Chapter 10

"It's all gonna be okay…"

The words seemed to echo around the dark old church, the flickering light from the sconces on the walls failing to penetrate into the deepest corners of the cavernous room. The rows of lit votives to one side barely illuminated the Virgin Mary that hung suspended on the wall above them, the shadows wavering about her painted features, concealing the many years of candle smoke that darkened the pallor of her complexion.

The dimness was especially intense in comparison to the heartbreakingly beautiful March day outside. An overnight shower had washed away the ever-present smog, revealing a crystal clear view of the Santa Monica Mountains standing majestically to the northwest, while the gentle Pacific breezes brought fluffy white clouds scurrying across a deep blue canopy. The dazzling weather was all the more remarkable for its well-timed appearance on this, the second day of spring.

Mark McCormick had stood outside the old church in the cool air of that Sunday morning, leaning casually against a parking meter as he waited for early Mass to end. He had never before visited this particular church, located deep within the old section of Los Angeles; he had stopped on an impulse that he could not explain, even to himself. Even now, he was on the verge of flight, but as a scattering of the faithful began to exit through the heavy oak doors, he forced himself to remain where he was. Waiting until the last of the attendees had made their final farewells and set off to other destinations, he quickly crossed the sidewalk, as though he might yet lose his nerve, and started up the stone steps that were deeply sunk by the many feet that had trod them since the church was built back in the late 1880's.

McCormick's face gave away nothing of his thoughts, dark glasses concealing whatever might have been revealed in his blue eyes, but as he hesitated at the church's entrance, he noticed a small Protestant church standing on the opposite corner, sounds of singing issuing forth from its opened windows. Absently he listened to the music; suddenly the corner of his mouth twitched, and he slowly removed his sunglasses, casting a glance up toward the sun-kissed sky. As he turned and passed through the doors, the final words of the old hymn drifted faintly in the air behind him. All other ground is sinking sand ...

Entering the vestibule, McCormick paused at the font of holy water, dipping his fingers into its coolness and crossing himself, before walking through another set of doors into the sanctuary. Blinking in the sudden darkness, he slowly made his way down the center aisle, his face closed and remote, pale against the smoky darkness. As he came to a halt between the two front pews, his serious eyes searched out and met those of the Christ figure who looked out from the large painted Crucifix hanging over the high altar. He stood there for several minutes, looking up into those strangely knowing eyes in solemn contemplation; then, with a slight smile of kinship, he crossed himself again and knelt at the chancel rail.

McCormick remained there for a long time, head bowed in deep concentration, only vaguely aware of a quick splinter of light piercing the dimness as the sanctuary doors opened and closed with a well-oiled quietness. As his lips moved in a silent recitation of barely-remembered phrases, he felt someone kneel beside him, and glancing over to his right, he saw the old parish priest deep in prayer at his side. At the end of his own time of prayer, McCormick sat back against his heels and leaned forward to rest his forehead tiredly against his tightly clasped hands. Then he rose to his feet, made his reverence to the calmly watching figures on the walls, and turned to slowly retrace his steps up the long, polished aisle, his face as grave as when he had entered.

Just as he reached the end of the aisle, he paused beside the very last pew to his left, his expression softening as he looked down at the white-haired man who sat slumped in the seat, head back, eyes closed, a faint snoring coming from deep in his throat. McCormick chuckled, a quirky grin chasing away some of the gravity from his face, as he leaned over and shook the sleeper's shoulder. "Hey, Hardcase, wake up. It doesn't look so good, you know, snoring in church."

Hardcastle awakened with a snort and a grumbled, "Whaddaya mean, snoring? I wasn't snoring!"

"Yeah, sure you weren't," McCormick answered, rolling his eyes heavenward. "C'mon, move over and let me sit down." The judge obligingly scooted over, and McCormick sank gratefully into the cool, smooth wooden seat, slouching down until he could lean his head against the curved pew back. He closed his eyes, forcing his muscles to relax in defiance of a tension that he could not seem to shed, even all these weeks back into the routine of his normal daily life – or what passed for normal daily life in these days of lectures, and studies, and research. With his eyes still closed, he remarked, "You know, Judge, you didn't have to come in here. You coulda waited out in the truck. It's too nice a day to be sitting back here in the dark like this."

"Yeah, well," Hardcastle replied, his own head leaned back and his eyes closed once more, "it'll be a while before I'll be inclined to sit in anything on four wheels for longer than a few minutes unless it's actually rolling. I think I've had enough of the other way to last me whatever's left of my lifetime."

McCormick stirred restlessly, sensing Hardcastle's steady gaze in his direction. He opened his eyes and glanced aside to see that the judge was now studying the Stations that hung at judicious intervals around the sanctuary, remarking as he did so, "This isn't so bad. I remember when I was a kid, I had a Catholic buddy who lived in town, and I used to spend the night with him some Saturday nights. The rule was, I always had to meet up with the rest of the family the next morning by the ten o'clock Sunday school time, but once in a while I'd go with my friend and his folks to the early eight o'clock Mass first." He chuckled softly. "I never told Mama about that part, though, she'd have had a fit, good Southern Baptist that she was. Me, I just figured you folks had a different way of worshiping, was all the difference between us."

The judge paused, his face thoughtful. "You know, they used the old Latin back then, which was pretty fascinating to a ten-year-old. I'd sit through the service, the homily and the blessing of the bread and wine and all, then slip out when everyone got up to go to communion. I never did get a handle on that transubstantiation stuff, but I figured eventually it would be up to God to decide who was right, the Baptists or the Catholics or the Methodists or the Presbyterians or whoever." He flicked a crooked grin across to his companion. "I guess I'm kinda hoping that it won't make any difference to Him who believes what, as long as we get all the basics right."

"Yeah," McCormick said, his eyes brooding as he studied the Virgin Mary. "Me too." He glanced back over toward Hardcastle, relaxed in the pew beside him. "Judge, I appreciate you letting me stop here." He laughed in embarrassment. "I know it seemed like it was out of the blue; I mean, it's not even like I've ever even been in this church before. But it's Sunday, and it was just so nice outside, and you've been feeling so good this week, and ... and ... well, it just seemed like something I needed to do."

"Don't worry about it, kid," Hardcastle replied, reaching out to the next pew and pulling himself to his feet with an effort. "It's not like we're in any kind of hurry."

"No, I suppose we aren't," McCormick said, rising and stepping out into the aisle, one wary eye on Hardcastle's progress. "And I can't tell you what a relief that is."

"What, not being in a hurry?" asked Hardcastle, a quizzical look on his face. "You been feeling particularly harried lately?"

"Well, yeah, what with mid terms and spring break and everything, but that's not what I meant." McCormick stood aside and let Hardcastle precede him into the vestibule. He paused at the font and dipped his fingers once more into the cool water, suddenly settling into a quiet stillness as the sparkling droplets spilled softly across his fingertips. Then he glanced up at Hardcastle, his face serious and rather sad. "It wasn't so long ago that I was thinking that there wasn't ever gonna be enough time, that we'd already used it all up in the Edsel ..." Even now, he balked at the thought, and he quickly looked back toward the font, his eyes dazzled by the reflections of the multicolored sunlight that came down from the rose window high above – and perhaps by something more.

He was brought back to the present by the irritable impatience in Hardcastle's voice. "Look, enough already. We survived the Edsel, your head's back to being hard as ever, and as for the rest of it, well, I was wrong, okay?" McCormick looked up as Hardcastle assumed a tone of resigned repetition. "It's not like I didn't warn you that doc was a little weird, all worst case scenario, and that's for the treatable stuff, for sweet pity's sake. But no, you gotta go and take the first words out of his mouth right at face value, which is a heck of a note, considering that you wouldn't even think about believing me."

"Well, when he said how very, very, very ..." McCormick paused, apparently to count up the 'very's' in his head, "... very, very sorry he was, what was I supposed to think, huh?" He shook his head in annoyance. "If that's the way he acts when it's something they can take care of with surgery and medication, what do you suppose he says when it's really bad news?"

"Beats me. The main thing is, my gallbladder's gone, and everything else is on the mend, and maybe if I'd done something about it from the beginning, I wouldn't have had such a hard time getting over it all." Hardcastle studied the font thoughtfully and said, "You know, come to think of it, I was kinda rough on him, snapping at him and everything, even though I still think he coulda done a better job of delivering the so-called bad news. Still, I imagine pancreatitis can be pretty serious stuff, especially when the gallbladder's going bad at the same time. You toss in a bruised-up liver, and it can probably get a little hairy."

"Judge, it was pretty serious stuff, and it did get a little hairy. You were a lot closer to being right than I thought you were." McCormick was briefly conscious of an impulse to shake the old donkey, out of sheer exasperation – or perhaps just because he was actually still around to shake. "You almost died, remember?"

"Well, sure I remember, but it's not like it was the doctor's fault." Hardcastle gave a sudden snort of amusement. "Poor guy. I'll never forget the look on his face when you passed out on us."

"You might think it was funny, but I was pretty embarrassed, let me tell you. I must've looked like an idiot."

"No, you looked like a really sick kid who'd just had the wits scared clean out of him." Hardcastle smiled as he slapped McCormick's arm lightly. "C'mon, kiddo, let's wrap it up here and hit the road. Like you say, it's a beautiful day out there; it'd be a crime not to enjoy it, right?"

"Right." McCormick could not resist an answering smile, in automatic response to the enthusiasm that had become so evident once the judge's health had begun to improve. McCormick studied the water once more, the memories that seemed to be reflected in its sunlit sparkle, before turning abruptly and heading toward the doors. "Let's go, Judge. I'm getting hungry."

As they passed through the heavy wooden doors out into the bright sunshine, McCormick shielded his eyes with one hand as he gazed across the street. The Protestant church he had noticed earlier was just letting out, its members spilling into the street in a wave of laughing chatter. The men were dressed in sober blacks and grays, but the women were decked out in pastels as multicolored as the rose window, despite the fact that Easter, the traditional harbinger of spring attire, was still three weeks away.

Insensibly cheered by the sight, it was with a noticeably lighter countenance that he herded Hardcastle across the street to the truck, swinging himself into the driver's seat and unprecedentedly leaving the judge to fend for himself. After all, the judge really was a lot better now, and they had no reason to believe he wouldn't be good as new in a couple weeks' time. So in marked contrast to his own behavior of the last five weeks, McCormick allowed the judge to climb into the passenger seat unaided, and even let him fasten his own seatbelt.

It was too much to expect that this odd occurrence would go unnoted, and McCormick wasn't the least bit surprised when Hardcastle flashed him a glance and said sardonically, "Bet that wasn't very easy for you, was it?"

McCormick replied without hesitation, "No, but I'll adjust. What's gonna be hard on you is when I go back to school next week. And this time, Hardcase, you're gonna be completely on your own. No more mad dashes from school to the estate at lunchtime to see that you're eating right, no more phone calls in the middle of the afternoon to make sure you're still ambulatory and in one piece. And," McCormick continued triumphantly as he glanced at the rearview mirror and swung the truck out into traffic, "you're gonna have to go back to driving your own truck and running your own errands. What about them apples?"

"And here I am spoiling you, getting you your very own riding mower with its very own Briggs and Stratton engine. Just for that, I'll do my own mowing from here on in."

"Don't push your luck, Hardcase," McCormick replied in a warning tone. He shot a mock glare at his grinning passenger, who just turned to look out the window as he pulled on his cap, a black one with the grillwork of a Monte Carlo emblazoned on the front, a stylized numeral three and a distinctively aggressive signature decorating either side.

They cruised in contented silence for several minutes, with no set destination in mind, only a mutual desire to be free of the unusually stifling confines of Gulls' Way. Suddenly Hardcastle perked up and gestured to a restaurant just ahead. "Why don't we eat there? We haven't been there in a while."

It was Hardcastle's turn to glare, as McCormick smiled and serenely drove past the restaurant in question. "I don't know, Judge, I don't have a lot of good associations with that place, and I've had enough of bad associations for awhile. Besides, with my luck, we'd get Bernie as our waiter, and I don't know if any of us could stand that." He shot a mischievous grin at Hardcastle. "C'mon, let's live dangerously and eat Mexican or something. It's not like you have a gallbladder to protect, you know."

"Easy for you to say," Hardcastle said, gazing wistfully over his shoulder as his first choice rapidly receded into the distance. "Believe it or not, there really are better things in life than eating food that can turn your insides into Mount St. Helens." He sighed and turned once more to McCormick. "Look, just find us a good steakhouse, okay? I think I'm in the mood for a nice thick porterhouse."

"Hey, if you're in the mood for steak and you're the one who's buying, who am I to say no?" McCormick quickly found a likely looking establishment only a few blocks further down, and a few minutes later they were both comfortably ensconced in a well-equipped booth, ice water before them, and orders dispatched to the kitchen for two large steaks, medium rare, complete with Caesar salad, baked potatoes, and dessert.

"Boy, this is nice," McCormick commented as he finally began to sense his muscles easing their tension. "Good call, Judge."

"Why, thank you," Hardcastle responded with a twinkle in his eye. "Sometimes I do manage to make 'em. By the way, I know it's early to ask, but I was wondering what you had planned at the end of May."

"The end of May? Um, nothing, far as I know. I'll be out for the summer by then, won't I? I expect I'll be cutting the lower forty on my new lawnmower, cleaning the pool – doing all the normal, McCormick-type stuff that needs doing around a rich old buzzard's oceanfront estate. Who knows, I might even find myself a part-time job with a law firm somewhere." He raised his eyebrows at Hardcastle. "You got something else in mind?"

"Well, yeah. It's Memorial Day that last weekend in May, see, and I thought I might take a trip, and I kinda thought you might want to come along. It'd be just me and you, though, so I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want to." Hardcastle spoke in a rush, as though he were afraid McCormick might hold against him what had happened the last time they had taken a trip together. "But I got these tickets in the mail yesterday morning, and I thought maybe I could share 'em with you. What do you think?"

"I think it's been mostly me and you for the last three years, and all things considered, I think I prefer it that way for a while – for guy stuff, anyway." McCormick leaned across the table, eyeing the judge curiously. "Just what kind of tickets are we talking about?"

"Wait a minute, I got 'em right here in my pocket." Slowly Hardcastle drew out an envelope, his actions reminding McCormick poignantly of the Daytona 500 tickets and their near-tragic aftermath. Hardcastle tossed the envelope across the table. "Here, you think you might be interested?"

McCormick cast another suspicious glance at Hardcastle before running a finger beneath the flap and peering into the envelope. A sense of disbelief came over him as he slid its contents onto the table, staring in reverent astonishment. The odd-looking logo on the tickets, a tire with wings, would have meant nothing to a layman, but any racing fanatic in the world would have instantly recognized the insignia of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

He brought his astonished gaze up to Hardcastle's expectant face. "The Indy 500? You're taking me to the Indy 500?"

"Well, sure," Hardcastle replied innocently. "Don't you want to go?"

"Want to go – ? Hell, yes, I want to go!" His eyes lit up with excitement, McCormick couldn't seem to stop grinning. "Man, oh, man. I can't believe this. We're going to the Indianapolis 500!" His enthusiasm swiftly changed to apprehension, however, as he said anxiously, "But, Judge, that's a lot of money to shell out, coming right on top of what you spent on the Daytona deal, to say nothing of all the hospital bills. And are you sure you're gonna feel up to it?" Even the thought of accomplishing a lifelong ambition like seeing the Indy 500 in person wasn't quite enough to quell the worries about Hardcastle that even the judge's steady recovery had not yet dispelled, despite McCormick's earlier bravura performance in the truck.

"Relax, McCormick," Hardcastle answered, a hint of affection lurking beneath the impatience in his voice. "It's my money; I'll spend it how I want. And I keep telling you, I'll be fine. Good Lord, we're talking two months from now."

"Yeah, we are, aren't we?" replied McCormick, the smile returning to both his face and his eyes. "And of course you'll be fine." Suddenly, he shook his head wildly, his curls dancing around his ears, trying to convince himself that this was real. "Wow. Oh, wow. Five years ago I thought I might never see another race, and now I'm getting Daytona and Indy, both in the same year. Who knew? Whoever knew?"

As the judge sipped his water in elaborate unconcern, McCormick swiped the hair from his eyes and leaned back in his seat as the waitress brought their salads. "So tell me, Hardcase," he said, looking sideways at the judge as he speared a choice morsel of dressing-drenched lettuce, "what do you get from all this? You can't tell me that going to Indy has been a burning desire in you from Day One."

"Well, no," Hardcastle answered judiciously. "But that doesn't mean I never wanted to go just once; I think most people do. As for what I get out of it, well ..." He scowled in an effort to think. "Let's see. I get to sing 'Back Home Again in Indiana' along with Jim Nabors. I might get to meet Mario Andretti and Al Unser and A.J. Foyt up close and personal – I got contacts in Indianapolis too, ya know – and then, well ..." Suddenly his face was transformed by the pixie-like smile that made him look ten years younger and only appeared when he was genuinely amused. "Maybe I get to get my eardrums blasted out by thirty-three weird-looking cars going two hundred miles per hour, making left-hand turns for four solid hours – except when they start making right-hand turns into the wall or each other."

McCormick laughed, then continued eating his salad for a few minutes, surreptitiously surveying his friend as he did so. Everything really is going to be okay, he thought, as he watched the judge greet their tray-laden waitress with every evidence of anticipation, having already downed his salad in almost record time. They munched on in companionable silence, each man thinking his own thoughts, as they passed from salad to steak to dessert with nary a pause.

"You know what I'm looking forward to seeing at Indy, Judge?" asked McCormick musingly, glancing up from his dessert.

"No, what?" said Hardcastle, reaching over to snag a bite of McCormick's strawberry cheesecake.

"Hey, cut that out!" protested McCormick. "You've got your own dessert!"

"Yeah, but it's not cheesecake," Hardcastle replied in a mumble, as he chewed contentedly on his ill-gotten gains. He swallowed his morsel, took a swig of tea, and then asked ingenuously, "No, what?"

"Whaddaya mean, no what?" McCormick rather crankily responded, as he jealously guarded the last of his precious cheesecake.

"You asked me if I knew what you were looking forward to seeing at Indy, and I said, no, what? And now I'm sayin' 'no, what' again. Whatcha think? Third time's a charm, maybe?"

"Mmmphmphh," answered McCormick, gulping down his last bite of cheesecake. He took a sip of Coke, then said dreamily, "I want to see that strip of brick. You know, the part of the old brickyard that they've never paved over. Every racer who's ever won at Indy has crossed that strip of brick, along a whole bunch of the best open-wheel drivers in the world who never won the Indy 500 at all." His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. "There's a lot of great racing gone on there, Judge. Heck, forget the bricks. I want to see Gasoline Alley. I want to see the museum. I want to see it all."

McCormick took one last swallow of his soft drink, then asked with deceptive casualness, "We gonna drive to Indiana, Judge?"

"No!" Hardcastle replied emphatically. "We're gonna fly. That way, if something goes wrong, we won't have to wait two days for it all to play out. We'll get it over with, all at one time."

"But we're going to rent a car when we get there, right?"

Hardcastle was pulling out his wallet for the check, and he glanced suspiciously at McCormick as he tossed a couple of bills onto the table for the tip. "Yeah, I suppose we'll have to, otherwise the cab fares will eat us alive. Why're you asking?"

McCormick assumed his patented hopeful-puppy-dog look. "Can I pick out our rental car, Judge? Can I? C'mon, Judge, let me pick out the rental car."

"McCormick ..."

"Aw, c'mon, Judge, let me pick the car. You picked the race!"

Hardcastle in turn assumed his patented long-suffering look. "McCormick, look what happened last time I let you pick out the car."

"It wasn't the Edsel's fault everything went wrong!"

"Maybe not, but if it'd been a Chevy or a Dodge, it wouldn't have ended up costing me a fortune. For God's sake, McCormick, they charged me rental the entire time we were waiting for the insurance adjusters to total it!"

"Well, that's not gonna happen this time." McCormick smiled winningly. "I promise, Judge, this time, no Edsels."

"And no Studebakers, and no Rolls Royces, and no Ferraris, and no Triumphs." Hardcastle stood up as the waitress returned with his change, then followed McCormick to the foyer, saying as he replaced his wallet, "Just a normal car, McCormick, something a little on the common side, like you and me would ride around in every day."

"Right, Judge. I got the perfect car in mind."

0000000000

Hardcastle stopped for a moment as he watched McCormick heading cheerfully for the exit, suddenly beset with a notion that perhaps he should have thought a little harder about what he was saying before he actually said it.

Then, shrugging, he snatched a toothpick from the dispenser at the counter in the lobby, only to feel the fragile wood snap in two between his fingers as he heard McCormick's voice drifting through the open doorway where he stood waiting, saying in happy anticipation, "You're gonna love it, Judge, it's just like what we've been riding around in for years. We're gonna rent us a DeLorean!"

The End!