by Stacey Lee
“Old Gin believes I should take a husband.”
“Marriage? But who would marry you?”
I bristle. “Someone with exquisite taste, obviously.”
“I mean, there are no Chinese in Atlanta.”
“There are some in Augusta.”
“Ugh, no, not those commoners.”
Plumping one of her overstuffed pillows, I toss it against the carved headboard, where it makes a satisfying oomph! like a gut being punched. “We have a saying. The superior man thinks of virtue, the common man, comfort.”
She trills her fingers at me. “Virtue is overrated. Papa worked hard for every dime we have, and says that we . . .” Abruptly, she turns from me and stares out the window again. I can’t help wondering if she just remembered her father might not be the man she thinks. “He says that we deserve to live in comfort,” she finishes softly. “Take the tray. I’m no longer hungry.”
She folds her hands in her lap. With her shoulders rounding forward and her dressing gown wrinkled about her, she reminds me of one of the crumpled newspapers in Etta Rae’s basket. I curse myself for feeling pity for her and slide the tray off her table.
Even before I get to the stairs, Mr. Payne’s booming voice is making the pictures rattle against the wall. I pull in my stomach and descend. His voice suggests the kind of man who fills the doorframe, the sort with a jaw that could bite through a steel bit or a brow that juts like an overhanging brick. But the truth is, he is nothing remarkable to behold.
I peer through the leaves of a philodendron plant that manages to thrive despite the smoke on this floor. Mr. Payne carries his medium frame with a light clip, pacing as far as the telephone will allow. His head might be hard, but there’s a definite sag in his jaw, a melding together of chin and neck like a turkey gullet. A center part splits his dark blond hair into two even shares, slicked against his head with his signature ylang-ylang hair oil.
“Merritt is of the highest caliber, that duplicitous Bostonian wench.” He pauses as the other person speaks.
“I tell you, it’s a conspiracy and it’s only going to get worse. Mark my words, that Miss Sweetie is a Yankee sent to infiltrate our ranks. When I smoke out the witch—and I will smoke her out—we’ll see how loud those Bells ring.” His eyes, brown as the butt of a rifle, are suddenly looking at me.
Thirty-One
I step out from behind the philodendron, which feels as paltry as a fig leaf. The muscles of the businessman’s face shift ever so slightly as his attention abandons the speaker.
With the breakfast tray dug into my ribs, I stumble out from behind the plant. But instead of making tracks away, someone has poured iron in my boots. Mr. Payne’s chin swings to one side, pulling the gullet with it. His gaze rummages my person, one eye squinting more than the other, as if that were the one he uses to judge the world. “Gilford, I will ring you later.” He sets the receiver back on its cradle. “Come closer, girl,” he orders in the kind of commanding voice that could part the sea. “Set that down. Jo, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.” I rest the tray on a side table and then pick my way across a carpeted runner, stopping when I am two paces away. The cherry scent of a cigar recently smoked perfumes the air, and paintings of long-dead relatives grimace at me.
“How old are you?”
I pinch the sides of my maid’s dress, my gaze fixed on his gullet. “Seventeen, sir.”
His scrutiny grows heavier, and my breath shorter. I try not to stare at the flesh curtain of his throat. He knows I know something about Miss Sweetie. He can sense it. Maybe the intuition that makes him Atlanta’s paper king has heard the panicked flapping of truth, ready to spring from my mouth like a quail from the bush.
“Old Gin tells me he has educated you. And that you like reading newspapers.”
I swallow hard. “I—I—”
“Speak up, girl.”
I force myself to breathe. “I like to be informed. P. T. Barnum said, ‘He who is without a newspaper is cut off from his species.’”
“P. T. might’ve been a politician, but he was a circus man at heart. I am fond of newspapers myself, but lately, I have found they are full of drivel. Sensationalist slush more likely to raise blood pressure than understanding.”
“Yes, sir,” I squeak, hoping he will excuse me now.
“Tell me, are you familiar with this Dear Miss Sweetie column?” His voice dribbles with disgust at the name.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what do you think of her column ‘The Singular Question’?”
“My opinion is of no consequence.”
“Nonsense. You are a young woman who reads newspapers, the quarry for whom this woman has sprung her traps. Do you feel this article emboldens women to reject marriage in pursuit of their own interests?”
Here it is. My chance to confess. If I take responsibility, perhaps he’ll overlook his grievance with the Focus and things can return to the way they were before Miss Sweetie arrived on the page.
My toes curl in my boots, trying to keep myself planted, but the world has begun to spin too fast. Visions of our local jail, with its stone walls that constantly echo the wails from within, grip me with terror. “I think . . .”
He stretches his chin up, his eyes zeroed in on mine.
“I have known your daughter for a long time. She has always been spirited. One day, she shall make a fine wife.”
The man’s face lights up in a way that should assure Caroline that, even if the rumors of her being illegitimate are true, her father will never deny her.
“Yes, she is my greatest treasure.”
“As daughters should be. However, if she finds that no man is worthy of her, would you force her to marry someone anyway?”
“Of course not. But she should be encouraged to keep looking.”
“As Old Gin likes to say, not all horses are meant to race, but all horses are meant to run. If Caroline is happy, are you not happy for her? As you know, she cares little for the diversions of other women. She’s bright and well-versed in the business of Payne Mills. If she were allowed to do something productive and meaningful there, her temper might be much improved.”
I clamp my mouth shut. But my words have already galloped off, and there is no calling them back. I wait for the man to reprimand me for insulting his daughter, but his eyes have lost focus and he is rubbing his shoulder. Perhaps he is imagining his daughter accompanying him to work.
“Miss Sweetie’s words are not meant solely for young women like Caroline, but their fathers, mothers, brothers, and anyone who desires for them a happy, useful life.”
He makes a guttural noise, probably the prelude to a spouting-off, but then his attention catches on something behind me. “Princess, you’re up early.”
Caroline steps out from behind the traitorous philodendron, likely placed there to catch eavesdroppers like us. “Good morning, Papa,” she says, letting him kiss her cheek.
She casts me a look that is half confusion and half surprise, sugared by wonder. Then she refocuses on her father, clearing his throat with loud rumbles. Maybe he is wondering how much Caroline overheard. Maybe she is puzzling out what she missed. I scoop up the tray.
I pick my way down the stairs, hoping I have cleared the path of a few boulders.
* * *
—
FOR THE AFTERNOON ride, Caroline wants to ride solo again, but this time I doubt the cemetery is her destination.
Sweet Potato and I draw up to Six Paces. A familiar horse screams. Not far from the abandoned hansom, Merritt’s muscular frame draws a striking figure, impeccably draped in a blue riding coat, his midsize hat dignifying his sweep of brown-blond curls. I edge my mare away, but it is too late.
When he spots us, a rakish grin bends the perfect line of Merritt’s mustache. “Hullo, Jo!” He trots Ameer up to us.
“I am glad to see you in good spirits, sir.”
“Never been better. Ever since the news broke of my, er, status, I’ve received, so far, four invitations to Mama’s horse race. It’s curious how things work out.”
It doesn’t surprise me. He has always been one of the most eligible bachelors this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. Jane Bentley is a distant memory.
“I rather like being a coquet. It’s a good life you ladies have. I don’t know why those suffragists are so hell-bent on being men.”
Miss Sweetie bristles. “They don’t want to be men, only to be allowed to have a say. God wouldn’t have given us feet if He didn’t want us to walk. By the same token, why give us a brain if He didn’t want us to have thoughts?”
He paces Ameer in front of us, his eyes roving my figure. I’m suddenly all too aware of the form-fitting nature of my riding breeches and turn Sweet Potato to block the view.
He laughs. “I’m merely admiring your . . . thoughts.”
“The thoughts happen higher up.” A warning bell clangs in my head. The most powerful piece in Chinese chess, the chariot, goes where it wants, felling anything in its path, while I am a lowly disposable soldier. Merritt and I might’ve been friends once, but now that we are older, lines must be drawn. Miss Sweetie would insist on it. “I’m sorry, sir, but your family is my employer. I must be on my way.”
Something wistful passes over his face. “Can we not be friends?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” My mare ferries us off, and this time, I do not look back.
Thirty-Two
Dear Miss Sweetie,
An admirer caught me staring at him. Of course, I quickly looked away, but I am certain he now thinks I’m a hussy. I want to die of shame.
Mortified,
Fannie Smith
(please don’t use my real name)
Dear Mortified,
An anxious mind makes lions of tumbleweeds. Live in the present, not in the future.
Yours truly,
Miss Sweetie
* * *
—
The printer whirs and thrums next to my ear. I am back to listening in on the Bells, if only to assure myself they are still in business.
Old Gin is spending tonight again at the Paynes’. I finish tying a knot from the spools of cord Mr. Buxbaum sent through Noemi.
The printer stops and the soothing tones of Mrs. Bell’s voice tumble down, too distant to hear. Nathan’s voice follows. “Let him try to shut us down.” His voice grips the words. “The more he blows, the weaker his son looks.”
“Not if the Constitution turns this into a witch hunt for Miss Sweetie. I could claim responsibility. It would make sense that the publisher’s wife is Miss Sweetie. Probably no one would care after that.”
“Exactly. People would stop caring.” Something bumps the desk, maybe Nathan’s fist. “As much as people want to know who she is, her anonymity is part of her allure. She could be anyone, a sister, a friend, a neighbor. It’s what makes her relatable.”
“What will your father say?”
“No doubt he’ll have a fit. ‘Revolution is best taken by the teaspoon, not the glass.’”
I replug the listening tube. The idea that I have created discord in the Bell household stirs an itchy restlessness in me. My socks catch against the uneven concrete floor as I trek to Old Gin’s room.
The silk lies in a neatly folded pile. He finished it. My fingers glide over the thick cloth, pausing on the chrysanthemums woven into the silk in gold thread. I lift out the garment. To my surprise, it falls into two pieces. I hold up a long-sleeved blouse, which is more of a jacket that fastens down the middle, and a pair of close-fitting pants that taper at the ankle. Strange.
Stripping down to my cotton underclothes, I step into Old Gin’s creation. My feet just fit through the tapered openings, and I cinch the waist tight. The jacket hangs looser. Five button-and-loop closures down the middle resemble gold frogs. Old Gin’s knot-tying surpasses even mine.
I consider my outfit. With a cap and from the back, I might pass for Johnny Fortune in riding silks. I strut with my nose in the air, like a puffed-up jock.
Now, who would marry a woman wearing such a peculiar getup?
I freeze so fast, my socks nearly slip out from under me.
Old Gin and I stand the same height, though he bests me in girth by an inch or two.
The outfit is not for me.
The words on the Paynes’ flyer parade through my head . . . Mr. and Mrs. Winston Payne invite all Atlantans to attend an eight-furlong race at Piedmont Park Racetrack, a purse of $300 to be awarded to the winner.
Three hundred dollars is the same amount Shang owed Billy Riggs.
Coincidence? Coincidence is just destiny unfolding.
Old Gin is planning to run in Mrs. Payne’s horse race.
Perhaps that is why Sweet Potato knows her way to the track. It occurs to me that Old Gin’s birdlike appetite may not have been due to sickness after all, but discipline. The less weight for Sweet Potato to carry, the faster she will be. I peel off the deceptive outfit, and the glossy weave of the silk catches on a hangnail. I suck on my finger. Even the most beautiful of fabrics has a traitorous side, and so, it seems, does Old Gin.
* * *
—
I OVERSLEEP, OWING to a restless night, and half walk, half jog down Peachtree, frozen hands stuck under my arms. At least the nippy air clears my foggy head. My two fishtail braids whip my backside with every hurried step.
Sixty-year-old men have no business racing horses. Old Gin’s knees creak and his back seizes up when the weather is too damp. Not to mention, months of hacking must have crumpled his lungs into paper sacks. A horse race could kill him. Each beast is a thousand-and-a-half-pound engine of muscle and flesh, all stampeding down the same narrow corridor.
I shiver, and not just from the chill. It’s cracked.
Preposterous.
Unthinkable.
Yet here I am, still thinking about it.
If anyone knows how to ride a horse, it’s Old Gin. Johnny Fortune might be as steady as a bird on a fence, but Old Gin is a bird on a clothesline. He has a natural equine understanding that transcends any learned skill. In fact, it was his ability to calm a steed that had gone wild in the middle of a Shanghai marketplace that caught the eye of a wealthy American businessman. When Winston Payne offered him a job in America, Old Gin, not so old then, accepted.
And Sweet Potato is in her prime. Light on her feet with a competitive spirit. She could get the job done.
Twenty minutes later, the trim lawn of the Payne Estate spreads before me. The paved driveway, the crab apple trees, and the white columns—none appear any different from previous days. Still, the scene appears too orderly, the edges too crisp, the colors too sharp. Or perhaps it simply looks that way in contrast to the messiness of my own thoughts.
Though I am already a quarter of an hour late, I bypass the kitchen and hurry to the stables.
Half the horses are gone, including Sweet Potato, and there is no sign of Old Gin or Mr. Crycks. A stable boy mucks out the stalls, while Solomon scours the rust off a section of an old wheel. I had once thought Solomon a giant, but the years seem to have hollowed out the Paynes’ all-around man, who is nearly as old as Old Gin. He looks up from his work, and his neck bones crack. “Why hello, Jo. Looking for Old Gin?”
“Hello, Solomon, yes. Have you seen him?”
“He and Mr. Crycks took some of the horses for exercises. Probably be back in an hour or two. Something the matter?” He rubs a handkerchief over his red-brown skin.
“No, er, it can wait. If you see him, will you let him know I need to speak with him?”
“Sure thing.”
Noemi’s watering her vegetable garden with rinse water when I return to the house. On he
r apron strap, she’s tied a cluster of bluebells. “Nice of you to show up.”
“I overslept. Nice flowers.”
“I’m starting my own suffrage society. The Atlanta Bluebells, for the belles of a different color.”
“It’s a good name. Do you know where Mrs. Payne is?”
“Upstairs in her study, I think. Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
I hurry into the kitchen and hastily assemble Caroline’s tray. Both the cream and the coffee slosh over the sides of their vessels as I carry the tray upstairs.
Caroline is calculating some figures on her writing table when I set the tray beside her. “Good morning. Excuse me for a moment.”
“Excuse you? You just got here.”
I ignore her and slip down the hallway. The door to Mrs. Payne’s office is like a raised hand, warning me away. She will not like my impertinence. But she alone chose the contestants.
I knock. When no one answers, I knock again.
“Come in,” she says, and not in her usual pleasant voice.
Mrs. Payne sits at her desk, writing in her Lady’s Planner. I assume it’s where she records her deepest feelings, as she never leaves it in plain sight. Maybe she hides it in a boot the way we do our savings. You can tell a lot about what someone values by what they hide.
“Jo, I asked not to be disturbed. Whatever is the matter?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” My prepared words all fly out of my head. I blurt out, “Is Old Gin racing Sweet Potato in your horse race?”
“Well, yes.”
“But why?”
“Because he asked me.” She sets down her pen and gets to her feet. Her shawl lies across another chair, and she ties it over her wrinkled housedress.
“He’ll be ridiculed. And his sponsor will not be happy. They’ll complain, and you’ll probably have to refund their bid. It might cause a scandal. Not to mention, he’s sixty!”
