by Mateer, Anne
How many laps? I hadn’t counted. And I dared not look up at the board that marked our progress. We whizzed past the grandstands, the spectators no more than a blur. Finally, I saw it up ahead—the checkered flag. Waiting.
“C’mon. C’mon.” I wished the car could be coaxed to try harder. But nothing I did could spur the engine to a faster pace. In a flash, we passed the flag.
The crowd erupted in cheers. My head turned one direction, then another. Had I won? I couldn’t tell. I let off the gas, downshifted, rolled to a stop in the pit. Then my eyes sought the scoreboard.
Runner up. By less than a second.
Just short of the win. Just short of even the smallest share of the prize money.
I wanted to burst into tears. But I couldn’t. Not here.
Webster nudged me from the car, his voice near my ear. “Go on. Get out of here. Get changed.”
I stumbled forward on legs still pulsating with the vibration of the car, thankful for the muck of oil and dirt that hid my face from recognition.
“Where’d he go?” Father’s voice carried over the din, propelling me into the crowd of mechanics and drivers preparing for the next heat. Three strides. Four. Five. I glanced back. No sign of Father. I stalked on through the commotion, the back-slapping, the congratulations, then snaked through the grandstands and back to the storage shed.
The crowd thinned near my changing place. I slipped inside, eased the door shut, and slid the large crate in front of the door before I stumbled to the back wall, eager to relieve my shaky knees. I plopped down on a wooden crate. My chest heaved. My shoulders shook. I covered my mouth and doubled over with giddy laughter.
I’d driven in a race. A real race. And I hadn’t been left behind.
Oh, how proud my father would be. If only I could tell him.
Father. Voices outside the small window sobered me instantly. I had to get back to Father. And Lawrence. They’d be expecting me.
Deep breaths slowed my heart as I wiped grime from my hands with a delicate lace handkerchief. I used the shirt I’d worn to wipe oil and dirt from my face and neck before splashing on the warm water. A bird bath to rinse the rest of my limbs. A quick dry with the towel, then I wiggled back into my dress. Driving clothes returned to the carpetbag beneath the upended empty crate in the corner, I eased into the throng of spectators, praying I didn’t smell worse than anyone else in attendance.
There was Webster, still in his jumpsuit. He leaned against the grandstand railing, one foot crossed casually over the other. His familiar grin settled me as he offered his arm. “You okay?”
I held my breath for a brief moment. Tingles raced over my arms and legs as his gaze held mine. I almost wished my knees would give way, that his arms would wrap around me, hold me tight. But even that momentary attraction paled against the knowledge of what I’d just done. “When can we do that again?”
His laughter pealed into the air. I pressed closer, my words meant for his ears alone. “Seriously, Webster. I know I’ll get the driver’s pay for this time, but I could win all the money I need for the McConnells if I could just place in one race.”
He stopped, smile fading, eyes searching mine. “You did fine today. Quite well, in fact. But it’s dangerous, Ally. And there are no guarantees.”
I sobered a bit. “I know. But you’ll help me.”
He looked away. Why did he hesitate? Did I spy new fear in his face? Fear of my father? Or fear for me?
A cluster of men in suits sauntered past. Webster raised his voice. “Fancy meeting you here, Miss Alyce. May I help you locate your father?”
I bit back a giggle. “I’d be most obliged, Mr. Little. I seem to have lost my way.”
He spun me toward the far grandstands, chattering nonsense as we walked. I only hoped Father and Lawrence attributed my glow to a beautiful day and a good showing by our car. For that would be the absolute truth.
A minute later, my gaze landed on a well-dressed man, a familiar figure. Away from the crowd. Conversing with two men in rougher attire.
He turned. Our eyes met.
Lawrence.
I called across the distance and waved. The two men slunk away. Webster let go of my arm, followed a few paces behind.
When I placed my hands in Lawrence’s, I breathed relief. “I told you I’d find you.”
“So you did.” Lawrence glanced backward before linking my arm with his. I bit my lip and peeked behind us. Webster vanished into the shadows of the grandstands.
“Shall we join your father for the final race?” Lawrence asked.
“Of course.”
It seemed no time at all until Lawrence directed my attention high in the grandstands. A cigar protruded from Father’s mouth as he rocked back on his heels, hands lost in the pockets of his pants, eyes trained on the track. Two dapper men stood in the row just below him. The taller man’s mouth moved rapidly, along with his hands. The shorter man nodded on occasion.
Father didn’t seem to pay them much mind. Then his big voice carried over the chaos. “Ally, my girl!”
For a fraction of a moment I considered retreating. Then I got my wits about me and hurried up the steps and into my father’s outstretched arms.
Laughter swelled from his belly. “Quite exciting to have a stake in the race, even if we didn’t make the final round.”
The truth threatened to burst from me. But I couldn’t spoil it all now. “So true. In fact, it almost made me feel as if I drove in the race myself.” I swallowed down a niggle of guilt.
Father chuckled, chortled, then bellowed as he laid his arm across my shoulders. I joined in his amusement. He wiped his eyes as his head wagged back and forth. “I’ve never understood why other people don’t appreciate you, my girl.”
I winced. He’d thought my quip about driving charming, but would he find the truth as humorous? My stomach clenched. He might even scorn what I’d accomplished.
The five heat winners pulled forward to the starting line. I sat. Lawrence settled on my other side, leaning forward to hear our conversation.
“Little’s automobile held its own. And the driver did well, wouldn’t you say?” Father looked like a schoolboy who’d just won at a game of marbles.
“Not in the same class as Resta, of course,” I said, “but fine.”
Father snorted. “No one’s in the same class as Resta. Except maybe Rickenbacker.”
“Better not let De Palma hear you say that.”
Father chuckled. “That’s my girl. But I still wonder that Webster let that other man take his place.”
My heart stumbled, then seemed to still. “Webster’s place?”
“Of course. He built that car. Who better to drive it?”
Sourness flooded my throat as the red flag flapped. Cars shot around the track. Lap after lap, Resta pulling ahead of Rickenbacker. Rickenbacker surging forward once more. Minutes ticked past. A few laps to go. Then the final stretch.
Rick’s Peugeot jerked, slowed, limped to the pits. Resta zipped past the checkered flag to wild cheers. The Gold Cup and the bulk of the five-thousand-dollar prize belonged to Dario Resta.
But that mattered little to me right then. Not in the face of Webster’s sacrifice.
17
By the time we boarded the train back to Langston on Monday morning, I longed for the openness of our country home, the breeze that meandered through the tall windows on all but the fiercest days of summer.
The minute we walked through the front door, I tore off my hat and flung it into the morning room.
“Alyce!” Mother scolded. “Do behave yourself.”
Without bothering to reply, I charged up the stairs two at a time. “Grandmother? We’re home!”
I stopped in the doorway of her room. She lay at an odd angle, as if she’d fallen asleep while sitting and then gradually slid to one side.
“Grandmother?” A step forward. Then two. Wooden movements. Attempting to swallow down my fear. I laid a hand on her shoulder. She didn�
�t stir.
“Granny?” I shook her just a bit.
Nothing.
“Father! Clarissa!” I backed out of the room, stumbled down the stairs, screamed their names again, reached for the telephone. The operator’s words jumbled in my ears.
“We need the doctor right away,” I told her. My voice sounded too calm. My lips felt dry. My hands like ice. I replaced the earpiece and whirled around.
Mother stood behind me. She laid a hand on my arm. “I’ll send the doctor up when he arrives. You go sit with her.”
I nodded so many times I wondered if my head would ever stop bobbing. I raced back to the bedroom. Father and Clarissa stood over Grandmother, straightening her body, talking in hushed tones.
“Is she—” Now my hands squeezed each other white as I waited for an answer. Father’s pale face frightened me more than Grandmother’s unresponsiveness.
“There’s still a beating in her chest,” Clarissa said. “I put one of her pills on her tongue. I spoke with her no more than ten minutes past.” Her lilt calmed me some.
I closed my eyes and dropped to my knees at Grandmother’s bedside, tears dampening the sheet. A heavy hand settled on my shoulder. I reached up and covered it with my own, letting my fingers curl around my father’s and squeeze tight.
The next thing I knew, Dr. Maven rushed into the room and Mother knelt beside me, her hand gripping mine. I leaned into her, felt her arm cup my shoulder and pull me close. For the first time in many years, I laid my head against my mother’s chest and sobbed.
“I can’t tell you what will happen next.” Dr. Maven’s mouth drooped with each word. “Clarissa did right getting those nitrates into her, but beyond that we just don’t know.”
Father crossed the room, hands behind his back, shoulders slumped. None of his usual swagger or strength. “Who does know? We’ll take her there. Europe even.”
The doctor shrugged. “Even if I knew someone who could help you, she’s too weak to move at the moment. You’ll just have to bide your time here.”
Time. The one thing Father couldn’t buy with his money. With the tip of my shoe, I traced a line in the Turkish rug at my feet. How much time did we have? Days? Weeks?
Not Grandmother, Lord. I need her.
I let my lungs take in as much air as they would hold before breathing out again. A whisper floated across my heart. Trust Me.
Could I trust the Lord with this? Money, and even my reputation, paled in comparison to my grandmother’s life. Gathering every ounce of courage I could muster, I pushed up from the sofa. Grandmother had lived in this house for over twenty years. Not once had I heard her complain of her circumstances. Not her blindness. Or her heart problems. Or the pain that lived in her joints. Not the fact that her son lived for himself and not the Lord. Whatever the issues in her earlier life, by the time I could comprehend her words and actions, she showed only fortitude—and faith. And she’d bequeathed both of those to me long ago.
Circling Father’s stout body with my arms, my heart twisted under his tortured gaze. He didn’t share his mother’s faith, but he loved her all the same.
“We’ll take care of her, Father. You and I and Mother. And Clarissa will help, as well. We’ll cherish every minute God chooses to leave her here on this earth with us.” I knew I’d see her again in heaven one day, but I sensed it wasn’t the right time to remind my father of that fact. Instead, I prayed once more for his salvation.
Throughout that night and most of the next two days, I sat with Grandmother. Then on Thursday morning Clarissa ordered me from the room. “Go get some fresh air. Your mother is on her way up to sit with Mrs. Benson.”
Yes, I did need to get out of the house. Just for a little while.
Clarissa left the room. Quiet returned, broken only by Grandmother’s shallow breaths. The smell of late-summer roses drifted in through the open window, along with distant clanks and clatters from the carriage house.
Webster and I hadn’t spoken since I’d joined Father and Lawrence in the grandstand. Not that I’d expected to see him again on race day. But now, after the long hours at Grandmother’s side, I remembered my jewelry. Had he managed to find someone to buy the pieces—or had he forgotten amidst the chaos? Perhaps he had the money and was waiting for a private time to settle it in my possession. And what about my pay as the driver? That would be even more significant to my cause.
My mind returned to the race. Driving that car had seemed more right than almost anything I’d ever done before. Like I was born to have a steering wheel in my hand and a gas pedal beneath my foot. But could that be right? If God had intended me to drive a race car, why had He made me a woman?
I’d given my life to the Lord, and His word encouraged me to marry a godly man, to raise godly children, to work in the church. Not to fritter away my time racing motorcars. But so far I had no husband, no children. No important occupation, other than taking care of Grandmother and striving to honor my parents.
And gathering three thousand dollars for the McConnells’ mission work in Africa.
I’d never before resented what I didn’t have. Now it chafed like a shoe on the wrong foot. And I couldn’t fathom why.
“How is she?” Mother’s hand rested gently on my shoulder, her eyes fixed on Grandmother’s face.
“The same.”
Mother studied me now. “You need sleep. Or fresh air. Maybe both.” She shooed me from the room, and I found I didn’t mind a bit.
After a quick breakfast, I grabbed an ordinary straw hat and scurried outdoors. I needed to see Webster, to ask him about the money, to talk with him about the race. Anything to make my mind forget to worry about Grandmother.
A faint whistle skidded past my ear. I perked up, hastened my approach to the garage. One of the double doors remained shut; one stood half open. “Webster?”
The whistling ceased. Metal clunked against wood. He met me in the dim light, his serious gaze searching my face.
“How is she?” He tipped his head toward the house. “The old lady.” His words held reverence, not disrespect.
“She’s holding on. We don’t know—”
He nodded, relieving me of the need to say more. I cleared my throat. “I was wondering . . .”
Then I remembered what Father had told me—that Webster had been slated as the original driver. Why had he relinquished that role to me? His opportunity for personal glory and monetary gain given to an untested girl who, if discovered, would bring certain disgrace. Would I ever be able to adequately express my gratitude? And would Webster be willing to give up his position to me again?
“Webster, Father said that you were supposed to—”
“The money.” He turned and jogged deeper inside the building. When he returned, he pressed a fold of bills into my hand. “Eight hundred and fourteen dollars.”
“Eight hundred . . .” I stared at it, then at him. That much money for a few minutes of driving in circles with other cars? I felt my mouth hanging open and forced it shut again.
He grinned. “It’s for both—the jewelry and the driving. I thought you’d be pleased.”
Over eight hundred dollars. Combined with what I’d held onto from before, that put me a third of the way toward my goal—a goal I had less than five weeks left to accomplish. If I could race just two or three more times . . .
The part of me that thrilled at the thought of returning to the track warred with Mrs. Tillman’s voice in my head. It wasn’t ladylike. Or Christian-minded. It was deceitful, in fact. If Grandmother were well, I’d ask her what to do. But that option didn’t exist. I swallowed hard and let go of the words. “When can we do it again?”
Webster lowered his head, peered into my eyes. “The next possibility is Cincinnati, but it’s a longer race. Three hundred miles on that brand new million-dollar board track. Should be something to see—or experience.”
One hundred and fifty laps instead of ten. Could I drive that long, that fast? My chin lifted. “I want to try.”
He toed the ground, studying the dirt before looking back into my face. “Your father came to me on Sunday night asking about the driver. I managed to avoid details.” He closed my fingers around the bills. “Just be sure and hold on to that money. If you hope to have it all by mid-September, you won’t have many more opportunities to earn it. Not by racing, at least.”
Hold on to the money. For me that was easier said than done. I thrust the cash toward him. “You keep it for me. I’ll just give it away again. I know I will.”
He raised his hands in objection. “Oh no. Not me.”
I frowned. Another race, maybe a stronger finish, and I’d be close to the goal. But how could I ensure I wouldn’t give it away before the McConnells returned?
“I guess I’ll have to hide it from myself, then. But I’ll know where I’ve hidden it, so it won’t do much good.” I sighed, staring at the bills.
Webster mopped his face and neck with his usual work rag.
My shoulders slumped. “Please help me, Webster.”
His face reddened. Was it the heat?
He shook his head, but I read exasperation, not refusal. Then he snorted out a soft laugh. “Do you have some kind of container for it?”
I nodded. “Grandmother—” The word caught in my throat. I pushed past the worry. “Grandmother gave me a box. I’ll get it.”
I dashed from the garage to the house, scaled the stairs, and flew into my bedroom. Pawing through my clothes, my fingers grazed the raised beads. I pulled out the box, shoved in all the money I’d collected, and replaced the lid. Then I raced back to the garage.
“Here.” I thrust the red square at him and then covered my eyes and turned my back. “Don’t tell me. If I know—well, you know what will happen.”
He led me outside the garage, just far enough from the building not to hear any rumblings from within. Then he disappeared inside, pulling the large door almost shut behind him.
I had no reason not to trust him. After all, I’d handed him a tangle of jewelry and he’d returned the money it had garnered.
