The Downstairs Girl

by Stacey Lee

  From the colored section, a cheer goes up when Ben Abner passes by, his tightly muscled back flexing with each of his horse’s hoofbeats.

  Someone yells, “Jo!”

  Noemi waves at me, Robby next to her. Life is a chessboard, and if you’ve played it right, your best pieces will be standing in the right squares when you need them most. On the other side of Noemi, Rose waves, too, almost hitting the man next to her. He opens his hands, and she jabs a finger in my direction, as if that should explain it all.

  Sweet Potato walks tall and there is a swing of joy to her hoofbeats. To understand your horse is to understand yourself. I remind myself it is a small miracle that I am here at the biggest race of the year with arguably the best view in the house. Whether I win back that bottle or not, something has cleared my view. Millinery gave me a way to be seen; Miss Sweetie gave me a voice to be heard. But maybe what I needed most of all was simply the freedom to walk out from the shadows of my hat. Somehow, Old Gin and I have managed to fit ourselves into a society that, like a newspaper, rarely comes in colors other than black and white. There will always be those who keep their distance. But there will also be those who don’t mind riding their safeties in my lane. I spent my whole life worried that the sound of my own voice might give me away, but I was wrong about that. If I hadn’t used my voice, I wouldn’t be here today.

  In a special box several rows up, the Paynes watch the procession with other members of Atlanta’s elite. Mr. Payne leans forward against a rail, like the masthead of a ship, his opera glasses fixed to his eyes. He has always been more focused on the future than the present. Next to him stands Merritt, who, for all his invitations, seems not to have accepted a single one of them. His eyes drift from Ameer to me, and he gives me a two-fingered salute.

  Mrs. Payne fans herself, her pleasant demeanor on display. She doesn’t acknowledge me. But when I pass, her smile wavers like a candle that feels a breath. Next to her, Caroline watches me with a hawk-eyed diligence. The dancing-lion braid I wove into her hair is still lively under a cream saucer hat. Despite falling off Noemi’s safety half a dozen times—a fact that has seemed to put a spring in Noemi’s step—Caroline declared she hasn’t been bested yet. Though it wasn’t clear if she was talking about the bicycle or Noemi, the winds have shifted for my former mistress. May she feel the stretch of a new wing.

  “Welcome to the Race of the Year, eight furlongs of thunderous action!” calls an announcer.

  Members of the press have positioned themselves along the gate that separates the track from the spectators, notebooks out and scribbling furiously. Signs on posts list all the sponsors and their horse numbers and colors. I scan the crowd for Nathan, wishing to see him, but dreading the sight of Lizzie on his arm.

  A figure steps onto a box and tips up his Homburg. I sit a little taller, hoping I look like an elegant lady floating along on an ebony swan. Nathan waves his hat. He doesn’t have Mr. Q’s dreamy looks or Merritt Payne’s statuesque physique, but he has the noble bearing of a compass that always points north.

  A pair of pink arms asks for a lift, and soon, Lizzie is standing beside him. They are a handsome pair. Nathan would have an easier life with someone like her, someone with whom the law against miscegenation has no bearing. Her Miss Sweetie hat swivels between Nathan and me. Maybe she is thinking the same thing.

  Joseph leads us to a chalked line on the outermost position on the track. I shake off the stiffness in my limbs caused by an anxious mind and draw an effortless breath. “Thank you, Joseph.”

  He hits a brace. Then he follows the grooms to the sidelines.

  Twelve beasts grunt and paw at the ground to the left of us, springs loaded and ready to fire. The track strikes me as narrow and flimsy as cardboard. One wrong move, and I could be smashed into a papery pulp, a bit of bark caught under forty-eight pounding pistons.

  A few horses down, Thief undulates as if he were made of liquid, with the leprechaun clinging, amphibian-like, on his back. The man is no longer looking at me but muttering at the clouds. Perhaps he is praying. It seems like a good time to get religion.

  Scanning the stadium, I finally spot Billy Riggs near the center, blocking the view behind him with a garish plum-colored top hat to match his suit. Our gazes connect, and he stands, sweeps off the top hat, and gives me one of his mocking bows. It occurs to me that just as Old Gin and I have done our best to blend in, Billy makes his way by not blending in. Perhaps his brazen style is meant to draw attention away from his crimes, not the least of which is the crime of having a great-grandparent who was colored. Around Billy, folks chatter, their faces animated, and I wonder what secrets lie in the basement for them. For all of us. My eyes find Mrs. Payne again, holding out a gloved hand for a guest to kiss. Her hands may be clean, but she’s as slippery as a hundred bathing Billys.

  Before the field begins to lose the line, the man with the red bowler raises a gun. “Ready?”

  I grip the stirrups and lean forward.

  “Set?”

  I imagine myself as the wind, light and strong, and not invisible.

  Bang!

  Forty-Four

  I kick my heels hard, screaming, “Giddap!” as loud as I can. Sweet Potato charges!

  In the span of two seconds, several things happen. Something spooks horse number 1, and he sets off in the wrong direction. Jockeys 4 and 6 with their hayseed eyes jerk their horses sideways, knocking off 3 and 5, whose horses almost go to their knees.

  Just as Joseph suspected, 4 and 6 are up to no good, and it is hard to predict what they plan next.

  We pass Noemi and the Bluebells, who are shrieking wildly and jumping up and down. In the stands, the Suffragists are all up on their feet, yelling just as loud, and it strikes me that the collective roar is louder than the sum of its parts. Mrs. Bullis clutches her face, eyes levered as far as they can go.

  Coming up on the first curve, Sweet Potato and I are far from the lead, but at least Thief is behind us. Ameer and 11 lead the pack, tailed by 4 at the rail, and Sunday Surprise behind him. I move Sweet Potato into position behind Sunday Surprise, hoping Buxbaum’s champ will clear the road ahead, clinching our tenuous lead over Thief. Number 4 drifts right, leaving an opening that Sunday surges to thread. But then 4 veers back to the rail, forcing Sunday to dodge right. Number 6 closes in, boxing in Sunday, and we all bunch up behind them. So that’s what Ben Abner was talking about!

  From my spot behind Sunday, it’s clear that 4 and 6 are working together, but to whose benefit? There can be only one winner.

  Out of the corner of my eye, a flash of green circles wide around the curve, avoiding the traffic, and then dashes ahead. It’s the leprechaun on Thief! Somehow, Mr. Q has rigged Thief up for the win. But how was he able to buy off not just one, but two contestants? Surely, credit only goes so far.

  I think back to that day at Buxbaum’s. Robby said Billy had offered to “influence” the race in favor of Mr. Buxbaum’s horse, Sunday Surprise. Billy has enough money to influence the race. He wasn’t successful with Mr. Buxbaum, but for every road that runs straight, a dozen go crooked, especially a road who would name his fine horse for a petty criminal. It occurs to me that Thief’s number 9 is the sum total of Billy’s lucky dice, 4 and 5, same as the number on his “office” door. I have been outfoxed. Billy would never have let his favorite bauble go so easily.

  Predictably, jockeys 4 and 6 have expended their horses’ energies and begin to fall behind. But the damage is done, and though Sunday is doing his best to keep up, all the dodging about has cost him his legs, too. Ahead, 11 stalls on a sticky spot, long enough for Thief to shorten the gap between them, with the bulk of the contestants two lengths behind him.

  Lightning puts cracks in the sky, and moments later, thunder shatters the clouds. A buckskin gelding in the front rears up at the noise, then takes off in the wrong direction. Rain pours down in sheets, drenching us in second
s. More horses fumble, but not Sweet Potato, bless her steady legs, legs that Old Gin kneaded and trained with his own hands. He didn’t give up on her, and I bet she will not so easily give up on me.

  I claw at the rain blinding me, my heart lurching as I slip around in the saddle. Mud flies all around. The ground looms dangerously close, becoming slicker and stickier with every passing moment. Beside us, a horse stumbles, causing the one behind it to careen into the rail in a blur of hair and muscle. Sweet Potato jerks right, throwing me off balance again.

  Somehow, I manage to keep my seat. It strikes me that the cloudbuster that just knocked out several of my opponents could spell the end of me, too. Thief has managed to stay ahead of our stampede, with Ameer and number 11 still going strong beyond him.

  Taking advantage of the straightaway, I stick out my tailbone, leaning as much as I can into Sweet Potato’s neck to help power her forward. Every hit of her legs rattles into my bones, but I hang on, feeling more like a saddlebag than a passenger. Ameer clears the next turn just ahead with the drenched Johnny Fortune still easy as a blink upon him.

  Somehow, Sweet Potato closes the distance behind Thief to one length. His tail whips about like a pirate’s flag as we come upon the turn, and now it’s a two-horse battle for the rail. Here’s our chance to get ahead! The leprechaun clinches Thief to the inside path, with the wooden rail only four feet to his left. Four feet is the width of a stall—wide enough for a horse with nerve to pass, though at a gallop, few will dare. But my horse is smaller, and she will dare.

  “Ready, girl? Giddap!” I tap Sweet Potato with my heels, and she surges ahead, slipping through the space between Thief and the rail as satiny smooth as a black ribbon around the neck. We come up alongside Thief, and the sour smell of the horse clears my nostrils.

  “Whore!” spits the leprechaun as we pass him. He raises his arm and then brings down his crop against my leg, so sharply I think he’s sliced it right off. I would scream, but my lungs are empty of air and all that emerges is a wheezy cry. The pain is like no other I have felt and makes me bite down so hard, I swear I must break teeth. My posture crumples away, undoing all the advantage we have just gained.

  Sweet Potato shudders, and I think it is over.

  But as we come out of the turn, she shrieks out all the rage I feel inside. When the leprechaun draws up beside us, my big-hearted mare snaps her teeth, trying to take a bite of him, her brown eyes rolling and the froth off her mouth slinging like venom. It’s not his hat she wants to taste, but blood.

  The leprechaun dodges her blow with a yell, and Thief stumbles, his eyes glassy with panic. I clamber back over Sweet Potato’s neck. As we correct our course, I do not look back. Attagirl!

  At the head of the stretch, number 11 has fallen back, tripped by the mud, and within moments, we pass him. Ameer, four lengths ahead, slows as he always does when he no longer feels chased. “Lazy in the lead,” Johnny Fortune had called it.

  Just cross the line, girl, and we will win back Old Gin’s bottle.

  Or perhaps we can do more.

  Bright blood soaks the scarlet of my pants, and my front is caked with mud. There is only one G-word left to speak, one that left me shaken at thirteen but now directs my path.

  Go.

  The grandstand appears in view again, but the cries of the frenzied crowd dull in my ears. In the final stretch, it’s not the crowd I see, but the family who raised me, waving their flags. I raise a glass of appreciation to each.

  To Noemi and Robby, for friendship.

  To the Bells, for words.

  To Lucky Yip, for skill.

  To Hammer Foot, for protection.

  And most of all to you, Old Gin, for hearing the faint cries of someone who needed you and not turning away.

  Mrs. Payne lifts her teary eyes to me, and the splinter of her betrayal works itself free of my heart. A Chinese baby, out of wedlock, no less, there was no easy answer for her. But unlike my mother, I do not live in a gilded cage, and like Sweet Potato, whose mother also rejected her, somehow I will find a way to thrive.

  We hang back as we did at Six Paces, waiting for Ameer to loosen his pace even more. And when he does, we charge up the straightaway, powered by love and maybe a pinch of pepper, the secret ingredient. His jaunty tail teases us. Three lengths become two, and then one, and then a streak of white sand barely visible in the mud.

  Sweet Potato throws her heart to the sky. With a sob, we sail past Ameer across the line.

  Forty-Five

  “Tie!” announces the man in the red bowler hat.

  The cloudbuster shuts off as fast as it let down, and the ground steams at its departure. Ameer trots beside us, panting and, for the first time, looking chastened. Johnny Fortune grinds his black eyes into mine and spits. He knows he was bested. Still, he holds up his fists in victory, and cheers explode all around us. The eye sees what it wants, and they would never have let us win, anyway.

  Billy Riggs also knows he was bested. His wet clothes have darkened to a shade that must match his mood, and he sits with his palm smashed up against his cheek. The sight of his misery lessens the throbbing cut in my thigh, and a horseshoe of a grin edges up on my face. We are even now, you scoundrel. Noticing me floating in my saddle, he uncrumples himself and rises. I expect one of his mocking bows. But instead, a grudging smile unfurls on his face and he begins to clap. I know the next time I pass through the doors with the Jesse James dice, I will not leave empty-handed.

  The fanfare passes in a blur, the victory lap around the track with Johnny Fortune and Ameer, the handshaking and occasional claps on the back, the tearful hugs from Mrs. Bullis, and the photograph of me, the Atlanta Suffragists, and the Bluebells—well, at least Noemi—taken by a man with an accordion-style camera. While Sweet Potato tries to eat her wreath of carnations, Nathan embraces me longer than he should. “Where is Lizzie?” I ask.

  “She said it wouldn’t work out for us and took a coach home.”

  I’d like to think Lizzie did not know about her mother’s attempt to unmask me. She was never the bad sort. I expect this will be the last I see of her, though a part of me wishes things could’ve been different between us.

  As soon as I can escape, I steer Sweet Potato back to the print shop. There is only one face I wish to see.

  My feet go cold when I spot Dr. Swift’s wagon parked next to the Bells’ house.

  Without even tying up Sweet Potato, I rush into the house, past Mr. and Mrs. Bell’s surprised faces, and into Old Gin’s room. Please no, don’t take Old Gin.

  Bear greets me with a woof! To my surprise, Dr. Swift has pulled a chair up beside Old Gin, and between them is a Western chessboard.

  “Grandfather,” I cry, knees wobbling under me. “I thought—I thought . . .”

  Dr. Swift’s eyes glint with amusement under his thick brows. “You thought I might’ve beaten your grandfather in chess? Don’t worry, he’s checked me three times already, and I only arrived ten minutes ago.”

  Old Gin lifts his face to me. With his new orange striped cap, his eye bandage, and a beard beginning to icicle down his chin, he looks like a stringy old pirate who, despite a few rocky seas, still has a few more voyages left in him. “You had a nice ride, hm?” His dry words float out, understated as always.

  I let out a half sob, half laugh. “The bats of good fortune have returned. We won.”

  He works his jaw, but nothing comes out. Tears troop down my face, but he stops them with his bandaged hand. “I think the bats have been here with us this whole time.” His broken face smiles, and I’m reminded of a gentle boost onto my first horse in a meadow full of light.

  Epilogue

  Three months later.

  The curtain with the horses now decorates the basement wall, opening up our former kitchen. An old desk has replaced my bed in the corner, and one of Mrs. Bell’s whimsical rugs softens the b
ack half of the room, more luxurious than the old speckled rug under my toes. At the spool table, my fingers work a silk cord into a horse knot. Mr. Buxbaum says he can’t keep them on the shelf. Anything with horses has been a hot seller since the race.

  The sight of Old Gin’s milking stool warms my heart. He’s out with Sweet Potato. Daily rides have done much for his health.

  Graceful Moon’s snuff bottle occupies a prime spot atop our new wall shelf, next to my winner’s medal, a twin to Johnny Fortune’s. With half the winnings from the race, we can afford to house Sweet Potato at the livery down the street, plus save for the future, whenever that decides to get here.

  I wind the cord three times around my finger and weave the end through the loops. Silk cord innately has value, but it takes a patient hand to shape it into something better. What is the job of a parent but to teach a child that she has worth so that one day she can transform herself into whatever she wants. Old Gin was that parent to me, mother and father, teacher and friend. One day—hopefully far into the future—he and Graceful Moon will ride the heavens together, faces no longer turned up to the sky, but part of it.

  As for Shang, I hope he found what he was looking for, whether that be silver or self-worth. Wherever his journey takes him, as long as the earth is round, may his path lead home one day.

  “Ahoy there.” Nathan’s voice tumbles down the listening tube, which is now also a speaking tube.

  Bear woofs.

  I cross to the desk. “Ahoy.”

  “Would you like some tea or a chocolate? Bear is also offering her bone.”

  “No, thank you. I am leaving for Buxbaum’s shortly. May I get you anything from there? Quills? Candles? Giddy goobers?”

  “I like my goobers relaxed. Makes them go down easier. Are you sure you don’t want company?”

  “I shall be fine. Please tell your mother I shall be back in an hour to help her roast the chicken.”