by Elise Hooper
They continued to watch the babies for a few more minutes before beginning the route back to Betty’s room. When they reached the lobby, from the main desk came the sound of raised voices. Betty’s father stood in front of the receptionist, his face tense, arms crossed, clearly in the midst of a standoff with her.
Caroline stopped Betty’s wheelchair and no one noticed them.
“Sir, I’m afraid we need a payment. This balance has exceeded the amount we normally let carry over,” the receptionist said.
“But I don’t have the money,” he said, in a voice so raw, so despondent, that it was unrecognizable. Betty would never have believed this was her father if she hadn’t seen and heard him say the words herself.
He let out a chuff of air and thrust his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and followed the woman to a frosted door labeled Business Office. It wasn’t until her father was out of sight that Caroline wheeled Betty forward and they returned to her room in silence.
Now a headache blazed through her skull with the blinding intensity of a searchlight moving through the darkness, and she inhaled sharply, glancing at her father. He loosened his tie as if his shirt collar was too tight. “Of course, let’s hire a nurse. Anything for our girl.”
Desperation made her almost light-headed, but she blinked and tried to look happy. “I know this will be worth it. Thank you.” Betty grasped his arm with both hands.
He raised her right hand to his lips, but was there a shadow of doubt in his eyes?
She looked at the doctor’s notes, trying to read them, to memorize his instructions. I will make all of these sacrifices worth it.
IN THE WEEKS leading up to Christmas, with the nurse holding on to her, Betty worked on her weight transfer and balance with more focus than ever. On the last day before Nurse Reddy would leave town to spend the holidays with her family, Betty took five steps on her own across the living room floor. She reached the doorway and clung to it for balance. Exhilaration coursed through her.
Finally, she had walked on her own.
Nurse Reddy clapped her hands and then escorted Betty back to the couch. Though the house was colder than usual to keep their coal bill down, Betty wiped sweat from her brow.
“Now I don’t want you doing this on your own and falling while I’m gone. Do you promise me you’ll get someone to help you?” Nurse Reddy asked.
“I promise, but let’s do a couple more laps around the room before you leave. I’m going to surprise my family by walking on Christmas.”
“You better get your Prince Charming over here to help. I’m serious. I know you’re awfully set on this idea but you need to be smart about it. No falls.”
“I’ll ask my friend Caroline to help. Bill’s been busy.”
The nurse agreed, and Betty was relieved to let the subject of Bill drop. When he had come to her apologetically to explain that he would be visiting some relatives in Springfield for the holidays, she had assured him she would be fine. The truth was she wanted some distance and time to think.
CHRISTMAS MORNING BROUGHT several inches of snow, and while her mother and her sister, Jean, bustled around the kitchen preparing cinnamon rolls, coffee, and fried eggs, Betty gazed out the window from her usual spot on the sofa, nuzzling the downy head of her ten-month-old niece, Frances. Outside, her older niece, Laura, and the neighborhood children threw snowballs and constructed a lopsided snowman.
“Come on into the kitchen to get your breakfasts,” called Jean. “We’ll eat in the front room.”
Jim looked at Betty. “You still fine with the baby?”
She nodded.
“Sit tight and I’ll bring you a plate of food.”
“Where exactly do you think I’ll be running off to?” she asked.
“Knowing you, anything is possible,” he said.
Betty smiled to herself. He had no idea.
Within minutes, everyone was sitting in the front room, breathing in the sweet and bitter aromas of cinnamon rolls and coffee. Betty handed off the baby to Jean and accepted her plate from Jim, but she placed it on the coffee table and said, “Mother? Father? I haven’t been able to go shopping this year for gifts, but I think I have something that will make you very happy.”
Her mother laughed, no doubt expecting a package filled with a scarf or socks, or something else that Betty had been knitting, but instead Betty rose from her usual spot on the couch. As she focused on her balance point, the framed wedding photo of her parents on an end table across the room, she heard her mother and Jean gasp. She straightened and put one foot in front of the other. One step at a time, she crossed the room. When she reached for the doorjamb to steady herself, applause thundered through the room.
“Oh, Betty!” her mother cried, rushing to her and wrapping her in an embrace. “You never cease to amaze me.”
Betty leaned into her father’s shoulder and allowed herself to be steered back to her seat on the couch. A hot cup of coffee was handed to her. All talk subsided into easy silence as everyone broke apart the cinnamon rolls and ate them.
Betty’s father looked around the room, a pleased expression on his face. “Well, the last couple of years have been a challenge, both with the worsening economy and”—he faltered as he looked at Betty, tears filling his eyes—“and all that our Betty has endured, but let’s hope that 1933 brings us some better luck. Certainly this morning’s Christmas miracle is giving me some faith in the future.”
“Huzzah!” Jim called out.
“Yes, I’ll be running again by the time the snow’s gone,” Betty said, lifting Frances onto her lap again and breathing in her sweet smell of powder and zinc oxide. The thought of the two of them—one big, one small—staggering around the house, lurching into furniture and holding on to anything immobile, made Betty feel lighter. She looked up and found her family staring at her.
“But why on earth are you so focused on running again?” her mother asked.
“Because I know I can do it.”
“Won’t it be enough to regain your mobility and walk again? Think about your future. Soon you’ll be married and starting your own family. Focus on that.”
Betty looked to her father, but he was staring into his coffee. Little Frances wriggled, pedaling the air, eager to move, and Betty ran her fingers along the tips of the baby’s toes. Was she being unreasonable? Maybe her mother and Bill were right and it was time to move on.
Part 3
March 1933–June 1936
29.
March 1933
Fulton, Missouri
BURTON MOORE, THE COACH OF THE BOYS’ TRACK team at Fulton High School, couldn’t take his eyes off the tall girl dashing up and down the basketball court. She bounced the ball with ease, zigging and zagging around her opponents. Compared with her, the other girls appeared to be standing still. When she coiled into position to shoot, her shoulders dropped and her arms appeared loose and ropy, yet her expression was one of pure focus. She played with impressive speed, aggression, and dexterity, but more than anything, she showed a rare mix of focus and relaxation. It was a unique blend of qualities that few athletes possessed. In all of his years of running and coaching track teams, he had caught glimpses of talent but had never seen anyone like her. And boy, did she score points! He held his breath as another one of her shots circled the net’s rim a few times before dropping downward. The score ticked up to forty-two Methodist versus twenty-eight for Baptist, making the final game of the church league season a blowout. Burton’s palms began to sting from clapping so much with each point that Helen earned.
The buzzer rang to mark the end of the game and the hometown crowd went wild. Mary Lou stood and spun to face the band assembled in front of her. She cued the final song, and her students started playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” The air in the auditorium, hot and sour with the smell of exertion, felt festive. Burton tapped his foot to the tune but found himself searching the crowd for that girl. Grinning broadly, she was in the center of her t
eam, clapping and slapping backs with the others while being swept toward the locker room.
When the song finished and the students were placing their instruments in their cases, Burton leaned toward Mary Lou and asked, “Who was that tall girl? The one who scored all the points?”
“Helen Stephens? She sure runs circles around everyone, doesn’t she?”
“She’s really something,” he said, helping Mary Lou into her coat.
“Yes, that was a good game. Next year I won’t wait until the final one of the season to get the band out here. This is good practice for school events.”
Burton arched his neck for a better view of the crowd pushing its way to the exit. There was no sign of Helen. He lifted Mary Lou’s satchel of sheet music. “Guess so.”
ON MONDAY, AFTER the final bell of the day rang, he found the girl alone at her locker, amid the clamor of students packing their belongings. “Helen?”
She turned to him and her face flushed a deep crimson. A frizzy mess of short blondish hair fuzzed around her face. She had an unfortunate birthmark above her brow, but her nose was straight and narrow, cheekbones high, dark eyes bright. She smiled and her whole face lit up. Though not pretty in the conventional sense, and certainly not in the way that teenage boys would judge her, she possessed an appealing charm.
“I caught your game over the weekend against Baptist,” he said. “You had quite a night.”
“Thanks. It was a good way to end the season, that’s for sure.”
The huskiness of her voice took him aback, but he stuck out his hand and pressed on. “Sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Coach Moore. I run the boys’ track team and am trying to gauge if there’s any interest among the girls in running.”
She shook his hand. Her grip fastened around it with startling strength. He smiled.
“The track team, huh? I followed the news about Babe Didrikson all summer.”
“She sure cleaned everyone’s clocks in Los Angeles. When I saw you playing basketball I figured you looked pretty fast too. I’d like to see what you can do on the track. With a little training, maybe you’ll be faster than Didrikson, you never know.”
Helen laughed, clearly pleased by Coach Moore’s attention. “How about one of those black-and-gold letter F’s?”
“A varsity letter?”
“Yeah, I’ve been wanting one but figured us girls can’t get ’em. We’re stuck in PE doing silly calisthenics while the boys are out there actually winning things.”
“You’ve got to run a fifty-yard dash in seven seconds to qualify for a varsity letter.”
She snorted. “I can do that easy.”
Coach Moore liked the girl’s gumption. She was going to need it. In truth, he had no idea if he could get a girls’ track team together, but Helen’s athleticism intrigued him. “How about we do a time trial tomorrow after school and let’s see what you and some of the other girls can do? Bring out a group of your teammates and anyone else who would be interested. I’ll meet you all on the track behind the school twenty minutes after classes let out. Sound good?”
“I’ll be there.”
“And don’t forget to bring some friends, got it?”
A flash of doubt crossed over her face for an instant before she settled into an easy grin and hefted a thick book close to her chest. “Sure, I’ll ask around.”
He glanced at the book. “What are you reading?”
“The Road Back.”
“Is it for class?”
“No, but I liked All Quiet on the Western Front and the library just got this one in. It’s the sequel.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Not exactly light reading.”
“No, it’s not,” she conceded, looking sheepish. “But it’s literally heavy so if I carry it around enough, it’ll make me stronger, right?” She flexed the biceps of her arm that was holding the book and laughed. She sounded loud and nervous, like she was trying too hard to amuse him.
“Huh. Maybe I’ll have to try it. I could use something interesting to read.”
She closed her metal locker. “See you tomorrow.”
“You bet.” He watched her make her way through the crowded hallway. Judging from the way she towered over the other students, he guessed her to be about six feet tall. Though she greeted a few kids, she walked alone. A girl like that—tall, athletic, tomboyish—she probably wasn’t one of the popular kids. And clearly if she spent her time outside of school reading stuff by authors like Remarque, her social calendar couldn’t be too full. Maybe joining a school team could be just the thing to help her fit in.
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, a gaggle of girls led by Helen approached Burton where he stood by the track. He hadn’t been sure she would show. Since girls didn’t run track at Fulton High School, it felt like a good idea to keep this experiment quiet so he had sent the boys off on a three-mile run. That would keep them busy for a bit. Patches of muddy puddles filled the inside of the track and a sharp wind blew from the north. His nose dripped from the cold, and he rubbed at it absentmindedly, amused by the sense of anticipation filling him. All this for a 50-yard time trial.
Once the girls reached him, he greeted them and explained what he wanted them to do. They listened, blowing on their hands and hopping up and down to stay warm. When he had spoken to her the day before, Helen had been outgoing, but now, surrounded by the other girls, she acted quieter. She kept her shoulders hunched around her ears and slouched as if making herself less noticeable.
Burton showed them how to start by crouching low and springing forward and then pointed to the line he had dug by dragging his heel along the cinder farther down the track. “Don’t stop at the finish line,” he said. “Run all the way through and wait to slow down until after you’ve crossed it.”
He lined them up and then walked to the finish. On his command, the pack dashed forward and sprinted toward him.
Helen flew past first. He clicked his stopwatch: 5.8 seconds. He stared at the time, scratching his head. That couldn’t be right. Helen was fast, but there was no chance she could be that fast. The girls, panting hard, all gathered around him.
“So?” asked a dark-haired girl. “How did we do?”
“Not sure this darned thing is working.” He shook the stopwatch. “What do you say we try it one more time? I’ll head to the start, and we’ll just reverse direction. Take a minute to recover.” Without another word, he turned and paced the 50-yard distance again, hoping none of them noticed him checking his watch, but the girls were giggling with excitement as they resumed starting positions and not paying any attention to him. He clicked his stopwatch on and off several times, watching the hand tick along smoothly, and then held it to his ear, listening to the smooth grind of its interior mechanisms. The darned thing appeared to be working just fine.
He took his spot and called out, “On your marks. Set. Go!”
Off they went, legs and arms pumping with exertion.
Again, Helen cruised over the finish line. Click. He took a deep breath before looking at his stopwatch. Again, the timer was frozen at 5.8. He felt his jaw drop, and he gasped. It felt like he had taken a wallop to the chest. The girls crowded around him expectantly, but he continued to stare at the stopwatch in disbelief. Jesus, she had just run that in the same time as Betty Robinson, the world record holder.
“Did I earn a varsity letter?” asked Helen in a nervous-sounding voice.
Dazed, he shook his head, still staring at his timer. “In fact, Helen, yes, you did.”
One of the girls cheered.
He raised his gaze to meet Helen’s. “I mean, this run wasn’t sanctioned or anything and my timer may not be fully accurate, but there’s no doubt that you’re really fast. All of you were fast.” His mind was racing. Holy buckets, what does this mean? What do you do with a find like this?
“I can’t wait to tell my parents about this,” said a thin blonde, the second girl to pass over the finish both times. Her time was nowhere near Helen’s, but s
till, under normal circumstances he would have been impressed by her pace too.
“Wait a minute, ladies. Let’s keep today’s results to ourselves for a bit. I’ll follow up in a couple of days to see if we can get some practice times set up.”
The girls called out goodbyes, walking off in pairs, already preoccupied with discussing homework and babysitting schedules. Only Helen hung back.
“So, my time was really good?”
“Yeah, it really was.” He showed her the stopwatch, still frozen on 5.8 seconds. “I’ll be totally honest with you. I don’t know what happens next. Let me figure out the AAU’s spring meets that are open to girls. Think your folks will approve of you taking up track?”
Helen scratched her shoulder. “I don’t know. Money’s pretty tight. Will it cost much?”
“Let me see what I can do.” He looked out over the field to check that the boys were nowhere in sight.
“Coach?”
His gaze returned to her.
“That felt good. I think I might be able to get pretty fast if I practice more.” She grinned, and a surprising shyness lingered in the way she tried to cover her birthmark with her hand.
“Bet you’re right. You’re a good kid, and you’ve easily qualified for a varsity letter already. How about you come back on Monday and try practicing with the boys?”
“Really?” Her eyes widened with excitement and her shoulders dropped as she stood straighter. “They’re not going to know what hit them.”
Coach Moore laughed. Once she had a little training and started running in earnest, he had a feeling no one would know what hit them. She said goodbye and headed back to the school building, kicking her cracked leather boots at the occasional pebble in her path, her hands in the pockets of the baggy pantaloons she must have thought constituted a gym suit. How on earth did she run a world record time in that getup?
A few minutes later, on Burton’s way out of the school, he stuck his head into the music room. A familiar song trilled from a flute being played by a redheaded girl, but there was no sign of Mary Lou. He entered the classroom and headed toward a door on the far side of the room, passing two boys writing music on the chalkboard. Sure enough, in the classroom’s office behind a desk covered with several stacks of sheet music, there she sat.
