At Every Turn (19 page)

 25 

L
abor 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 forward. 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.”

“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.

“Someone 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.”