Racing in the Rain Read Free Page A

close friends of theirs. I was allowed to participate only under strict rules. I was not to roam freely on the beach, as I might track sand onto the expensive mahogany floors. And I was forced to do my “business” in a very specific location next to the recycling containers.
    Upon our return from Whidbey, I noticed that Eve moved through our apartment with a greater sense of ownership. She was much bolder in her actions to move or replace things: towels, linens, and even furniture. She had entered our lives and changed everything around. And yet, while I was unhappy with her intrusion, there was something about her that prevented me from being really angry with her. I believe that thing was her swollen belly.
    True, I was very jealous of the attention Eve lavished on her unborn baby. But, looking back, I realize I had never given her a reason to give that same attention to me. Perhaps that is my regret. I loved how she was when she was pregnant, and yet I knew I could never be the source of her affection in that way because I could never be her child.
    She devoted herself to the baby before it was even born. She touched it regularly through her tightly stretched skin. She sang to it and danced with it to music she played on the stereo. She learned to make it move around by drinking orange juice, which she did frequently. She once asked if I wanted to know what it felt like, and I did, so she held my face against her belly after she had drunk the juice, and I felt it move. It was hard for me to imagine exactly what was going on behind the magic curtain. But I knew that what was inside of her was separate from her, and had a will of its own.
    I admire the female sex. The life makers. It must be amazing to have a body that can carry an entire creature inside. (I mean, other than a tapeworm, which I’ve had. That doesn’t count, really.) The life that Eve had inside her was something she had made. She and Denny had made it together. I wished, at the time, that the baby would look like me.
    I remember the day the baby arrived. I had just reached adulthood—two years by calendar count. Denny was in Daytona, Florida, for the drive of his career. He had spent the entire year contacting sponsors, begging, pleading, and hustling. One day he got lucky and found the right person in the right hotel lobby to say, “You’ve got guts, son. Call me tomorrow.” Thus, he found his long-sought sponsor dollars and was able to buy a seat in a Porsche 993 for the twenty-four-hour race at Daytona.
    Endurance racing is not for the meek. Four drivers each spending six hours behind the wheel of a loud, powerful race car is an exercise in determination. The 24 Hours of Daytona is as unpredictable as it is exciting. That Denny was presented with a chance to drive it in the same year that his daughter would be born was one of those coincidences that was open to interpretation. Eve was dismayed by the unfortunate timing of the events; Denny celebrated the great opportunity and the feeling that he had everything he could possibly ask for.
    Still, the timing was off. On the day of the race, Eve felt the contractions and called the midwives. They came and invaded our home and quickly took charge. Later that evening, as Denny was driving at Daytona, Eve stood bent over the bed with two round ladies who helped her by holding her arms. Then, with a monstrous bellow that seemed to last an hour, out squirted a little wet blob that wriggled spastically and then cried out. The ladies helped Eve into her bed and rested the tiny purple thing on her chest until the baby’s searching mouth found Eve’s breast and began to feed.
    â€œCould I have a minute alone—?” Eve started.
    â€œOf course,” one of the ladies said, moving to the door.
    â€œCome with us, puppy,” the other lady said to me on her way out.
    â€œNo”—Eve stopped them—“He can stay.”
    I could stay? Despite myself, I