At Every Turn

by Mateer, Anne

  With eager steps I returned to Mother’s side. “I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “I do need some new clothes. And shoes. And undergarments. And—”

  “Darling!” Mother threw her arms around me, her face displaying the same warmth of feeling as Pastor Swan’s when he welcomed a new child of God.

  We took a cab back to the hotel. One of the bellboys carried our boxes and bags upstairs. As he piled them in the sitting room, I realized I’d arrive in Langston with an entire new set of clothes—clothes I didn’t need. The women at church would peg me as frivolous, not generous. Especially if, dressed in my new finery, I couldn’t supply the small fortune I’d promised to the McConnells. They’d believe they had worked and sacrificed and I hadn’t taken my own words seriously. With a groan, I fell onto the sofa.

  Why couldn’t God give me some service for Him that looked normal?

  24

  On Sunday morning, I crept from the hotel room while my parents slept. Lawrence met me in the lobby and escorted me to a church two blocks from our hotel. It felt odd to worship surrounded by strangers. And yet not strangers, for we shared faith in our Lord. I let the familiar songs wash over me. So much I’d let go in the weeks since I’d decided to race. Too much. My time with Grandmother. My time with the Lord.

  I pulled the tattered picture of the African children from my handbag. Did they realize how much my heart yearned for them to know Jesus? By providing those funds, I could help make a difference not just in their earthly lives, but their eternal ones. As the song ended, I slipped the photo back into my purse. But it didn’t matter. The children remained engraved on my heart.

  The young preacher spoke to us from 2 Timothy 4:5. But watch thou in all things, endure afflictions, do the work of an evangelist, make full proof of thy ministry.

  It seemed the perfect confirmation. Enduring the affliction of Father’s refusal. Working to send the gospel into the world. Full proof of my ministry? I hoped so. I wanted a ministry. I wanted a way to serve. And if that meant hiding myself beneath a cap and pair of goggles to drive a car, I would make that sacrifice.

  My gaze roved to the other faces in the congregation. Some attentive, some not, much like our church at home. I twisted my head just a bit to get a view of the back of the church. A familiar tip of the head caught my eye. I stared through the crowd, a round face bobbing in and out of view.

  Webster? My heart churned like cylinders in the engine of a racing car. Was it him? I pushed up just a bit, trying to get a better view.

  Lawrence hissed my name. My backside returned to the pew as I faced forward once more, suddenly wishing the pastor would bring his sermon to an end.

  By the time we reached the front stoop of the church, the dark-haired man had vanished. Had it really been Webster? If only I knew for sure.

  “Ready to go?” Lawrence asked, attentive at my side. We shook hands with the preacher before making our way back to the hotel.

  Mother was lounging with a late breakfast, a book open beside her. Father, on the other hand, looked ready for an outing.

  “I’m off to the track, Ally.” His eyes twinkled.

  “May I tag along?” I felt sure a sparkle lit my eyes, too.

  “Of course.” Father stuffed a cigar inside the pocket of his coat. “And Trotter can join us. I’m anxious to get a look at this million-dollar track.”

  I held my breath and hid my smile. It seemed too easy. Without any effort on my part, I’d get a chance to see the track and visualize the turns in my mind before my practice time in the morning. And if I could sneak in a few minutes of conversation with Webster, all the better.

  “Must you encourage her, Harry?” Mother looked disappointed. As if she’d imagined that yesterday’s shopping trip had changed me into the girl she wished I was.

  Father patted her shoulder, kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry. I doubt any of your Chicago dandies will see her there.”

  Mother sighed, tutting under her breath.

  Father, Lawrence, and I rushed out the door before she decided to object.

  The track greatly resembled the Chicago Motor Speedway. Boards laid out in an oval with banked turns. Even the width looked comparable to Chicago. Cars and drivers, mechanics and owners mingled in the pit area. I followed Father across the yard, stretching my neck this way and that to size up the competition. I recognized a few drivers. Resta. De Palma. D’Alene. Father nudged me and inclined his head to the farthest car.

  “Rickenbacker.”

  I stood on my tiptoes but could see only a head of dark hair that poked above the gathering crowd. I frowned. For all I could tell he was the man I’d seen at church. Father pulled at my hand. My feet nearly tripped over themselves trying to keep up.

  Then Webster stood before us with his usual open expression and wide smile. Father clapped a large hand on the man’s shoulder. “Everything set?”

  “Yes, sir.” He wiped the grime from his fingers and shoved the oily rag into his back pocket. “Just learned they’ve nixed the qualifying heats. Every entered car has run at speeds upward of eighty, so we’re drawing for starting positions.” His gaze slid to mine but refused to linger.

  I turned my focus to the track, imagining the pace lap, the starting flag. The rest of the men consuming our smoke and dust. A real chance at the prize money.

  One hundred and fifty laps. Could I do it?

  Webster’s earnest voice drifted my direction. “Our driver’s ready. I guarantee it.”

  I couldn’t hear Father’s grumbled reply—and I dared not turn and pretend to be interested. My playacting skills weren’t that good. But before I could figure out how long to feign disinterest, Lawrence took possession of my arm. We wandered away from Father and Webster.

  “I assume you’ll watch the race with us tomorrow?”

  “I—” Fingers of panic gripped my throat.

  “Unless you are shopping with your mother.” He patted my hand.

  My eyes widened. Of course. The perfect alibi. Better than an outright lie. But at the same time, his assumption rankled. Did he think I’d prefer a day of shopping to a day at the races? Fury fizzled before it could flame. I’d kept this part of myself from him. Not just the interest in auto racing, but the penchant for speed. So how could he know the insult he’d whipped in my direction?

  Maybe he assumed my desire to see the expansion of the gospel of Christ didn’t leave room in my life for something so . . . worldly as auto racing. But given our common faith, it occurred to me that if I did tell him of my clandestine activities, he’d likely see the ultimate good, even if my behavior shocked him at first.

  If I finished well in this race, maybe I would reveal everything to Lawrence. See what he thought of me then.

  We meandered back to the race car. Webster tipped his cap in my direction but ignored Lawrence completely. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

  Lawrence chuckled, his mustache wiggling like a caterpillar.

  I cocked my head. “What?”

  He turned serious again. “Nothing.” He disentangled his arm from mine. “See you tomorrow?”

  I inclined my head in answer as an excited shiver ran down my spine. I prayed tomorrow would be the day that filled my little red box to overflowing.

  25

  Labor Day—race day—dawned clear and bright.

  And still.

  And hot.

  My hands shook as I splashed cool water on my face from the sink in the bathroom and then pressed it dry with a towel. The roar of the track filled my ears despite the hush of the hotel room. Excitement and nervousness flip-flopped my stomach.

  I dressed and then found Father in the dining room of the hotel. “Do you mind if I meet you at the track later?” I asked him. “I have some things I’d like to do first.”

  “Of course.” He returned to his newspaper. I rode the elevator back upstairs and left a note for Mother, reminding her that I’d be out for the day.

  I slipped into the fresh
morning. The streets teemed with people, with excitement. Swept up in the crowd, I made it to the train station, ready to ride the sixteen miles out of town to the speedway.

  Beads of perspiration trickled down the back of my neck as I reached the grounds. Just after eight in the morning. Already the grandstands held spectators. And more than a few. I gave the gatekeeper my ticket. How would I find Webster in the midst of all these people?

  A shrill whistle cut the air. My neck twisted left. Webster leaned against a support pillar beneath the grandstand. He waved.

  I waved back but didn’t walk straight to him. I moved in the opposite direction, mingling among the growing crowd, letting myself be seen in case Father should ask after me. But I didn’t wait long before darting into the shadows behind the grandstands to wait for Webster to catch up to me.

  “Good job, Ally.”

  I whirled to face him, wondering if he could feel my anticipation crackling in the air. He handed me the carpetbag. “Where?”

  “There’s a small maintenance shed, out a ways. Near where they’re parking cars. It’s all we’ve got.”

  “I’ll manage. How much time?”

  “Not much. You ready? Still think you can do the whole three hundred miles?”

  “I guess we’ll find out.” I tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough as the enormity of the task settled over me.

  Webster studied me for a moment. Then his voice dropped lower. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  I shook my head, shook off the heaviness threatening to dampen my enthusiasm. “There’s too much at stake to quit now. You know that.”

  He shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or the other. But his expression shouted approval, even in the half-light. “Just wanted to make sure.”

  I fought a ridiculous desire to throw myself into his arms. Instead, I pulled back my shoulders and lifted my chin. “Show me the way.”

  And he did just that.

  I emerged from the cramped and dilapidated shed into a sea of parked motorcars. Many more than had been there earlier. But no one took notice of me in my crew-member jumpsuit. I ducked my head and concentrated on taking long, authoritative, manly strides, praying no one would stop me. Finally I reached the garage assigned to our car. Lifting my head for only a moment, I stationed myself next to Webster, my back to the mechanical crew that would assist us in the pits.

  “Keep looking at me as if we are having a conversation,” he said.

  “We are having a conversation.” I tried to keep my face serious.

  “Yes, but we don’t want others foisting themselves into it. We have to keep you separate. Your clothes might cover most of the issues, but opening your mouth will give you away in a moment.”

  I clamped my lips shut. So many things could be ruined if someone discovered my real identity.

  “Follow my lead. Like before. Nod. Don’t speak.”

  I nodded.

  His face screwed into a scowl. “That weasel.”

  “What?” My neck twisted. I spied a clump of men nearby, no familiar face among them. Until one man bent down to pick up something.

  Lawrence Trotter stared back at me.

  I sucked in stale air, afraid to move. My heart pumped faster. Did he recognize me? He’d seen me that day, in my driving clothes. Would his bookkeeping precision add up the evidence and find the sum of truth?

  “Ally.” Webster’s voice near my ear. “Look at me. Pretend you don’t know him.” The hissed words brought my head around but also fueled the trembling in my hands. If only Webster’s strong ones could close over them, quiet the tremors.

  “Get in the car.” His calmness settled me as I slid into the seat behind the wheel, intent on the instrument panel, the gas pedal, the brake. Other engines ignited. Mine joined the roar. Webster jumped into his seat beside me. I blew out a long breath and set the car in gear. He poked my leg. I looked down. His thumb stuck up from his fist. Good to go.

  But I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. I chanced one glance back. Lawrence stood near the edge of the track. His eyes bored directly into mine.

  Over the cacophony of engines and the cheering crowd, I tried to shout.

  “He saw me, Webster. He’s knows it’s me.”

  Webster didn’t hear. Or chose not to. He pointed me to our position, toward the back of the twenty-eight competing cars. Twenty-eight. All racing together. I forced my mind away from the what-ifs and back to our own special racing language. A closed fist to hold steady. A thumb pointed down to pull back, up to move faster. A swipe right or left to move over.

  Around the track we started, steady and in order. Wiggles of apprehension worked their way through my stomach as perspiration wet my face. Could I drive for more than three hours at top speeds? I would have to concentrate if I wanted to finish. And oh, how I wanted to finish. But at the end, would Lawrence be there to expose me?

  The red flag flapped. Webster’s thumb shot up. I kicked us into top gear, nothing else on my mind but the track sliding beneath my tires.

  Around. Around. Around.

  Curve, back stretch, curve, front stretch.

  The sun rose higher in the sky. I kept my eyes on the track to avoid the glare. Fifty miles. One hundred miles. But I never took the lead.

  My stomach grumbled from lack of food. My legs felt as liquid as hot jelly. We pulled into the pit, Webster calling out orders. Gasoline. New tires. More oil in his pump tank. He leaned in near my ear, shouting to be heard. “Stay focused. We’ll be out of here again in a few minutes.”

  I nodded, stretching my fingers, flexing my knees, ready to dart back into the fray at his command.

  One hundred and fifty miles.

  Fewer and fewer cars returned to the track. Oil slicked the boards. Webster guided me through it all. His hand swatted. I jerked the wheel. My car skidded just left of the one in front of me but quickly steadied. I glanced at the speedometer. Eighty-nine miles per hour. We inched forward, pulled even with another car.

  Webster’s thumb stood in the air. I held my breath, pressed my full weight against the pedal. We jumped ahead of that car and then another. Through the smoke, I counted four in front of me. Air whipped at my face, drying the sweat that mingled with the oil and dirt, though it did little to cool the inferno that encased the rest of me.

  From the corner of my eye, I caught the blur of a spinning car. Then it tumbled over itself. My stomach jumped, forcing my heart into my throat. But I swallowed it down, pulled back on the gas, kept my vision roped to the track. We passed the frenetic crowd around the crash. I prayed. Prayed again. And watched for Webster’s signals.

  My arms joined my legs in their numbness. I fell behind two cars. Rivers ran down the small of my back, pasting fabric against skin. I longed to stand in that dark shed, peel the damp clothing from my body, let the fresh air cool me.

  Webster held up one finger. One more lap to go. Seven other cars navigated the final curve. I leaned forward, as if to push the car faster. Webster did the same. Head lowered, I shot out of the turn and onto the final straightaway. Five cars blew exhaust in my face but two others coughed out my dust as the finish line zipped past. I eased off the gas. Webster’s fist pumped air as my own laughter rang in my ears.

  The roar of the crowd overpowered the whir of the remaining engines. I slowed to a stop. People rushed to congratulate the winner.

  “Who is it?” I stepped from the car and bent over, resting shaking hands on tremulous knees. Hands slapped against my back as words of congratulations filled my ears.

  “Johnny Aitken and his Peugeot,” Webster said.

  I straightened, unable to restrain my grin.

  Then I remembered Lawrence.

  I dropped to a squat behind the car and studied the shredded tire that would not have held for one more lap. I needed to get to the hideaway and change. Unless Lawrence had exposed me already.

  A whistle soft in my ear. I stood. Webster’s hand pressed at my back, propelling me forwa
rd. Long strides around a circuitous route. In and out of shadows. Through the crowd.

  “I’ll keep watch until you get inside.” Webster shielded me from view with his body. I slipped into the small building, grateful to have made it unseen.

  Or so I hoped.

  I leaned my back against the door and slowly sank to the dirt floor. Exhausted. Relieved. Exhilarated. Worried. Had Lawrence talked to my father yet?

  Resting my head on top of a crate, I thought about what I’d just done. Three hundred miles. One of only a few cars to finish. The warmth of accomplishment surged feeling back in my jolted bones. I removed my driving clothes, toweled my body dry, washed the grime from my face, doused myself with rose water. Slipping into a dress, hat, and shoes, I readied myself once more to meet the world as Alyce Benson and pretend I’d done nothing at all astonishing.

  26

  I eased the shed’s door shut behind me and wobbled into the crowd. Webster would return for my bag before he took the car to the train station. All I had to do was make an appearance to Father and—

  Lawrence. Leaning against a railing, arms crossed, hat pushed back.

  I studied the faces around me. No one looked at me askance. In fact, no one noticed me at all, except to tip their hats as they scooted past.

  He pushed away from the rail, sauntered in my direction. Dressing my face with a smile, I shook my head, curls bouncing about my cheeks. “How lovely to see you, Lawrence.”

  His eyebrows lifted.

  I sucked in a breath of steamy air laced with gasoline and body odor. He knew. I knew he knew. But had he told? Would he tell?

  “You made it, Alyce. Your father wondered where you were.”

  A forced laugh stuck in my throat, almost choking me. I swallowed it down, brightened my tone. “Wasn’t the race exciting?”

  “Yes.” His eyes narrowed for a split second. “Quite exciting.”

  I cleared my throat, eager to keep up the pretense. “I suppose I should find Father.”