Epilogue
--Author's note: Oh, wow ... it's over. I'm sort of sad to be finished now. Oh well. You haven't heard (or read) the last of me, I've already got a new story in mind.--
Dear Mr. Shimura.
This will be the last you ever hear from me, not only because you'll likely be in jail for the rest of your life, but also because I feel any ties that we had have been permanently severed. As such, I'm finally free to tell you what I truly think of you.
You are nothing less than an egocentric maniac. You're evil and selfish and you've never been loved or known how wonderful it is to love someone. Momma didn't love you; I could see it in her eyes the day I left.
I think I finally know the true reason you hate Speed Racer so much. It may have started about his parents and their car business, but now, I know, it's because he's a good person. He's naturally good. And he loves me. That's why you wanted to take him from me. You want me alone and miserable like you. But it'll never be that way.
Goodbye, Mr. Shimura. And, this time, may it be forever.
Sincerely yours,
Trixie Shimura
I stared at the closing, shook my head, and crossed it out with my pen.
Sincerely yours,
Trixie Racer
"Yes," I said, nodding stoutly at the change.
Speed knocked softly on the door and asked, "What are you doing?"
"Writing a letter to Mr. Shimura in jail," I replied.
"Oh," he said. He peered over my shoulder at the paper. His eyes closed in on the name in the farewell.
"I'll change it back to Shimura, if you think that's going a bit too far," I said. I started to reach into my pen cup to find a white-out bottle. He grabbed my arm to stop me.
I looked up at his face. He was staring at the paper and smiling. But this time, there was no question about it, his smile wasn't humorous; it was one of pure joy.
He kissed my cheek and said, "I do love you, Trixie."
"I know," I replied. "And I love you, too."
"Why don't you seal that thing up?" he asked. "I'll take you down to the mailbox. I'm pretty sure, if we get a move on, we can drop it off before the mailman gets there."
"Okay," I said, folding the piece of paper.
We walked down the sidewalk together, his arm around my waist and mine around his neck.
"Trixie Racer," I said aloud. "You think it has a ring to it?"
"Oh, yeah!" he answered. "Just … don't sign autographs with it for a while—the Racing Chronicle just might publish a story that we went to Fuji and eloped the night after the Grand Prix."
We burst out into laugher and passed the garage. The door was open. Pops and/or Sparky were probably working. Sitting side by side, clear coats gleaming in the sun, were the Mach 5 and the TRX helicopter.
And so, the status quo has restored itself again … for now.