The Perk of the Pit

Howard had been talking about this car show for three weeks, so when our anniversary landed on the same weekend, I didn't even bother pretending to be surprised. We drove out to the county fairgrounds Saturday morning, windows down, his old truck rattling over the gravel lot like it was complaining the whole way.

"Thirty-eight years," he said, killing the engine. "And you still let me drag you to things with tire smoke."

"I married a mechanic, Howard. I knew what I was getting."

"That you did." He leaned over and kissed my cheek. "Happy anniversary, Darla."

The fairgrounds were dustier than I remembered from the county fair days. Dry grass, sun bleached everything, and a long line of hot rods and stock cars parked along the fence behind the grandstands. Howard made a beeline for the pit area like a dog that smells bacon.

"That's the one," he said, stopping in front of a low black stock car with the number 28 stenciled on the door. "Kid who owns it is supposed to be good. Local boy, moving up. Nolan Anthony."

I looked the car over, then looked at the pit around it. Tools scattered on a folding table. A fuel jug sitting uncapped next to a fire extinguisher that clearly hadn't been inspected since the Nixon administration. And the kid himself, all of maybe twenty-eight, arguing with a blonde woman about tire pressures.

"Something wrong?" Howard asked, catching my face.

"That's not a pit, that's an HR lawsuit with wheels," I said. "Uncapped fuel, no proper barriers, and is that extension cord running through a puddle?"

Howard laughed so hard a couple of people turned around. "There she is. Thirty-eight years of personnel files and you can't turn it off."

"I can turn it off. I choose not to."

Unfortunately for me, the kid heard some of it. He came over wiping his hands on a rag, grinning like he'd never lost anything in his life.

"You got something to say about my pit, ma'am?" he asked.

"It's not your pit I'm worried about, it's your insurance premiums," I told him. "That cord in the puddle, for starters."

The blonde woman snorted. The kid's grin dropped about an inch.

"Yvette handles the safety stuff," he said.

"Apparently not well," I said.

Now, I'll admit, I was enjoying myself a little. He was cocky the way young men are cocky, all jaw and bravado, and I've spent decades deflating exactly that.

"Tell you what," he said, crossing his arms. "You think you could do better? This car pulls 180 in the straightaway. I'd bet money a lady like you couldn't handle two laps in it."

"Nolan," the blonde said, in a voice that suggested this was not a new argument.

"What? She started it."

I looked at Howard. Howard looked at me and raised one eyebrow, which in our marriage means your call.

"I'll take that bet," I said.

I wish I could tell you I thought it over. I didn't. Something about the way he assumed I'd fold made me want to hand him his hat.

"Darla," Howard said carefully.

"Thirty-eight years, honey. You've survived me. Two laps will be nothing."

The kid blinked. "You're serious?"

"Deadly. Pun probably intended. Do I sign something or do we just shake?"

He shook my hand, still half laughing, like he was sure I'd back out by the time we got the window net down. Yvette, the blonde, helped me into a fire suit that smelled like fuel and somebody else's cologne, and buckled the harness around me with brisk hands.

"He does this," she muttered. "Bets people things he shouldn't."

"Does he ever lose?"

"Almost never." She snapped the last buckle. "He's about to."

* * *

I won't lie, those two laps rearranged my internal organs somewhat. The car was loud enough to be a religious experience and the kid drove it like he was angry at the asphalt. Every corner pressed me into the seat until I grunted, and by the time he rolled us back into the pit I had to take a second before unbuckling.

Yvette and Howard pulled the door off, and Howard's face when I climbed out was worth the price of admission.

"Well?" Nolan asked, pulling his helmet off. Sweat had made a map of his hairline. "Still worried about my puddle?"

"The puddle's fine," I said, smoothing the fire suit. "You take that first corner like a man who owes the bank money, though."

He stared at me. Then he laughed, a real one this time, and shook his head slowly.

"I lost," he said. "I can't believe it. I lost the bet."

"You did," I agreed. "So what do I win?"

"It was pride, ma'am. There's no prize. I was bluffing."

"Oh no," Howard said, grinning like a fool. "You don't get to bluff. My wife handled your death trap at a hundred and eighty. She's owed. Besides," he added, nudging me with his elbow, "there's a traditional payment. She's been married to me thirty-eight years and I can tell you, the house rules say you pay up with a kiss."

"What Howard means is I won a kiss," I translated.

Nolan looked from me to Howard and back. "You're serious? That's... you're offering that?"

"We're offering," I said. "Unless the big bad race car driver is chicken."

That did it, of course. You can't call a twenty-eight-year-old chicken. He stepped in close, put one hand tentatively on my hip, and kissed me. Soft at first, then not soft, and I felt his other hand find my other hip and grip, like he'd decided to mean it. For a kid, he kissed like he'd read the manual and highlighted the good parts.

When we broke apart I had to catch my breath for the second time that day, and it wasn't the g forces this time.

"Well," Howard said, sounding pleased with the universe. "That's going in the anniversary album."

"Bet he doesn't stop at one," Yvette said quietly to Howard, just loud enough for me to hear, and I watched her watch Nolan watch me.

Howard laughed. "Darla, you've got an admirer."

"Good," I said. "It's about time somebody around here appreciated my risk management skills."

Nolan was still standing close. His thumb had made a small circle on my hip at some point, and I don't think he'd noticed he was doing it.

"So," he said. "You, uh. You come to this thing every year?"

"First time," I said. "Might have to make it a tradition."

He glanced at Yvette. Yvette shrugged in a way that meant do whatever, but her eyes said something else entirely.

"Can I buy you two a beer?" he asked. "Hospitality suite. It's a shipping container, but it's got air conditioning."

"A shipping container," I repeated. "With air conditioning."

"Best one at the fairgrounds," he said, grinning again, and this time the grin affected me in a way I wasn't prepared for at sixty-two.

Howard squeezed my shoulder. "Lead the way, kid. It's her anniversary present. I'm just along for the ride."

Yvette fell into step beside me as we walked, and leaned in close.

"For what it's worth," she said, "nobody's ever made him lose before. And nobody's ever made him shut up about safety. So. Well done."

"Thank you," I said. "I do what I can."

She smiled at me, and it was the kind of smile that has plans in it. "This should be an interesting afternoon."

The container, it turned out, was nicer than my first apartment. There was a couch that had seen some things, a mini fridge, and cold air pouring out of a window unit like it was trying to prove something. Yvette handed out beers and Nolan flopped into a folding chair, still damp, still grinning.

"To Darla," he said, raising his can. "First person to ever win a bet against me."

"To Darla," Howard echoed, and clinked his can against everything in reach.

We sat around and talked about nothing for a while. The race schedule, the price of trailer parts, whether the funnel cake stand was a scam. It was nice. It was also, I noticed, charged. Yvette sat close to Nolan but kept looking at Howard, and Howard kept looking at me, and I kept looking at nobody because I was busy having a small internal crisis about how much I was enjoying being looked at.

Then Howard and I ended up alone by the fridge for a minute, refilling, and he leaned in close.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine. Why?"

"Because before you came back from the ride, Yvette cornered me by the hauler."

"What did she do, ask you for directions?"

"She told me that if things went a certain way this afternoon, she'd like to get her hands on me. Her words. She said, and I quote, 'You've got the look of a man who knows what he's doing, and I'd like to find out.'"

I stood there with two beers in my hand and a feeling in my stomach I hadn't had since the Reagan administration.

"What did you say?" I asked.

"I said I'm flattered, my wife's right over there, and we'd have to see how the afternoon went. Which she seemed to take as a yes with paperwork attached."

"Well. That's very corporate of you."

Howard studied my face. "Darla. Are you mad?"

I was about thirty seconds from mad, and