At Every Turn

by Mateer, Anne

  “I asked him to escort Ally to the race on Sunday.”

  Mother’s pretty mouth turned pouty. “Now, Harry. You know how I feel—”

  “How was Grandmother when you left?” I kept my voice bright and focused my attention on Father as he answered. But I couldn’t miss Mother’s pursed lips, then their downward turn.

  “I expect you’ll meet all manner of eligible men here in Chicago, Alyce,” she said.

  My eyes cut toward Lawrence, but he didn’t appear discomposed. “Yes, Mother.”

  She turned to Father. “Will you secure us a car for tomorrow evening? I imagine we’ll be out quite late.”

  My back stiffened. Out late. On Saturday night. With the big race happening the next day. Would Mother’s party be the undoing of all my plans?

  Lawrence stood. “Would you care to take a stroll, Miss Benson?”

  He looked to Father for approval and received it with a wave of Father’s hand.

  “Thank you, Law—Mr. Trotter.” I stood. “That would be quite agreeable.”

  Mother’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t object. We exited the dining room, then the hotel. A warm breeze rustled the leaves on the trees as we sauntered toward a small park area.

  No better time than now to situate things for Sunday. “Lawrence.” I smiled up at him. “I’ve run into a bit of a snag for Sunday’s outing.” I stopped walking. “You do know the race has been changed to Sunday?” My heart skipped a beat.

  “Yes. Your father and I heard it on the way to town. I hope this doesn’t change things. I’ve looked forward to our day together.”

  The light in his eyes almost melted my resolve to disappoint him.

  He motioned to a bench. I sat, as did he. I laced my fingers, laid them in my lap, and gazed out over the green square of land in the midst of the city.

  His arm stretched across the back of the bench, behind my shoulders. I shivered with unexpected delight. He leaned closer to me. “So tomorrow is free—unless, of course, your father requires my assistance. Perhaps we could take in the Lincoln Park Zoo.”

  I prayed he wouldn’t notice my fingers tightening on each other. “What a lovely thought. But I’m—spending the day with Mother. And then there’s that dreaded dinner party of hers in the evening.” I shuddered. “And on Sunday . . . You see, a friend has asked me to visit.”

  I swatted back the buzz of my conscience. He didn’t need to know that the friend was Webster and our visit would be at the speedway.

  His countenance fell. I twisted to face him, my hand lighting for a brief moment on his knee. “But I’d be happy to meet you later on Sunday, at the speedway.”

  “I don’t know. Your father—”

  “I’ll make sure he understands. Besides, this frees you to attend church on Sunday morning, if you prefer.”

  His head tipped to one side as he studied me, his face a blank mask. Then his expression opened again. “I’ll be happy to see you at whatever moment you choose, Alyce.”

  A calming wave surged through me. Lawrence might be a different type of friend than Webster, but he remained a friend all the same. I gave him my brightest smile. “I’ll look forward to that moment, as well.”

  15

  It was more difficult to slip away with Father around, but I managed. Webster and I zoomed through several more practice laps. Soon I felt more comfortable on the banked turns, but I was still the only car on the boards. When I returned to the hotel, my parents had gone out. I blessed this turn of events and soaked in the tub for an hour, rehearsing the track again in my head, imagining the effort with more noise, more smoke, more dirt.

  More excitement.

  But first, I had to make it through this evening’s party.

  After my parents returned, Mother had tea sent up, and we dressed. Father grumbled that it was time to go. Just before we headed out, I slipped back into my room and grabbed the photograph of the Gold Coast children, placing it in the evening bag hanging from my wrist. I promised myself I wouldn’t make a scene, but if an opportunity presented itself . . .

  The sun slid toward the horizon as we alighted from the hired car on Prairie Avenue, a street lined with grand mansions of the past. But the venerable names no longer lived here. They’d moved north, to the Gold Coast. Not my Gold Coast. Theirs was along the shore of Lake Michigan.

  The brick house owned by Mother’s friends rose tall, chimneys and dormers jutting up from the rooftop. A flight of wide steps rose to an arch, beneath which the front door remained aloof from the elements. Soft illumination flowed out tall windows into the street below, where we stood after climbing from the car.

  Excited exclamations greeted Mother as she swept through the front door on Father’s arm. Her face glowed with each press of cheek to cheek, each reintroduction of Father to one of her friends. Her laugh trilled across the room, accompanied by graceful movements and a joy she rarely exuded in Langston. Mother seemed to feel in this environment as I did behind the wheel—as if she were made for this moment.

  I trailed my parents through room after room, making polite conversation, until I found myself alone, an untouched glass of wine in my hand. A footman strolled past. I set my glass on his tray. An eyebrow rose in question. I dismissed it with a tight smile.

  “Alyce! Whatever are you doing in town?” Lisa Gentry kissed the air in front of my cheek, babbling on as if we hadn’t seen each other in years instead of just the couple months since graduation. “Look who’s here, girls.”

  Three or four others joined us. Then I noticed the young men hovering about the edges of our group. Inch by inch, they worked their way in among us.

  “What have you been up to out there in the country, Alyce?” Regina batted her eyes at the sandy-haired young man across the circle from her as she spoke.

  Lisa took up the refrain, with a shy smile at the dark-haired gentleman at her side. Then her gaze locked with mine. She smiled. I relaxed. It was all the opening I needed. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out the picture of the African children. “I’ve been quite busy, actually.” I held out the photograph. The other girls gathered around, then looked up, each face puckering into a question.

  “These children live in a place called the Gold Coast, in Africa. They have need of food and shelter and clothing. But beyond the things needed to survive in this life, they need the gospel of Jesus Christ. I’m raising money to send a missionary couple back to their work among the villages there.”

  Delicate eyebrows lifted. Gloved fingers tried to block giggles from smirking lips. I stepped back, suddenly feeling as out of place as a horse and phaeton on an auto-racing track. What had made me think they would care about children with hopeless eyes?

  Lisa brushed her hand against the dark-haired gentleman’s arm, then gazed into his eyes. No, these girls cared only about finding a suitable husband. Perhaps then would they turn their thoughts to others, as Mother had suggested.

  I took a step backward. Young men filled in the empty space, crowding me from the circle. I retreated to the wall, watching from afar. The gentlemen hung on the girls’ playful words, punctuated by looks stolen from beneath their downturned lashes. My fingers tightened on the photograph. I wished someone would listen to me with such rapt attention.

  “Alyce?” Mother’s voice carried across the room.

  I jammed the picture back into concealment.

  “Come, darling. I have someone I want you to meet.” She hooked her arm through mine and led me into the library. Two men I’d never seen before stood conversing near the open windows.

  “Mr. Bragg, Mr. Steel. May I present my daughter, Miss Alyce Benson.”

  We exchanged greetings. Mother patted my hand and then retreated.

  They filled in the awkward silence with customary dinner party pleasantries. Mr. Bragg had yellow spun-silk hair and a lean frame. Mr. Steel was a heftier man, but not fleshy. Plainer features. More intelligent eyes. Both impeccably dressed. Obviously these were men of money and culture. Even if their fa
ith consisted only of church attendance on Easter and Christmas, maybe my picture would stir their hearts to help.

  If they gave me just one opening in the conversation, I’d dash through it.

  A burst of giggles preceded a group of young ladies stepping into the library. Mr. Bragg’s gaze moved idly in their direction. Mr. Steel fought the magnetism a bit longer but finally lost. My enthusiasm drooped. Why couldn’t I capture these men the way the other girls did?

  Or could I?

  Closing my eyes, I imagined the wide eyes in thin faces staring back at me through the miracle of photography. I told myself I would do anything to help them. With a deep breath, I inched closer to Mr. Steel and Mr. Bragg, wearing my most coquettish smile. Their eyes snapped back in my direction. Saucy questions and compliments flew from my mouth. Their attention deepened, even though the other girls stood just beyond the scope of our conversation.

  Mr. Bragg lifted his glass and drank deep. Mr. Steel’s gaze wandered over my face. “Tell me, Miss Alyce. What do you find to do in the country?”

  I waved my hand. “Oh, this and that. However, I have recently come upon quite a project.”

  Mr. Bragg took up the challenge. “And what cause has piqued your interest?”

  “Why, I can show you.” Out came the photograph. Again I explained, but this time with playful smiles and shy glances tempering my usual passion.

  Mr. Steel plucked the photo from my fingers. “Interesting way to pass your time.”

  Mr. Bragg leaned toward the picture, too. The young women around us whispered amongst themselves. Then a petite brunette pushed between me and Mr. Bragg, her arm looping through mine.

  “Isn’t she a dear to want to help?” She addressed Mr. Bragg, her eyes doelike. Then she turned to me. “I meant to show the photograph to my mother. May I?”

  She whisked the picture from Mr. Steel’s hand and headed for the door.

  “Wait!” I flew after her, colliding with a small reading shelf. Books tumbled to the floor, smashing into my toes. I yelped. Jumped away. Mr. Bragg and Mr. Steel appeared at each arm, helping me limp after my photograph.

  As we passed the music room, crowded with guests, I spied her, indeed handing my prized possession to her mother.

  “In there.” I nodded. We entered. The girl’s mother handed the picture back. The girl’s lashes shaded eyes feigning innocence, drawing the men from my side to hers. She placed the photograph on the slanted lid of the open piano, her attention fully absorbed by the dance of flirtation around her.

  For a moment the picture remained on its precarious perch. Then a passing guest stirred the air. It slid down the slope and skidded over the wood floor, beneath unsuspecting feet. I followed it with my eyes, then my feet. But every time I neared my treasure, an errant toe propelled it farther from my reach. Back and forth. This way and that. I darted through the crowd, throwing swift apologies.

  I tried to catch someone’s attention. Mr. Bragg. Or Mr. Steel. Or one of the other girls. But they’d lost interest in me. Again I searched the floor. But the photo had disappeared. I bit my lip and plopped dejectedly into a chair beneath an open window. Then I spied a wisp of something beneath the piano. I leaned down. There, lodged between the instrument’s leg and the wall, was my beloved picture. I had to rescue it. A quick glance around assured me that other guests were minding their own conversations, not my actions.

  I dropped to my knees and crawled to the corner, my backside in the air. Plucking up my photograph, I sat back in relief.

  Then I noticed the quiet in the room.

  “Alyce.” Mother’s hiss.

  I crept to the edge of the piano and stuck my head out from beneath it. “Yes, Mother?”

  She reached down, helped me to my feet. A buzz filled the emptiness, and I knew Mother felt the sting as surely as she had the bee’s in the garden a few days ago.

  Her eyes blazed in her white face. Her voice never rose above a whisper. “I’ll call for your father to escort you back to the hotel.” She turned on her heel and charged from the room.

  Tears pushed at my eyes, but I shook them away. I stared at the picture in my hand, the faces marred with dust, the edges crinkled. No one met my gaze as I stumbled into the foyer to wait for Father. At least now I could get back to our room and get some rest before tomorrow’s race.

  The race. That was why I’d come. Not for the attention of people I didn’t know, who didn’t know me. Mother wished for my social success. I only wanted to succeed on the track.

  I glanced once more at the precious faces before stuffing the picture back into my bag. No matter what tomorrow brought, motoring over the oil-slick boards with smoke in my face would be a cinch compared to this.

  16

  A yawn stretched my face as I arrived at the speedway Sunday morning. In spite of my early departure from the party, after I’d climbed into my bed last night, sleep had refused to come.

  My eyelids felt heavy as I searched for Webster among the bustle of mechanics near the pits—really just space in the infield, off the track. Although I knew the meeting place and the plan, his very presence would settle me like no one else’s.

  I tucked a curl behind my ear. Just another Sunday drive, I told myself. One I hoped would result in money for my red box.

  A three-note whistle. Our signal. I spun around. Webster jumped from the shadows, his usual jocularity turned pensive.

  “Let’s go.” Tight, nervous words. He strode toward the shack where I’d changed clothes for the past two days. I almost had to run to keep up, glancing back over my shoulder every few seconds to make sure neither my father nor Lawrence appeared.

  Webster opened the weathered wooden door and nodded. “Remember, I’ll knock three times. Your bag is beneath the crate in the back, like before. And the bucket of water and toweling for cleaning up afterward.”

  Before I could thank him, the door thumped shut and musty darkness surrounded me. I concentrated on a small square of light streaming through a window that sat well above my head. Then I pushed a large box in front of the door before stripping down to my modern underclothes.

  A sudden chill shook me. I rubbed my hands up and down my arms. Would I race against Dario Resta? Or Ralph De Palma? What if I panicked? What if I crashed? What if someone figured out I was a woman? My hands turned slick as my head throbbed with the unknowns.

  “I can do this. I can.” I pulled up my knickers. Dropped the large brown men’s shirt over my head, let it drape across my shoulders. Then I stepped into the jumpsuit that identified me as a member of the racing team. It billowed out, disguising my slender frame.

  After tucking every strand of hair beneath the tight-fitting driving cap Webster had given me, I positioned the goggles on top of my head, ready to set them in place once I walked through the door. But I still felt exposed. I leaned down, rubbed my hands along the dirt floor, and brushed them across my face.

  Better. I took a deep breath. And waited.

  Here I am, Lord.

  No voice answered, yet I felt only peace.

  Three knocks. The door pushed against the box holding it shut. “Ally?” came the whisper. “You ready?”

  I shoved the box aside. The door creaked open.

  Webster looked me up and down. “You’ll do. Resta’s small, too, so you won’t look strange. And most people will be too far away to notice anything . . . different. Once you’re sitting in the car, we’ll be set. You’re in the third heat. The mechanical crew has been told that the driver is high-strung and not to talk to him. They’re willing but wary. Just play your part. I’ll come for you just before start time and lead you straight to the pit area. We’ll settle in the car and pull up to the starting line. Rolling start, pace car for half a lap. Any questions?”

  A million and one raced through my mind, but I shook my head anyway. No use voicing uncertainties that couldn’t be answered. The door clicked behind him, leaving me again alone in the dim and stuffy storage room. I dropped to my knees but could
n’t think of another word to say. Even in prayer.

  Forever later—or was it a mere minute?—three raps sounded on the door. I grabbed the handle, yanked it open. With no more than a glance in Webster’s direction, I strode toward the pits and the bright blue roadster with the white number 7. I knew this car. I knew I could drive it.

  Mechanics peeled back, leaving a clear path. I climbed behind the wheel. Webster cranked the engine before jumping into the seat beside me, his grin as wide as Lake Michigan. As I’d done before, I eased the automobile into first gear. My insides jittered with the thrill of competition as the other cars did the same. We all rolled onto the track, followed the pace car, and watched for the red flag to signal our start.

  I didn’t turn my head to see who I would be racing against. I didn’t want to know. Instead, I focused on the track in front of me, at least the bit I could see through the billowing exhaust.

  “Steady.” Webster’s voice seemed a whisper, but I knew he was shouting. “I’ll keep up with who’s behind you.”

  “What if I’m the one behind?” I gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.

  “No chance, Ally.” He leaned into my line of vision. “Flag’s up. Get ready. Now go!”

  It took only seconds to shift into top gear, throttle open, gaining speed. Like on the track at home, the air slapped my face as the sun beat down on my head. We surged to the front of the pack, only one other car ahead of me. But that car refused to be overtaken. Around the curve. Another straightway. Another curve. Only a ten-lap race. A mere twenty minutes or less. I leaned in, pushed my foot to the floorboard.

  Another car inched closer, its front wheels in line with mine. I glanced at Webster, his body twisted to watch behind us. When I glanced again, he faced me, his mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear over the roar of the engines. Or was it the roar of my heart in my ears? Knuckles white, I kept one eye on the track, one on the nose of the race car inching ahead of me.