"Visiting Relative"
By Kellyanne Lynch
1 May 2002, 7:01 PM - 2 May 2002, 3:22 AM

Disclaimer: This fic got into my head on the way home from school one night. Actually, several ideas came to mind along the same lines, and this is the one I chose. So I made up this story, clear out of nowhere. Some of it may have been inspired by watching "Beyond The Glory: Darrell and Michael Waltrip" on Fox Sports Net, but it's still not true. Everybody in this story is a real live person who owns his or herself. Got no money, know nobody, mean no harm. WARNING: This fic may cause you to gush over Michael Waltrip. The song that he sings in the first chapter is a real song that I learned in elementary school.

Summary: A NASCAR fic set in Owensboro, Kentucky, in 1968, where kindergartener Mikey Waltrip has so much to show his big brother, Darrell, when he gets home.

Author's Note: PLUG - I've been working a whole lot on my new website, which organises all my fics. It's now set up so that fics are divided by category, genre, rating, and quality. Soon, I'll get alphabetical up there too; that should have been one of the first ones! The site also includes some other fun things. So, if you've got fifteen minutes and a shot gun (don't ask why you need ammo), check it out! http://www.geocities.com/djfanfiction

Author's Note #2: Forgot to mention that Darrell is 16 years older than Michael, so he's 21 in this fic.

Dedication: I guess this is for the pit crew, even if everybody but Lissa voted against my idea of running a Honda instead of a Chevy. This fic is especially for Lissa, for defending Honda's honour.

Rating: G

* Please e-mail matchbox20orbusted@yahoo.com with questions, comments, theories, complaints, or words of wisdom.

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1: The More We Get Togather

Little legs kicked out behind the young boy as he knelt backwards on a pale green sofa. With each kick, his feet thumped into the wooden base. Bright blue eyes stared out a picture window. Wild, sandy strands of hair flew in all directions as the boy bopped his head and sang. "The more we get togather, togather, togather! The more we get togather, the happier we'll be! For your friends are my friends, and my friends are your friends! The more we get togather, the happier we'll be!" The boy took in a deep breath. "The more we get togather…"

"Mom!" cried the teenage girl sprawled across an easy chair. She looked up from her notebook, glared at her little brother, then glanced toward the hallway. "Make him stop! I'm trying to do my homework!"

A middle-aged woman stepped into the room, wiping her hands on a powder blue dish towel. Dark, tame curls crowned her head, and a pair of glasses was perched on her nose. Her peach skirt flowed with her steps and swayed when she halted. "Mikey, honey, please stop singing."

Eyes wide and brows raised, Michael Waltrip turned to Margaret, his mother. "But, Momma, I needsta practice!"

Margaret drew her hands to her waist. The dishtowel in her left hand hung off her hop. "Why do you need to practice, sweetie?"

Heaving a sigh, Mikey rolled his eyes. "For Darrell, of course!"

Margaret glared at the boy. Waving a finger at him, she scolded, "I don't like that attitude, young man! And I don't like your rolling your eyes at me either!"

"Yes, ma'am," Michael mumbled. Wincing, he added, "I'm sorry, Momma!"

"Just remember not to do it again."

Michael nodded. He made eye contact with his mother before turning back to the picture window. His legs picked back up on their erratic beat.

Margaret stepped up behind him. She gazed past his shoulder, into the darkness beyond the glass. Stars twinkled in the sky over the abandoned roadway that stretched itself between the Waltrips' lawn and the neighbours'. She glanced at her watch. Latching onto her son's elbow, she tugged at his arm. "Come on, Mikey. It's almost time for the Dick Van Dyke show to come on."

Staring saucer-eyed at his mother, Mikey whined, "Aw, but Momma, I'm waiting for Darrell!"

"Sweetie, he's probably not going to be home for another couple of hours!" Margaret ran a hand through the boy's unruly locks.

"Please, Momma!" Big blue eyes stared into hers. "Please let me wait!"

Margaret heaved a sigh. "All right! All right! But if your brother's not home in an hour, you still have to go to bed…"

"Aw, but Momma!"

Margaret narrowed his eyes at the boy, who lowered his head and sighed.

"Yes, Momma." Mikey turned back to the picture window. Propping his elbows on the back of the couch, he rested his chin in his hands. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass. "The more we get togather…"

The girl in the easy chair slapped her pencil against her notebook. "Mom!"

"Connie, you shouldn't be doing your homework in the living room anyway. Why don't you take it to your room?"

Connie scowled at her little brother, who bounced on his knees by the window. "Mikey always gets his way!" she grumbled.

"… togather, togather!..."

"Honey, I'm about to turn on the television anyway," Margaret replied.

Heaving a sigh, Connie gathered up her books. Margaret's sights followed her daughter as the girl stomped out of the room. Releasing a breath of her own, she crossed the room and turned on the television set. A dancing candy bar came into focus.

"Is it on yet?" a baritone voice inquired from the doorway. A middle-aged man stepped into the room.

Margaret shook her head. "No, dear. It's just a commercial."

Leroy nodded. He glanced at his son before lowering himself into the easy chair.

"The more we get togather, togather, togather! The more we get togather, the…" Mikey gasped. Bounding into the air, the boy drew his feet beneath him and jumped on the sofa. "Darrell's here! Darrell's here!"

"Michael!" Leroy hollered. "Feet off the furniture!"

Mikey leapt off the couch and scurried to the door. His pudgy little fingers clamoured at the door knob before grasping it, and turning. The door swung open. The boy stood in front of the screen door in a filthy red T-shirt and overalls, legs shoulder-width apart, and stomach puffed out. He stared at the lanky figure in the driveway emerging from a dark red 1962 Cadillac. Mikey watched that individual sling a knapsack over his shoulder and pace toward the house. Darrell's eyes met with the boy's, and he gave his brother a crooked smile. "Well, hi there!"

Mikey jumped in place on the hardwood floor. "Darrell! Darrell, guess what? I learnt a new song!"

"That's terrific, kiddo!" Darrell smirked, wiping his muddied feet on the welcome mat. He unlatched the screen door and stepped into the house.

"Darrell, you're home!" Margaret cried. She shut off the TV, then rushed to her son and threw her arms around him.

"Hi, Mom!" Darrell grinned, returning the hug. He pulled his knapsack off his shoulder and flung it on the ground. Wiping the dust off his polo shirt and jeans, he took in a deep breath through his nose. He turned to his mother and asked, "Hey, is that supper I smell?"

Margaret nodded. "We had chicken n dumplings. We saved you some," she announced with a grin. Her smile faded as her sights drifted to the bag on the floor. "That's not more dirty laundry for me, is it?"

"No, ma'am," Darrell shook his head. He drew his hands to his waist. "I'm only here overnight. I gotta leave here early tomorrow morning to get to the race."

Margaret's face fell. "You mean you're not staying a while?"

"I'm sorry, Mom," Darrell grimaced. "Maybe next time."

Bouncing at his brother's side, Mikey tugged at Darrell's pant leg. The oldest Waltrip boy glanced down at the youngest. "Yes, Mikey, what is it?"

"My song! My song! You gotsa hear my song!" Mikey exclaimed, flailing his arms.

Darrell nodded. "Okay! Okay!" His eyes drifted to his father, who rose from his spot on the easy chair and approached him. Leroy shook his hand.

"Good to see you home, son!" Leroy smiled, then narrowed his eyes at him. "Now have you been staying out of trouble?"

Darrell laughed. "Now, Pop, you know I never get into trouble!"

Leroy raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

"Darrell!" Mikey whined, yanking at the knee of his brother's jeans. "Listen to my song!"

Crossing his arms over his chest, Darrell nodded his head toward the boy. "All right! Sing it to me!"

Beaming, Mikey flung his arms behind his back. His left hand pulled at his right wrist, which drew back his shoulders. Mikey cleared his throat, then belted out, "The more we get togather, togather, togather! The more we get togather, the…"

"Darrell!" a voice hollered from another room. Connie emerged from the doorway, smirking. "There's a girl on the phone for you!" she giggled.

Darrell's eyes lit up. "Oh! It's probably Stevie!" he exclaimed. Mikey's mouth hung open as his brother scrambled down the hallway, and skid into his room. The door slid shut behind him.

Scrunching up his nose, Mikey gazed at his mother. "But I was in the middlah my song!"

Margaret grimaced, and tousled the boy's hair. "He can hear it later, honey. Okay?"

Mikey frowned at his mother, then looked to the floor before scurrying after his brother. His steps pattered against the hardwood floor through the hallway and halted outside Darrell's room.

"Hey there, doll face!" a gruff voice resounded through the door. "So how bad did ya miss me?... Not much?! Come on, baby! You know you can't live without me!"

Mikey threw his body into the door and stumbled into the room. Darrell glanced at the doorway from where he lay on the bed, phone in hand. He threw a smile at the boy, then looked away. "You know you couldn't sleep nights knowing I wasn't in Owensboro!"

"My song, Darrell! My song!"

"Not now, Mikey!" Darrell furrowed his brow, and waved his free hand at the kid. "I'm on the phone!" Glancing at the poster of a space shuttle on the far wall, he spoke into the receiver. "You haven't been seeing any other guys now, have you?... What do you mean 'maybe'?"

Mikey bounded onto the bed beside his brother, and bounced on his behind.

"You haven't been seeing that Tommy kid! You know he's bad news!" Darrell smirked, and pressed the phone to his ear. "No, I'M not bad news! Hey! I've only been arrested a few times!"

Mikey stared at his brother. The gaze caught Darrell's attention, and their eyes met. Michael grinned.

"The more we get togather, togather…"

"Michael, stop! I'm on the phone!"

"The more we get togather, the happier we'll be!..."

Darrell pushed his little brother off the bed. Mikey's bottom hit the floor with a thump. Sprawled on the carpet, he hollered, "For your friends are my friends…"

"Hold on a second," Darrell told Stevie over the phone. He set down the receiver and leaned across the bed. Glaring at the boy, he demanded, "Mikey, get out of here!"

"The more we get togather…"

"Mom!"

Within seconds, the door swung open. Margaret peered into the room, at her oldest son scowling on the bed and her youngest singing on the floor. "Mikey, that's it! It's bedtime!"

"But Momma, I was singing for Darrell!" Mikey protested.

"Michael! Now!"

Furiously shaking his head, the boy cried out, "No!"

Margaret leaned over and scooped the child into her arms. Toting him against her hipbone, she marched out the door. As soon as they were out of the room, Mikey burst into tears.

"I got my song all ready for him!" Mikey sobbed. "I practiced so long!"

Margaret carried the boy into his room and plunked him down on his bed. She turned toward the dresser. Yanking open the top drawer, she said, "Honey, Darrell's very busy." She rummaged around inside the drawer before pulling out crimson pants and a red shirt with a yellow lightening bolt on the front. She turned to the boy. Holding up the clothes, she asked, "How 'bout your Flash Gordon pajamas tonight?"

Rubbing his eyes, Mikey nodded.

Margaret changed the boy's clothes and tucked him into bed. "How 'bout tomorrow, before Darrell leaves, you sing for him?"

Mikey dug his fist into his right eye. Sniffling, he gazed up at his mother. "Okay," he murmured.

Planting a kiss on Mikey's forehead, Margaret smiled. "Good night, sweetheart!"

The door closed behind her, leaving Mikey in the dark. Staring at the ceiling, he thought about singing for Darrell the next day. Then he decided he needed to do something better. A smile swept across his face when he decided what that something should be.