by Mateer, Anne
“Allow me to escort you.” He held out his crooked elbow. I laid my hand on the sleeve of his jacket and let him lead me through the throng.
“How can he just drive and leave?” Father’s voice bellowed above the crowd noise before I spotted him next to Webster, his arms jerking toward the heavens.
Webster, face streaked with dirt, hair plastered to his head, didn’t flinch under Father’s tirade. His eyes held steady on Father’s face. “I told you, he had to go, but I’ll give him his money.”
“Blast it, Little. I don’t like this at all. What’s he hiding? I won’t stand for a breath of scandal on my name as a businessman or a racing-car sponsor. Do you understand?” He pointed his cigar at Webster, the smoke sending Webster into a spasm of coughing. “And he’s not getting another dime from my pocket until he shows his face. Is that understood?”
My teeth sank into the soft flesh of my lower lip. How would I ever get the money now? Webster swiped a filthy rag over his reddening face. His eyes cut in my direction for a swift second. “That’s your prerogative, sir.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, Father and Webster, while I held my breath. I didn’t think Webster would give me away, but Father could be intimidating. And I doubted Webster wanted to lose his job.
“Besides”—Father stuck the cigar in his mouth, his face relaxing back into joviality—“I want to give him a little bonus for a job well done.” He extracted some bills from his wallet and slid them into Webster’s hand.
I licked my lips, as hungry for that money as a car for gasoline. I had to find a way to get what I’d earned. But how?
“You tell that man—what’s his name again?”
“Al—” Webster’s face froze for an instant. “Albert. Albert Butler.”
Father grunted. “You tell him he’ll have to pick up his pay in person.” He returned the wallet to his inside coat pocket. “We could have avoided all this nonsense if you’d just driven yourself, as planned.”
The words hit me again like a fist in the stomach.
Webster shoved the cash into his front pocket. His gaze caught mine. He looked sorry. Almost guilty.
I shoved aside my questions. I’d find a way to appease Father and claim my money. Depending on the amount he intended to give his driver, it might put me one race away from reaching three thousand dollars. And the Harvest Classic would run in Indianapolis this coming Saturday.
Father glanced over his shoulder. “Ally.” He opened his arms; I entered his embrace. “Trotter,” he said over my head, “you heard me. No money for our driver until the man sees me.”
Lawrence’s eyebrows arched. “Yes, sir.”
I fanned my face, thankful for the heat to disguise my discomfort. Whatever Lawrence knew—or guessed—he obviously hadn’t told Father yet. Did that mean he was on my side?
I breathed more deeply, my mouth sliding into a grin. I knew exactly how Lawrence could help me get that money from my father.
We took the late train back to Langston that night, but the moment I heard the faraway rooster announce Tuesday’s dawn, I rose. A quick visit with Grandmother assured me she hadn’t taken a downward turn. In fact, her cheeks seemed to have more color than I remembered.
“Pray for me, Granny.” I kissed her cheek. “I’m off to secure more of our missions money today.”
“I’ll pray for great success, Alyce.” She squeezed my fingers. “Then do come tell me about your trip.”
“I promise.”
I arrived at the Benson Farm Machinery offices not long after Father did, traipsing into the hallway as if I had nothing better to do of a morning. Yet I felt anything but normal. What would Lawrence say? Would he agree to my plan?
An older man I didn’t recognize tipped his hat as he exited the building, letting the door thud shut behind him. I scampered into the safety of Lawrence’s small office.
He leapt to his feet the moment I stepped inside, eyes roving past me, to the hall.
I turned to look, wondering if the stranger had returned. But the hall stood empty. “Is something wrong?”
His composure returned. “Not at all. How . . . interesting to see you this morning.” He motioned me to the same chair I’d occupied before. I sat, the triangular hem of my new dress tickling my ankles.
Elbows resting on the desk, he tented his hands in front of his mouth. Our eyes met. “Your father doesn’t know.”
My head wiggled no. “But I’ll tell him everything after I present the money to the McConnells.”
“You could have been killed out there, you know. Gil Anderson almost was.”
The driver who wrecked. I closed my eyes, seeing again the flash of a spinning car before it turned over. “Is he . . . have you heard any news?”
“No. His mechanic got the worst of it, I think. I’m sure there’ll be something in the paper this morning.”
My knee bounced. I forced it still.
“What in heaven’s name possessed you to do such a foolish thing?”
My chin shot up. “That’s exactly what possessed me: heaven. You know I’ve been trying to get the money I promised the McConnells. But nothing’s worked.” My shoulders slumped. “Driving is the only skill I possess. Well, the only skill that can make money. Only that’s not quite true, either.” I pressed my fingers into my temples. “I could have baked pies. Or something. I had a list. But Mrs. Tillman thinks I already have the money, and she would have assumed I was helping them, not raising my own contribution. I had no choice. And Webster assured me—”
Lawrence exploded from his seat. “I should have known that man put you up to this.” He paced, scowling. “He coerced you into this because he knew you’d hand him all the money.”
I shot to my feet. “You’re wrong. I approached him. He simply assured me I had the skill and strength to do it. And he promised to help.” I wondered again why Webster didn’t fight harder to keep his place as driver. Did he care about the children in my photograph as deeply as I did? I jammed my hands to my hips. “And why shouldn’t he help me get the money for Africa?”
Lawrence’s eyes grew round, then narrowed. “How did he know you could drive like that?”
I dropped back into the chair and studied my hands, hands that felt so at home on a steering wheel. I pulled in a deep breath before allowing my secret to escape. “My father built a dirt track in one of our back fields. A long time ago. He taught me to drive there. I was thirteen. I could barely see above the steering wheel.” I shrugged. “When life gets complicated, I drive. Fast. Webster accompanies me most days. I’m not foolish enough to go out alone. Anything could happen.”
“Yes. Anything.” Words so cold I tried to rub the shivers from my arms. I had to make him understand.
My fingers clutched the edge of his desk. “I would never have presumed to drive in a real race except for the money. Mr. and Mrs. McConnell return in less than three weeks. I can’t stand up in front of the congregation without the funds I promised. I just can’t.”
“So you drove in Chicago, too?” His fingers stroked the edges of his mustache. I gulped, wishing I hadn’t told him more than he already knew.
Please, God, let him understand.
“And have you seen any of your money since you entrusted it to your mechanic?” The word slithered out, like the basest of slurs.
“I’ve seen it. Some of it, at least.” I scratched a fleck of paint from the arm of my chair. “I asked for part of it and he gave it to me. Doesn’t that prove his trustworthiness?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But now your father won’t give the money from the Cincinnati race to anyone but the driver himself. Or herself, as the case may be. How do you intend to get around that?”
I sat back, settled myself. This was what I had come for. “I thought I’d ask someone else to pose as the driver. Someone familiar with my secret—and my dilemma.”
Could he read the unspoken question? I studied his face for any sign of understanding.
“So
meone like me.” Slow words. Yet a spark in his eyes told me he was flattered, and that he’d agree.
Relief coursed through my veins. “Yes. Someone like you.”
If Lawrence asked not to be exposed to the public, Father would honor that request. And he wouldn’t suspect anything amiss.
Lawrence shook his head. “It will never work. I went with him to Chicago, remember?”
I rested my head in my hands, thoughts tumbling like Gil Anderson’s car. Then I looked up. “Were you with him the entire time? I didn’t make it out of the heats, remember?”
“That’s true.” He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head. “And if I remember correctly, I did wander off for a while before the final race. If I can’t remember which heat I watched with him, I doubt he will, either.”
He smoothed one edge of his mustache. “And I didn’t sit with him in Cincinnati. He gave my seat to a customer and sent me to that man’s place on the other side of the track long before the race began. I didn’t see him after the race until I brought you to him.” The corners of his mouth tipped upward as his eyebrows lifted just a bit.
Tingles raced up and down my arms as my smile answered his. “I think we can make this work.”
27
I drove back up our lane, past the garden, to the garage, doubting the breakfast dishes had even been washed and put away yet. Lawrence would come for supper tonight. We would approach Father together and reveal Lawrence as the mystery driver. I promised myself again that after the money left town in Mr. McConnell’s pocket, I’d spill the truth to Father.
I glanced up at Grandmother’s window as I killed the engine. The curtain swayed, but from a slight breeze or someone’s hand I couldn’t be sure. I climbed from the Packard, but before I reached the stand of trees guarding the garage, Webster’s familiar whistle drifted from far away.
With a quick change of direction, I reached the corner of the house and peered up the road. A jaunty figure in overalls strode closer. Had I whizzed past him without noticing? It again struck me as odd that a mechanic by trade wouldn’t motor to work. But every time I’d mentioned it, Webster’s lips shut tight. Or he changed the subject.
Hands on my hips, I tapped my foot as I waited. He turned in at the gate, walked up the drive. I crossed my arms, raised my eyebrows, and decided to try again. “Remind me why my father’s crackerjack mechanic doesn’t have a motorcar of his own?”
Webster grinned as he pulled open one of the garage doors. I followed him inside, but he didn’t offer any answer, just gathered tools and an oil can before sauntering to the other side of the garage and opening the racing car’s hood to expose the engine. His whistle resumed.
I charged across the garage. “Don’t ignore me, Webster Little. I’ll—I’ll—”
The whistling stopped. Languid eyes met mine. My fists clenched.
He leaned against the car, his palms brushing the sides of his trousers. “Why does it matter so much?”
“Because I—” I considered my words. Only Webster knew the location of my money—unless Lawrence had indeed spied the hiding place that day. But if he had, wouldn’t he have mentioned it to me by now?
Suddenly I feared I’d been too trusting. “I know Father pays you well, especially now that we are racing. So I just . . . wondered.”
He shrugged, returned to his work. “Owning an automobile isn’t important to me right now. I have other things to spend my money on.”
“Like what?” Not a car. Or clothing. Or a home—Lucinda had mentioned he lived in a boarding house with several of Father’s employees. Did he spend all his extra money on anonymous gifts? Was his mother ill? Did he spend evenings surreptitiously drinking or gambling?
Please, God, let him have some worthy cause.
“There are some things a man likes to keep private.”
“Even from his friends?”
“Yes, even from them.”
Why didn’t he trust me to keep his secrets as I trusted him with mine? Brushing back a curl that draped near my eyes, I determined to match his solemnity. “Then I doubt it can be anything honorable.”
He stiffened, then stepped closer, his breath warming my cheek. I stared at the stubble on his face, my heart battering my chest. He tipped my chin with one finger, put on his signature smile. “Don’t you trust me, Ally?”
I stared into his eyes. Clear and true. Not clouded by hard living and drink. I felt as if I were falling into his deep, dark gaze. I drew in a sharp breath. He backed away. I closed the distance between us again, my eyes locked on his. “I trust you, Webster. Really, I do.”
Warmth oozed through me at his nearness. I wanted to reach up, to smooth his unruly hair, but my arms remained pinned to my sides. I hardly dared to breathe.
Tenderness and frustration flickered across his face, as if he wanted to pull me into his arms and push me away all at the same time. Then he blew out a long breath and raked his hands through his mop of hair.
He focused on some point beyond me, his words softening. “Like you, I have a promise to fulfill. It takes all the resources I have—and then some.” He blinked hard, his eyes finding my face again. “I need these races same as you. For the money.”
My heart tumbled toward my toes. “But you . . . you let me drive. You gave up the chance at the prize money.”
He reached for my hand, ran his thumb over the skin just below my knuckles. “Please don’t ask me to explain. Not now.”
My spirit crumpled as if I’d been suspended over a chasm and then let go. But I pulled myself up quickly. I moved away from his touch, aching at the sudden coldness that engulfed my hand. “I found a way to get the race money from Father.”
The tension fell from his face. Suspicion replaced it. “How?”
Caressing the front fender of the race car, I avoided his gaze. “Lawrence Trotter is going to tell Father he’s the driver.”
“You didn’t.”
I pulled my shoulders back, wishing I could meet him eye to eye. “I did. He already knew anyway. I told you he recognized me at the race on Monday. Besides, it’s a good plan. Father will keep the car entered in Saturday’s Harvest Classic once he’s convinced there’s no scandal. And I’ll earn the rest of my money for the McConnells.”
Webster stared at the ground, hands low on his hips. “I never thought you’d do such a—”
I sprang toward him. “A what? I made a plan. And a good one, I might add. Lawrence will keep my secret. He and I have the same desire—to see that the McConnells have the money they need to return to Africa and tell people about Jesus.”
One of Webster’s eyebrows rose. “Whatever you say, Ally. If you trust me, I guess I’ll have to trust you. But right now I have to get to work.”
I bit my tongue and marched through the garden, into the kitchen.
“Coffee, please, Clarissa. In the morning room.” My head pounded with every step. I fell to the sofa and rubbed circles on my temples.
“Good morning, Alyce, darling.” Mother swept into the room and kissed my cheek, then her forehead creased. “Are you ill? And what happened to your new dress?”
“I’m fine, Mother.” I fingered a tear in the flimsy fabric. “Must have caught on one of the rosebushes. I’ll have Betsy stitch it up.”
Clarissa entered with the tray of coffee, left to retrieve a second cup, and returned to our burdened silence.
“Oh, please set another place at supper tonight, Clarissa. I’ve invited Mr. Trotter to join us.”
Clarissa nodded and left.
Mother’s head tipped to one side as she sipped her coffee. “At your father’s invitation or yours?”
I shrugged. “Mine.” I lifted my cup to my lips, but the coffee didn’t settle me as I’d hoped.
Mother stared into her lap. “I’m not sure you want to hear this from me, but be very careful, Alyce. I’m not sure you understand—”
“I understand more than you think I do.” Pushing to my feet, I banged my cup to
the tray, hot coffee sloshing onto my hand. But as I left her there with a look of concern on her usually placid face, I swallowed down the fear that I’d jumped into a pool of water far exceeding my ability to swim.
“I demand he meet with me!” Father’s voice crashed through the closed door of his study before supper that evening. I cringed, knowing Webster stood inside. But I couldn’t hear his answer, no matter how hard I pressed my ear against the door.
The telephone jangled. I waited for Clarissa to answer, but it rang again. I charged through the hall and picked up the earpiece.
Long distance. Business. I exhaled. It would give Webster a moment of relief.
“I’ll fetch him now.” I set the receiver on top of the telephone, hurried back to Father’s study, and rapped on the door before pushing it open. “Telephone call for you, Father. Long distance.”
Father stomped to the telephone. Webster, still sitting in front of Father’s desk, wiped a hand across his face.
“I’m sorry.” I stepped inside the room, tension still thick in the air. “I’d hoped you wouldn’t have to endure another tirade before Lawrence talked to him tonight.”
One side of Webster’s mouth rose. “It doesn’t matter. And I never did tell you—you drove great yesterday.”
“Thank you.” My hands felt empty and large. I picked up a brass letter opener. My fingers slid down the smooth, dull blade as I leaned against the massive desk.
“I’ve never seen anyone take to the track as fast as you have. It’s truly a gift.”
My head sprang up. “Do you think?”
A lock of hair fell across his forehead. He swept it aside. “Most men wouldn’t take the chance. And even if they did, they wouldn’t know how to handle that machine as smoothly as you do.”
I glanced at the floor, suddenly shy in the presence of the only person who knew the whole me.
He looked into the hallway before standing. “Are you sure about this, Ally? I don’t trust Trotter.”
I ground top teeth into bottom, tired of lies and suspicions and doubt. Webster cleared his throat. I tapped the opener into my open palm as I rounded the desk. I stood near him now, so close I could hear him breathe.
