11.1

Inquiries into the Brighton Speedway incident found there were too many factors to determine responsibility to any one, or group, of riders. Focusing on the weather - both as a convenient excuse and to lessen any further public objection over track owners or unnecessary risks or the sport itself, the official ruling stated the accident was an 'Act of God.' What 'God' this was Steve wouldn't consider; because it was his actions and not those of any unseen being that caused James' death. And no hearing or board or assembly could judge otherwise, because none could judge the weight of his anguish. For the first two weeks, he'd questioned himself: "What if I'd done 'this' differently, or hadn't taken 'that' chance? If I had only paid more attention to the track or the riders around me or... if I hadn't been so set on proving I could keep up with James, ride as good or better than he can, and paid attention to the flags or even counted the damn laps!"

But no matter how long or closely he'd played and re-played those seconds in his head, there was nothing he could change.

Nightmares invaded his sleep; images of James' body, bloodied and lifeless; visions of Steve reaching out to grasp his friend from the path of oncoming bikes, but no matter how desperately he reached out something persisted in pulling him further and further away; horrors where he had not only caused James' death; but had actually killed him with his own hands. In time Steve had taken to staying up at night until exhaustion overtook him and he drifted off for a few minutes, or possibly an hour or so, until the torments returned.

Starting the third week, he'd tried to contact Keri but letters went unanswered, flowers were refused and returned and even telegrams received no reply. Over the first ten or so days, Uncle or Aunt or their maid would hang up the phone the moment they realized Steve was on the line. After less than two weeks, they stopped answering at all. The first time he'd gone to the house he was told no one was at home even though, past the partially-opened door, Steve could see peoples' shadows formed on the walls of the sitting room. The second time – when he'd knocked on the door, no one answered and he'd gone down to the garage to pick up a few tools and other belongings – a patrol car had come by, the officers telling him there'd been a complaint about a trespasser on private property and he'd have to leave immediately or be arrested.

While the F.A.M. hadn't revoked his Competition Card, any passion Steve had for motorcycle racing had been torn away. After the ambulances had sped toward the hospitals and the crowd gone home and the other teams packed up, he'd left his machine – along with the truck and the tent and extra parts and everything else that had been a part of the 'Shamrock Twins' - with Leo, keeping only the uniform sweater he'd forgot he had on.

"Best to take it easy, pal." Leo had advised. "They'se guys around, ya know, waitin' to take advantage of udder guys that's had a bad rap, there. Kick a man when he's down, get ya to take risks ya wouldn't wanna do if youse was thinkin' straight. I'll keep all your stuff 'till you tell me ya' need 'em."

But Steve would never again need 'em.

Filled with nervous energy and no outlet, the actions he'd taken since the race – jumping head-on onto trolleys going full speed; picking fights in bars (when he knew he'd never been particularly good with his fists); and even, during a handful of hours over three weeks, taken enough lessons in an airplane that on the seventh flight the pilot handed the controls over to Steve who managed to keep the craft in the air, but immediately crashed when attempting to land, ending both his flying career and the instructor's business - were all explained away as 'stunts' or 'adventures' or 'young men's follies' by onlookers and the cameramen who always seemed to show up even though he wasn't performing for their benefit. Waking up one morning, disoriented from liquor and night terrors; shirt bloody from a fight he'd gotten into and didn't remember; he had begun to consider if his behavior could be a death wish, a way for him to punish himself if no one else would.

Even Maddie who, favoring their father, had always believed 'nothing good' could come of racing and, when she wasn't otherwise occupied regularly lectured Steve on 'unnecessary risks' and 'if anything happens to you who will provide for mother when she's old'; acquired a moderately-sympathetic yet self-righteous attitude when all that Steve wished is that she tell him to go to the devil and be done with it.

Only Steves' mother, singularly and despite her ill health, provided any solace.

"Do you remember when you ran away from home?" she asked one day while resting on the chaise in the back parlor. While the doctors had strongly advised she remain in bed, she so enjoyed looking out into the garden Maddy or Steve or the housekeeper or her maid would help her downstairs whenever she had the strength.

"Ran away?" Steve replied from a nearby chair where he was keeping her company; even as she could once again watch over her son. " ...you mean when I was just a kid, five or six?"

"Yes, you took the dog – Goliath - you couldn't pronounce his name..." She took two short, labored breaths. In these past weeks her breathing had become more difficult. "...so you called him 'Go-lighly'."

"Are you alright, mother? Would you like a drink of water...?"

"I'm fine. If only I could get comfortable...You packed an apple, half a fried chicken and two pieces of blueberry pie that you wrapped in a napkin. Hardly enough for you and the dog, no matter how long a journey you'd planned."

"Great dog. Bigger than I was. I guess I thought no matter where I was going, he'd protect me."

"All day your father assured me you'd come home, but when it started to turn dark I just knew you were lost - breathe-in-exale-out - and I insisted we take the Buggy - that little car we'd ordered from Sears – and search until we found you."

"Which was sitting under a tree in the park just down the street. No more than a couple of blocks over. I remember. Father was furious. Actually, most of the time he was mad at me for some reason or other."

"No, Steven, you're mistaken. Your father loves you. As much as I do. He just never understood you."

"He wanted me to be like him. Never supported me in anything he didn't think was worthy."

"Only because he wants the best for you. Can you help me with this pillow, please. I'm so tired..."

"You should rest, mother."

"Later. You must hear this. Steven, you're running away again. But you don't have a dog or your father or me to protect you."

"I'm just going through some hard times..."

"And your response is to run away? To look for pity or drown your sorrows or hope that by experiencing injury..." - breathe – must - breathe - "...that will somehow overshadow a deeper pain? Is that how we taught you? Is that what James would want? Is that what you want others to think of you?"

She tried to rise, but the agony grew beyond what she could bear.

"Oh...OH. I'm sorry, son, it's worsening..."

"Mother, please rest. We can talk about this later."

"If either of us continue as we are – you with your selfishness, me...as I am...there may not be a later."

"Mother..."

"All your life I encouraged you to pursue what you wished. In his way, your father sought that you be the best man you could be. We both wanted you to move forward; not in our way, but in yours. To always run toward what you seek, not run away from what you fear. But now, it seems what you fear is yourself. We did not raise you to be a coward. Now please, help me upstairs. I am so tired..."