Chapter 11: Martinsville

Daddy made eggs, bacon, grits and a pot of coffee strong enough to strip paint.

He set three plates down at the kitchen table and sat at the head of it.

Sutton sat across from me with his hair still flat on one side from the camper pillow.

Nobody said anything for a while.

"You put my customer's car in the wall?" Daddy asked finally.

"No, sir."

"Huh." He buttered a biscuit. "You going to put my daughter in the wall?"

Sutton set his fork down.

"No, sir."

"Every Tillery I ever met wanted something off of her."

"I want her to run my car," Sutton said. "And I want her to tell me no when I'm wrong. That's about all I want that I'll say at your table."

Daddy chewed for a long time.

Then he pushed the grits across.

"Eat," he said. "You're too skinny for a man your size."

That was the closest thing to a blessing I'd ever seen him give.

A week later I walked into Martinsville Speedway with my own credential around my neck.

It was the first time I'd set foot on a track since November.

The boot lady had flown in from Tennessee to paint my name on the roof rail herself.

She did it in the garage that morning with a stencil and a can of white paint, and the old men stood around her.

CREW CHIEF: EMMY BURCHAM.

No tape.

Martinsville is half a mile around and shaped like a paperclip.

The pit stalls sit so close together you can hear the next crew breathing.

Tillery Racing's stall was four down from ours.

When I climbed onto the #4's pit box and put my headset on, their crew turned around and looked at me.

One of the tire changers whistled.

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