creature listed to the south, still breathing fire. Spectators scrambled to get out of the way, tripping and falling on the sidewalk.

Ziegler gripped the steering mechanism as his machine veered in the other direction. Now there was a note of panic in the screams of the crowd. The machine swept under a streetlight decorated with race banners and ignited them before turning again. This time it was headed straight for the judges' stand.

The two co-pilots bailed, leaping onto the pavement and rolling out of the path of the pit crew. Ziegler hung on grimly, his head low, trying to coax a response out of his handiwork. The mayor stood rooted to the spot as the wounded beast bore down on him. Then he sprang for the stairs, knocking over the Turnip Queen and one of the cameramen. I closed my eyes against the horrifying spectacle and heard the crash. The ground seemed to tremble underfoot. When I opened my eyes, the machine lay in pieces and the judging stand was in flames. A silver pie plate rolled forlornly along the pavement. Volunteer firefighters leaped into action, spraying foam over the inferno. The woman next to me fainted.