Author's Note: This is a short fic that occurred to me just this weekend. I'm sorry I didn't get it in earlier, as it's barely under the wire to be considered a "holiday" story.

The time period of this fic is Memorial Day weekend, 1984.

And oh, Happy (belated) Birthday to John Wayne!

-ck

Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback, not for profit.

MEMORIALS

by InitialLuv

A chorus of horrified exclamations came from the several men – and one woman – sitting in front of the large television. The most heard comment was "Oh God!" although there was an "Oh damn!" and a "Did you see that?" tossed in for good measure.

The "Oh damn!" belonged to Mark McCormick, and his reaction to the sight on the television was so extreme that he almost spilled his beer. Almost.

Mark was one of the several men, almost all racers or pit crew members, who had gathered in a garage at the local racetrack to watch the Indianapolis 500 on a fancy big screen television, which had been tapped into the track's satellite system. There were also a number of women – mostly girlfriends or family members – although the majority of the women had wandered to another area of the garage, near the food and liquor, to chat about things like Memorial Day parades and parties and how terribly hot it was for May.

One woman who had forgone the feminine chatter was Barbara Johnson. She was sitting in front of the TV with the men, in a folding chair beside Mark McCormick. And she was now staring in dismay at the screen, shaking her blonde head. "It's just . . . shattered," she moaned.

Patrick Bedard's car had spun and hit the wall, causing it to flip several times in the grass infield. The car had broken apart, leaving a trail of debris. There was little doubt that the racer was injured, and the commentators were now speculating on the seriousness of the probable injuries and the length of the caution that would be needed to clean up the track.

"Last guy that died at Indy was Smiley," Doug 'Digger' Hoyt said. "In '82."

'Slick' Vic Franks nodded. "That was during qualifying, though. Not sure who was the last driver to die during the race."

Uncomfortable with the recent memories brought up by the current topic, Mark sat back with a low grunt, draining his most recent can of beer in a long gulp. Next to him, Barbara was also unhappy with the discussion, but she had no qualms in letting Doug and Vic know. "Would you two just shut up and watch the race?" she ordered more than asked, anger and renewed grief prompting the uncharacteristic words.

"Not much to watch right now, it's caution," Vic muttered. Doug elbowed him, then turned to Barbara. "Sorry, Barb, didn't mean to make you upset." He leaned over, looking past Barbara and at Mark. "Sorry, Skid. You guys know we all miss Flip."

"Sure, Digger," McCormick said, his voice neutral. He rose, gesturing to the coolers under the table of food. "I'm gonna get another beer."

Barbara grabbed his wrist before he could walk away. "Get some food in your stomach, too, Mark," she said quietly.

He wanted to roughly shake off her wrist, to tell her not to baby him, but the muted sorrow in her eyes stopped him from doing either. Partially because he was fairly sure his eyes held the same haunted look.

The car accident that had killed Flip might not have been on a racetrack, but every little thing about today's race – and the company – had been reminding McCormick of his friend. Mark had actually called Barbara earlier in the week to suggest that they skip this annual get-together, knowing how difficult it would be to attend without her father. Barbara had been somewhat pragmatic. "We have to do this, Mark. I have to do this. I got through Thanksgiving and Christmas. . . " her voice had cracked over the phone, and it had taken her a few moments to continue. "I have to keep living. Dad wouldn't have wanted me to crawl into a hole and avoid everything that brings up bad memories."

And she was probably right. Flip wouldn't have wanted her to mourn forever.

Me neither, I guess.

But bad memories had been brought up. And Mark found they were easier to handle with liquid assistance, so once he extracted himself from Barbara's hand, he ignored the food table and instead pulled two fresh cans of beer out of the cooler.

ooOoo

After the Indy had ended and the appropriate amount of Rick Mears's victory celebration had been viewed, Vic began to fiddle with the satellite tuner to see if he could get the broadcast of the rest of the World 600, which was being run at Charlotte Motor Speedway, relatively concurrent with the Indianapolis 500. While there was a lull in the entertainment, McCormick took another trip to the beer cooler, and as he cracked a can open and took a hefty swig, he sidled up by Sammie Holden, who was standing near the nearly depleted chips and dip. Sammie was well-known around the track, a racing "groupie" who had gone out at least once with almost every man in the room. Mark and Sammie had dated briefly, before the Melinda Marshall debacle (the repercussions of which had caused Mark to miss the Indy viewing party for two years). He recalled that Sammie had been a fun girl – albeit somewhat "driven." "'Member me?" he asked the curvy brunette, his words slurring somewhat.

Sammie send a vague smile back. "Skip, right?"

"Skid, S-K-I-D, Skid," Mark corrected, then tried to stifle a belch, being only party successful. He took another long drink, his eyes running appreciatively over the woman's curves.

"Oh, sure, right." Sammie glanced off to the side, seeming distracted. "You're here with Barbara Johnson."

"Well, I came with her, but I'm not with her," McCormick clarified, confident Sammie would understand the distinction. Last year Sammie had accompanied Brad Bessom to the race viewing party, but she had not left with him, instead hooking up with Stu 'Wrong Way' Reitz. The two had committed the unforgivable error of leaving early, before the race was complete. Reitz had been teased mercilessly for weeks over that mistake – long after Bessom had forgiven Stu for leaving with his girl.

Mark went on, just in case Sammie needed additional information. "Like you came today with Tony, but you're not with him –"

"I am, though. I'm with Tony now. For a while, actually." Sammie reached out to awkwardly pat Mark's arm. "But it's been nice catching up with you, Matt." She wandered away, leaving Mark to stare after her, his face perplexed and his body swaying slightly.

Disgruntled and annoyed, McCormick returned to his folding chair and dropped into it gracelessly. Barbara took in his appearance and the new can of beer, shook her head tightly, and then reached out her hand. "Keys."

Mark looked at the petite blonde for a few seconds, then burst out laughing. "Barb, I don' need keys!"

"Just give me the keys, Mark. If I have to, I'll take the Coyote and leave. Then you'll be forced to stay here until you dry out, or until someone who hasn't been drinking can run you home."

Mark's expression became serious. "No, Barb, tomorrow – we gotta do tomorrow. You can't leave me."

Barbara shook her head again. "The way you are now, I don't know if you can handle tomorrow. I didn't know today was going to be so hard for you, and tomorrow . . ." She sighed heavily, her whole body seeming to deflate.

"I can handle it." Mark gripped Barbara's hand. "Today was just – seein' everyone, and knowing Flip should be here, and the looks from people and the stuff they were saying. . . And it was more than just losing Flip, y'know? It's everything else I lost." He dropped his head. "I didn't expect it to hurt so much."

"You haven't lost me."

McCormick gave Barbara's hand a brief squeeze. "Sorry – I haven't been much comfort to you today."

"I'm all right. But tomorrow, Mark – I think I'm really going to need your help tomorrow." She leaned forward to rest against him in a half-embrace. "So I'd like you to slow down with the beer. And give me your keys."

McCormick dug into his jeans pocket, then tossed the keys in Barbara's general direction, missing completely. As she bent down to pick them up, he took another swig of beer, emptying the can.

It was after five PM when Milton C. Hardcastle, retired judge, was interrupted from his reading by the ringing of the phone. Although the Indianapolis 500 had been over for hours, he hadn't yet heard from McCormick, so he had a fairly good idea who was on the other line. "Yeah, what is it?" he grumbled into the receiver.

"Judge? Hi! It's me. McCormick."

"I got it, kiddo," Hardcastle teased. "What's going on?"

"Um, yeah. Well, um, I'm not – I'm not gonna be home. For dinner, I mean."

"Yeah, I figured. What, you still hanging out with your friends? Going out to dinner with Barbara?"

"Barb. Yeah, I'm going to hang with Barb. Tonight. I mean, at Terry's. 'Cause Barb's staying with Terry. You know, her sister's mom's kid. No. Wait. Her mom's sister's kid? Is that right?"

"Are you talking about her cousin?"

"Yeah! That's it! Her cousin! Anyway, that's where I'm gonna be. But I'll be on the couch." The younger man's voice lowered some. "I hope Terry has a couch."

Milt found he was grinning, and he cleared his throat to dispel the rising laughter. "How much have you had to drink, McCormick?"

"Just a few beers. Like one every hundred miles. And the cautions. And maybe some commercials."

"How are you getting to Terry's?"

"Barbara's gonna drive the Coyote. You know her dad designed it, right?"

Milt sighed, sobering some. "Yeah, I know that, kiddo."

"Well, I wanted to call you, 'cuz I didn't want you to think I forgot Carlton's party tomorrow. I'll be home in time, 'kay?"

"It's just a barbeque, McCormick. If you're not up to it, you don't have to go."

"No!" Mark exclaimed, his voice earnest. "It's not 'til one, right? I'll be fine by then, once I get some sleep. I want to go, we said we'd go, I want t'go."

"All right, don't get your knickers in a twist. Just go with Barbara and get some sleep, and I'll see you tomorrow. Okay, kid?"

"Okay, Milt, Your Honor, sir." The official response gave the judge the mental image of the ex-con snapping off a salute. Even a wise-ass when he's drunk, he thought, his grin returning.

And after he disconnected the call with the kid, he realized his plans for the next morning would probably be much easier with McCormick's absence.

Some group or groups, possibly an American Legion or a VFW post, had gone through the cemetery placing small flags at all of the military graves, in honor of Memorial Day. Milt had brought his own flag, as he normally did, a somewhat larger, sturdier one, and he placed it in the slot in his son's marker, after first taking out the donated flag. He set the smaller flag aside; he'd take it with him on his way back to the car. He invariably came across another grave that had either a broken or a frayed flag, and he would place the donated flag there.

Not only had Milt brought a flag for his son, he'd brought a rose for Nancy, one of the best he'd been able to find on the Mister Lincoln bushes that she herself had planted at Gulls' Way. He placed the deep red rose on the top of the gravestone that held Nancy's name, then stepped back a few feet and centered himself between the two graves, before he began to speak.

"I miss you both. Tom, Nance. I think I miss you more today than any other day. That seems silly, doesn't it? Nancy, I'd think I'd miss you more on our anniversary, and Tom, I'd guess maybe Veteran's Day, but, well. . . " He glanced around the cemetery, already seeing several other people visiting gravesites, even at the early hour. "Memorial Day, it's just in the name, right? And it's everywhere you see: there's always parades and events, and the flower shops and stores sell fancy stuff to put up at cemeteries, or in mausoleums." His face screwed into an automatic scowl as he thought of "above ground burial." Not only an oxymoron, but unnatural.

Shaking off the negative thoughts, he moved forward to touch the rose above Nancy's name. "I brought one of your roses, Nance. They're doing well, you'd be impressed. That kid I got at the estate now, McCormick, I told you about him. . . He's really taken to the gardening, if you can believe it, city kid like him. You'd like him. I showed him how to prune the roses straight off, and he – "

A noise caused Hardcastle to break off, then turn away to look at the lower entrance to the cemetery. It was a familiar sound, and one that was pretty coincidental to what he had just been talking about to Nancy. The sound was the recognizable throbbing growl of the Coyote.

ooOoo

Mark clambered out of the Coyote, then moved around to the passenger side to aid Barbara. She climbed out on her own, waving off his assistance. "I'm all right, Mark. You're the one that looks like he needs help." She looked humorously at her disheveled, sunglasses-wearing friend.

Mark shrugged then grimaced, as the gesture caused a slice of pain to shoot through his shoulders and into his already-aching head. "Okay, fine, I drank too much. I got it, Barb. I also had to sleep on a pretty uncomfortable couch."

She slapped him lightly on the arm. "Your own fault. If you hadn't drank so much, you could've driven home last night."

"Yeah, I don't know if I would've wanted to. Hardcastle probably would have interrogated me about leaving early this morning, and I'm kind of glad I avoided that."

"Oh, I'm sure he would have understood, Mark."

Mark stepped away from the Coyote, walking wearily from the drive to the grave, making sure to not move too far ahead of Barbara. "Maybe," he allowed. "But this is kind of private, and I didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable or anything."

ooOoo

Milt stared down the slope at the red racecar, unconsciously moving behind a nearby tree as he watched his friend step out of the vehicle. "What is he doing here?" he muttered softly, wondering how McCormick even knew where to track him down. He hadn't mentioned he was coming to the cemetery today –

Then McCormick walked around to the passenger side of the vehicle, to where a smallish blonde woman was emerging, and the pieces abruptly fell into place. Barbara Johnson. Of course. "Flip. He must be buried here."

ooOoo

When Mark and Barbara finally approached Flip's grave, they did so in a platonic embrace, both wrapping one arm around the other's waist. Barbara had her head leaning against Mark, and she turned her face in, smothering a sudden sob into his chest. Mark tightened his arm around her, and kissed the top of her head. "It's okay, Barbara, I got ya."

ooOoo

The judge watched the tender scene below him, smiling gently. "Yeah, you'd like this kid, Nancy," he said softly.

ooOoo

Mark stared quietly at Flip's gravestone, reading the inscription ("Father, Friend") and dates, as he cuddled Barbara to him. I'm doing okay, Flip, he said internally. I miss you, especially this weekend, but I'm doing okay. We both are.

Barbara took a shuddering breath, drawing away and shaking her head quickly. "I'm all right now, Mark." She gazed at the small flag at her father's grave, placed there by an unknown person in recognition of his service during the Korean War. "I didn't think to get a flag," she murmured. "It was so long ago that Dad served, years before I was born, and he never talked about it." She reached forward to touch the donated flag, and let out a sad gasp as it tilted toward the ground. "Oh, the staff is broken."

"We can go pick up another one, come back to put it out here," McCormick offered.

Barbara shook her head, looking pensive. "No, I don't think I can come back later. I think this is all I can do today." She sniffed, rubbing at her face. "It'll be hard enough to visit again on Father's Day."

"You know you can always call me, Barb, I'll come out here with you. Whenever you need to."

Barbara embraced Mark fiercely. Then with a final look at her father's grave, she backed away, in preparation of moving toward the Coyote. But she paused while turning, as another vehicle caught her eye. "Mark. . ."

Mark was still studying Flip's headstone. "Hmm?"

"That car. It really looks like – is that Judge Hardcastle's car?"

McCormick pulled his head up, and moving closer to Barbara, he peered in the same direction, lifting his sunglasses and squinting into the distance. A classic Corvette was parked two drives above them and off to the side. It wasn't parked at the best angle to read the plate, but Mark was pretty damn sure that the plates on the distant convertible spelled out "D JUDGE."

Of course. "His wife and son. They must be buried here."

"You didn't know?"

Mark gazed around the cemetery, looking for his friend but not seeing him. He was almost glad that he didn't, worried the judge might think that he was keeping watch on him, or something.

"It's like I said, Barb," he said with a slow smile. "This is kind of private."

ooOoo

Milt waited until McCormick and Barbara had driven away in the Coyote before he came out from behind the tree. He felt a little ridiculous, hiding, but he hadn't wanted to intrude on the kids' privacy. Leaving his family's gravesite, he walked down to the area where he had seen Mark and Barbara visiting a grave. It didn't take him long to find the headstone for Johnny 'Flip' Johnson. He stood in front of it for a moment, his head lowered, saying a silent prayer.

And then he replaced the broken flag with the extra one he had taken from his son's grave.

END