At Every Turn (24 page)

 32 

L
ucinda?” I clomped up the wooden staircase late that afternoon, my arms full of the dresses I’d culled from my closet while Betsy hung the new ones Mother bought in Cincinnati. “Lucinda?” I called. “Are you home?”

I peered through the kitchen window, but before my eyes could settle on the scene, the door flew open. Lucinda fluttered outside, her eyes wide. “Whatever are you doing here, Alyce?” Her gaze darted down the stairs, around the yard, finally back to me. “And what’s all this?”

I thrust the bundle of clothes into her unsuspecting arms. “They’re for you. New clothes.” I shrugged, felt a blush crawl into my cheeks. “Just too many in my closet at the moment.”

All of a sudden my plan to help seemed humiliating for my friend. I bit my lip and waited for her response.

“Oh, Alyce,” she whispered. “You don’t know how much I needed these.” A sheen of tears brightened her eyes. She turned away. “Let me set them in the house. Then we can talk. Out here.”

I paced the small landing, wondering if Clarissa’s sister would respond as graciously to the dresses I planned to give her. When Lucinda returned, I grabbed her hands. “I need your help.”

With a glance back, her shoulders hiked a bit higher. “I’d be happy to help if I can.”

She sat on the top step. I joined her there, the tread barely wide enough for both of our slim frames. “Do you remember when we talked about Webster Little?”

Did she sigh or was it my imagination? She nodded. I exhaled, wondering how much to say, how much to leave out. But then, leaving out for the sake of gaining was what had led to this snarled situation. Whether she helped me or not, I had to tell her all.

“Webster’s in trouble—and it’s my fault.”

Her eyes rounded. I looked past them, not wanting to read any condemnation of Webster or myself. Not yet.

“He’s—that is, my father—” A shiver slid down my back. How did one put such a disagreeable situation into words that didn’t sound sordid?

Her hands calmed mine. “I know.” She peered back at the door, leaned her head closer to mine. “He told me what happened. With Mr. Trotter.”

I jumped up, grabbing the rail to keep from tumbling to the bottom of the stairs. “You’ve seen him?”

She looked away.

“He’s here, isn’t he?” I stepped toward the door.

“No. Not here. He came late last night. I patched him up, then he left.”

“Did he tell you about the money, too?”

“Money?” Her head tilted. “He didn’t mention money. Just the . . . incident.” Then her forehead crinkled. “Unless you mean those rumors about him absconding with church funds. But I don’t believe any of that.”

My heart dropped around my feet like unsupported stockings. It was true then. He’d done it before. I rubbed my fingers across my forehead. But though he’d stolen from me—and, apparently, others—he hadn’t attacked my person. And clearing his name of that must come first.

“Will you ask him something for me?”

She nodded.

“Ask him to come to Indianapolis on Saturday. He’ll know why. Tell him—tell him I need him. Please.” With a click, my pocketbook opened. I pressed the few dollars I’d begged from Mother into Lucinda’s hand. “For the trip.”

She shook her head, held the money out to me. “He won’t take it.”

I pushed her hand away. “Then you keep it. I don’t care. Just please, ask him to come. And tell him I’m sorry.”

“Alyce?”

I turned back.

Sympathy brimmed in her eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

Father supervised the loading of the racing car onto the train the next morning. Mother and I waited on the inter-urban platform, ready to depart for Indianapolis.

“I thought you’d be more excited, Alyce, considering this race seems to mean so much to you and your father.” She didn’t look at me as she spoke, but her tone seemed one of genuine curiosity, not censure.

I shrugged, tried to smile. “I’m excited.”

Mother laughed. Truly laughed. Then she patted my hand. “You’ve never been one to mask your emotions. I won’t press you, but I am your mother. If you need to talk, I’ll listen.”

The interurban car reached the platform. As we waited to board, clouds covered the sun, graying the day. Moisture hung in the air from thunderstorms the previous evening. But at least it wasn’t hot. Father had said at breakfast that no more rain was expected. I hoped that to be the case. I feared rain more than heat. Yet the bricks would give a bit more traction than boards when wet, wouldn’t they? Again I remembered Gil Anderson’s car sliding out of control in Cincinnati and shuddered.

On the interurban, clacking toward Indianapolis, I thought about what Mother had said. She wanted to listen. I wished I could pour out my entire story to her. But I feared she wouldn’t understand. Although, for the first time in my life, I felt more willing to open up to her than to Father.

Before I could think through revealing my secrets to Mother, we arrived in Indianapolis. We waited in the lobby of the hotel for Father to arrive, then settled in our hotel room and had a late supper brought up. But I couldn’t eat.

“I think I’ll walk for a little while.” I picked up my handbag.

“You can’t go out alone, darling. It will be dark soon.”

“Exactly.” Father turned the page of the newspaper.

A soft orange hue was streaming in through the windows. Dark wouldn’t descend for a while longer. I was a grown woman, not a child. I pressed my lips into a hard line and headed for the door.

A knock stopped my progress.

“I’ll get it.” Meek words dousing my internal fire.

I opened the door, ready to tell the hotel staff that we were fine and didn’t need anything at all. Instead, I stared open-mouthed at Lawrence Trotter.

“Good evening.” He swept his hat from his head, amusement twitching his mustache. “I’d hoped to find you in.” He peeked past me.

“Trotter, my boy.” Father appeared beside me, arm outstretched, and drew the snake right into the room. I wanted to stamp my foot and scream the truth, but Mr. Trotter’s cold eyes held me still. I had to wait. Do this right.

Please, God, bring Webster to the race tomorrow.
I clasped my hands behind my back to keep them from trembling as Mr. Trotter kissed Mother’s hand.

“I thought perhaps I could escort your daughter on a walk through town, ma’am.”

My jaw clenched. I would not be alone with that man. I. Would. Not.

“I think we’ve had enough excitement for the day, Mr. Trotter,” Mother said. I wanted to kiss her. But before my elation took hold, Father cleared his throat.

“I think that’s a fine idea, Trotter.” He shook the paper straight and raised it in front of his face again. “Just have her back at a decent hour. Big day tomorrow, you know.”

Mr. Trotter’s smirk set my teeth to grinding. I dug my fingernails into my own flesh to calm my words. “I do apologize, Mr. Trotter, but Mother is right, the travel has quite exhausted me.”

The newspaper rustled as Father turned a page. “You just said you wanted to get out for a bit, Ally. Here’s your chance.”

Mr. Trotter’s stare pierced like a sharp needle. Then my thoughts changed direction. Perhaps I needed to hear him out, discern his plans. Like strategizing for a race. A race without Webster to tell me when to turn my wheel, pump the gas, and dash past the competition.

“Fine. But just a cup of coffee. Downstairs. In the restaurant.” I jammed my hat on my head and marched out the door.

“I mean it,” I whispered in the hallway. “Just coffee. In the restaurant.”

He swept his hand in front of him and bowed at the waist. I stuck my nose in the air and glided toward the elevator. My emotions ran wild inside, but in spite of Mother’s observations this morning, I had no intention of allowing the entire world to witness my agitation. I could be gracious, calm. Listen to what he had to say. Then hear what the Lord told me to do about it.

The elevator operator let us out in the lobby. Seated at a table for two, Lawrence ordered for us—coffee and cake. If he wanted to pay for something I wouldn’t eat, I guessed that was his business.

“Now, Alyce.” He leaned forward, the look on his face one of tender solicitation. He lifted my hand, stroked it. I eased my fingers from his grasp. Anyone looking on would assume a lover’s spat.

His expression and posture didn’t change. When he spoke, I had to lean closer to hear.

“You know what you must do tomorrow.”

“And what is that, Mr. Trotter?”

An exasperated huff. “Drive, of course. Win, if you can.”

“And you’ll take the money and the accolades from my father.”

He sat back. “Exactly.”

The waiter set our coffee and cake on the table. When he left, Mr. Trotter ate and drank as if nothing unsettled him. I added a dollop of cream to my cup. Not having the money and admitting it to the church would be easier than exposing Mr. Trotter’s foul behavior. But if I allowed him to escape unscathed, he might attempt such extortion on some other girl, in more desperate circumstances.

I lifted my cup to my lips, letting the coffee slide down my throat as I strengthened my resolve. “And what of Mr. Little?”

“What of him?”

“Am I to drive without him?”

His laughter jolted the quiet room. Heads turned in our direction. I stared into my coffee cup and twirled my fork through the thick icing between the layers of cake.

“That man wouldn’t dare show his face around here now. I have a mechanic to drive with you. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. Afterward, I’ll explain to your father that I’ve decided to retire from racing to take on another role. That of husband.”

My eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. “Husband? To whom?”

“Why, to you, my dear.
Daddy
is so grateful to me for saving your virtue that he’s quite amenable to the idea, as long as you are. And of course you are. Can you imagine the look on Mrs. Tillman’s face if she happened to discover how you’ve been spending your spare time?”

My fork clattered to the china plate. I hurled tight words. “There is nothing immoral about driving a race car.”

“Of course not, darling,” he purred. “It’s just the implication of all those other things that nice girls don’t do.”

“You wouldn’t dare—” I half rose. His fingers clamped around my wrist and pulled me down again.

“Wouldn’t I?” he hissed. “Your father won’t take notice of the church gossip going around town. And if by chance he did, he’d assume those old biddies were jealous, as they likely are.”

Another word and I imagined I’d explode like a can of gasoline exposed to flame. Would God let this man ruin my character? My reputation? I slapped my napkin to the table and stood—quickly this time, jumping out of his reach. I croaked out words for the benefit of those around us. “Thank you for your kind attention, Mr. Trotter. I believe I will see you tomorrow.”

He nodded. I swept past him without a glance, determined to remain upright and in control—at least until I reached the sanctuary of my hotel room.

 33 

M
r. Trotter arrived at our hotel room early the next morning to escort me to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, absolving my need to lie to my parents yet again. For that I was grateful.

Scores of people milled about in the crisp morning air despite the fact that the gates had just opened. They filed into the grandstands and onto the infield. Spectators. Mechanics. Photographers. Reporters. The smell of warm grass tickled my nose but was soon replaced with the familiar sharpness of gasoline fumes as Mr. Trotter escorted me toward Gasoline Alley. He thought it best for us to be seen together. I didn’t argue. I just followed along, searching the crowd for Webster’s face.

A man in a uniform stopped us at the gate leading to the garages. “She can’t go in there. Don’t you know that?” He yanked up the waistband of his pants and rolled a wad of tobacco into his other cheek.

“She’s the car owner’s daughter.” Mr. Trotter pulled me forward.

The guard blocked our way, eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t matter. Don’t you know a woman’s bad luck on a racetrack? Go on. Take her to the grandstands. Or if she’s that important, let her park her own automobile behind the pits to watch like Mrs. Resta does.”

Mr. Trotter pinched my elbow as we turned, but I barely felt the pain. Was this the Lord’s doing? Would He thwart Mr. Trotter’s plan?

Mr. Trotter dragged me past the hospital tent, where a nurse in a starched white skirt, blouse, and cap stood near a motorized ambulance. I couldn’t tear my gaze away.

His words rasped into my ear. “You’ll have to change clothes to get to the car. I stashed your bag beneath the far grandstand.”

I kept my eyes straight ahead, my voice low. “But if they won’t let a woman in the garage, how will they feel about me on the track?”

“They won’t know, will they? Just like all the times before. Unless you don’t live up to your part of the bargain.”

I stopped walking. He jerked backward, his grip tightening on my arm. “C’mon.”

My feet remained still. “If you expose me, you’ll be branded as the liar you are.”

His chuckle slithered near my ear. “I’d suffer only a momentary humiliation. Your father, on the other hand, would likely be banned from racing forever. Because of course no one will believe he didn’t know his own daughter was sitting in the driver’s seat of his car.”

My heart sank.

“And don’t think you can announce it yourself, either. The fate of your father would remain the same.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. He was right. I couldn’t reveal my identity. Not here. I’d have to wait until we arrived back at the hotel to confess to Father. But would he believe me without witnessing it with his own eyes?

Mr. Trotter pulled me onward and then stopped us beneath the grandstands, pointed to a dark lump. I picked up the bag. “Where will I change?”

“How should I know? Figure it out. Just get dressed and meet me for your practice laps. Now, get going before too many people arrive.”

Yanking my arm from his hold, I straightened my shoulders and tipped my chin upward. “I know what I have to do.”

I knew, but could I do it? Could I drive without Webster? Or if he showed up, could I drive with him? Could I sit beside him knowing what he’d done? What I’d done? Nausea worked its way up my throat. I put a hand to my stomach, eager to still its acrobatics, yet all the while wishing I hadn’t betrayed the man with the playful whistle and wide grin, in spite of what he’d stolen from me.

With a prayer on my lips, I stumbled into a small lean-to that didn’t appear to be in use. I emerged with my figure hidden under a jumpsuit, cap and goggles shielding my face. Arms swinging at my sides, I concentrated on the bit of bright blue winking at me from the track.

Without hesitation, I bypassed the guard and climbed behind the wheel of Webster’s racing car, swiping my tongue across dry lips, tasting the salt of the perspiration already beading on my upper lip.

“This is Clint.” Mr. Trotter, dressed in a jumpsuit like mine, gestured toward a rail-thin man with shifty eyes and greasy hair. I nodded once, trying to reconcile myself to this man sitting beside me first for the twenty-mile race, then fifty miles, then one hundred miles. I turned away, jaw clenched. In spite of Webster’s thievery, I wanted him. Needed him. No one else knew me like he did. And in that moment, I desperately needed to be known.

But I had no choice. I climbed into the car, took it around the track. I watched for Webster’s hand signals but quickly remembered they wouldn’t be there to guide me. The bricks bumped beneath my tires, but as I gained speed, I hardly noticed. After three passes in front of the pagoda, where the judges and reporters would sit, I declared our practice finished. I climbed from the car. Mr. Trotter reappeared, his face suddenly smudged with grime. My fists clenched at my sides as he chatted with a group of mechanics tending another car.

“So six drivers dropped out after the torture of Cincinnati? I guess the best drivers know how to take care of their machines.” The pride in Mr. Trotter’s voice set my teeth on edge. Pride that rightfully belonged to me, and Webster, yet Trotter made it his own, in spite of having done nothing to earn it.

I fiddled with my driving gloves as the new mechanic checked the tires. The newest from Goodrich.

Trotter’s hand jittered against the side of the car. Was he nervous for me—or for himself?

Ignoring the thought, I peered into the crowd of mechanics and drivers milling about in the pit area, praying for a glimpse of the tattered flat cap over the pleasing round face.

Please, Webster. I need you.

And then, as if by a miracle, he was standing beside me, clad in a matching jumpsuit, hands settled low on his hips.

“Webster.” A whispered word amidst the pandemonium of sound, but he turned, his eye catching mine, quieting my heart and setting it sprinting at the same time. Until my gaze roved just beyond him, to the infield grass.

Lucinda.

A faint blush stained her cheeks, sending my unreasonable hope whirling into a concrete wall and dissolving in a column of smoke. I ducked my head. She couldn’t recognize me. And I had no time to dissect my feelings over her presence here. With him.

I had to race.

I had to win.

A quick vision of flashing camera bulbs and crew members pulling me from the car in congratulations stopped that thought quicker than pulling a hand brake. I couldn’t win. If I did, everyone would know. How had I not considered that before?

Webster leaned near. “You need anything? Race time’s still a few hours away.”

I pushed up on my toes, leaning my mouth closer to Webster’s ear. “You are here to help me, right?”

A flutter of activity drew my attention.

Father.

I couldn’t move. He pushed through the crowd, calling for Trotter.

Webster nudged me forward, shielding me from those behind. “Where’d you change?”

“A small building in back of the grandstands. Southeast corner, I believe.”

“Go there. I’ll bring some food. You can hide out.”

I nodded and strode toward my hideout, praying the Lord would bring something right out of all my wrongs.

The lean-to held the heat like a cast-iron pot. I was too warm and too nervous to eat what Webster brought, though I tried. I wiped my forehead once more, wishing I could splash water on my face. But of course Mr. Trotter hadn’t bothered to supply any. Not like Webster usually did. Webster had promised he’d try to bring some the next time he came. If he didn’t, I’d be hard-pressed to clean the muck from my skin before finding Father after the race.

Three quick knocks stole my breath. I opened the door. Webster handed in a bucket, water sloshing from its lip. I set it in the corner, slipped into the sunshine, and shaded my eyes with my hand as a gentle eastern breeze cooled my face.

He turned and charged back through the crowd. I kept my eyes on the collar of his jumpsuit, where cloth and hair and flesh met. Webster would ride beside me. We’d finish the race. Then somehow I’d make Father believe I’d driven, not Lawrence Trotter. No matter the consequence.

The noise of brass trumpets blaring and drums banging rose above that of the crowd and the cars as local bands wandered the infield. We easily slipped past them and arrived at the bright blue race car on the track.

Then Webster’s hand landed on my shoulder and pushed me into a squat on the side opposite of the automobile. Father’s voice boomed above the chaos, questioning Trotter. The man hemmed and hawed. At least I could enjoy his discomfort. Finally Father’s voice faded away. I stood. Circled the car with my head down, as if inspecting each detail. Then I climbed into the driver’s seat.

The other drivers sat ready. Two rows of four followed by my car and another. Still no mechanic in the seat beside me. Panic rolled through me like a wave. I had to have a mechanic or I’d be disqualified.
Please, Lord, don’t abandon me now.

Then Clint the mechanic romped toward me. I looked at Webster, nodded toward the interloper. Webster leaned down and the steel frame came alive beneath me. I closed my eyes, breathed in the tainted air, and gripped the steering wheel. Despite everything, I’d miss this. Miss the rush of wind in my face, the competitors hemming me in on either side, the roar of the engines and of the crowd. I’d miss being caught up in the moment, the release of all that sat heavy on my shoulders.

But if sacrificing the bit of joy I felt in a fast-moving car would lead me back to a life of truth, I’d do it.

Or at least I would try.

Webster bounded into the seat beside me, pulling goggles over his eyes. His thumb poked up from his fist as his full lips spread into a grin. I shot a quick thank-you heavenward as the howl of engines screamed in my ears. Although my heart pounded louder.

We started around the track. Fifty yards following the pace car. Then the starter flapped the red flag from high on the suspension bridge. My foot jammed the gas pedal. The car jumped forward. The roar of the crowd surpassed that of the engines. My tires slid over the brick track with ease.

One lap down. Then another. I inched toward the leader. I wanted to be on his tail. And soon.

Two other cars drifted behind me as we rounded the curve. Again and again. And again. My head dizzied with the count. Webster poked my leg. I glanced down. Thumbs up. The needle on my speedometer already hovered over ninety. Did he really think we could do better?