Fast Girls

by Elise Hooper

  Caroline ran her fingers through her messy bob of dark hair. She seemed to offer fun even if she wasn’t from California. Betty pinched some color into her cheeks before sashaying toward the door. “So, Dee, you’re staying behind to memorize the Olympic oath?”

  Caroline giggled.

  “No, wait,” Dee said, scrambling to her feet. “I’m coming too. The fresh air will do me some good.”

  There would be plenty of time to unpack later.

  2.

  A few months earlier

  Thornton Township High School

  15001 S. Broadway

  Harvey, Illinois

  February 27, 1928

  Mr. and Mrs. Harold Robinson

  3 East 138th Street

  Riverdale, Illinois

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Harold Robinson,

  This communication is intended to clear up a misunderstanding. Coach Price has brought it to my attention that he believes your daughter possesses exceptional athletic abilities. After seeing Betty run for the train last week, her speed impressed him and he invited her to train with the boys’ track team. While I applaud Coach Price’s initiative and enthusiasm, I must set the record straight on school policy: Betty cannot train with the boys’ track team. In fact, the Illinois State Athletic Association prohibits interscholastic competition for girls in track and field events for good reason; it is well documented that women cannot be subjected to the same mental and physical strains that men can withstand.

  Upon reviewing Betty’s academic record, I daresay she appears to have stellar grades and commendations from all of her teachers, which leads me to believe that her future lies in the direction of more wholesome and virtuous pursuits. Thornton Township High School offers many wonderful opportunities to develop the intellect and extracurricular interests of its female students. As John Locke once said, “Education begins the gentleman, but reading, good company and reflection must finish him.” Here at Thornton Township High School we are certainly not narrow-minded enough to believe this sentiment extends only to gentlemen, but also gentlewomen. Betty is off to a fine start in life. She is a conscientious student and keeps good company, but she must have time for reflection to ready herself for her future role as wife, mother, and citizen. It is important not to overburden this developing young feminine mind with the distractions of sport and competition.

  Sincerely,

  Principal Umbaugh

  From the Legal Offices of Lee, Maginnis & Finnell

  MEMORANDUM

  March 5, 1928

  Dear Mr. Harold Robinson,

  After your meeting with Principal Umbaugh yesterday in which you insisted upon indulging your daughter’s interest in training with the boys’ track team, Thornton Public School District disavows any responsibility for Elizabeth “Betty” Robinson’s participation in activities not befitting a female student. Enclosed is a waiver for you to sign that declares Elizabeth is competing independently and entirely at her own risk.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. V. L. Maginnis, Esq.

  THE CHICAGO EVENING STANDARD

  June 3, 1928

  Sporting Corner News

  Soldier Field—In only her second sanctioned race, Elizabeth “Betty” Robinson of Riverdale finished first place, beating national champion Helen Filkey at the Central American Athletic Union meet by running the 100-meter sprint in 12 seconds flat, an unofficial new world record. Due to high winds above acceptable levels, the new time will not stand, but it was enough to earn the emerging track star an all-expenses-paid invitation to compete in the Olympic trials in Newark, New Jersey, next month. For the first time in history, women will be competing in several track and field events at the Ninth Olympiad in Amsterdam, and we wish young Betty all the luck in the world as she competes to win a spot to represent the U.S. of A.!

  * * *

  The Western Union Telegraph Company

  Received at Newark, NJ 1928 Jul 6 1:26 PM

  CONGRATULATIONS ON QUALIFYING FOR OLYMPIC TEAM. YOUR FRIENDS AT THORNTON HIGH ALWAYS BELIEVED IN YOU. GOOD LUCK IN AMSTERDAM! PRINCIPAL UMBAUGH.

  * * *

  3.

  July 1928

  Fulton, Missouri

  HELEN PLINKED OUT A FEW NOTES ON THE FAMILY’S UPRIGHT Wurlitzer. The woolly needlepointed piano seat scratched at the backs of her thighs. Her mind was supposed to be on Chopin, but instead she glanced out the window longingly before placing her fingers on the yellowed keys of the piano and wiggling herself into sitting straight. The sooner she was done practicing, the sooner she could get outside to play. She hit a C note and listened to it reverberate off the walls of the faded parlor. If only she could play a melody that swelled dramatically, fanned the still air, moved things around a bit—wouldn’t that be grand?

  She tried a chord. Nothing changed. If anything, the twang of the slightly out-of-tune piano just made everything feel flatter, hotter, more oppressive.

  Every minute Ma made her sit in front of the piano reaffirmed the futility of harboring dreams of her musical talents. Even at ten years old, Helen understood the likelihood that she would ever become a virtuoso musician felt as far-fetched to her as owning an elephant as a pet. It simply wasn’t going to happen.

  Helen stopped playing and tilted her head, straining to listen for sounds of Ma working in the kitchen. Nothing. The only sound came from the parlor’s window, where Doogie’s nails were clicking against the wooden planks of the porch. Helen crept to the screen door without making a sound and peeked outside. Sure enough, the dog lay in her usual spot next to the wooden rocker, paws jerking as she ran in her sleep. Helen opened the door and tiptoed across the porch. Doogie’s bloodshot eyes flickered open, and without raising her head, she watched Helen from under half-opened lids.

  Helen’s gaze swept the area, looking for action, a game, something of interest. A lone shingle lay near the stairs. She reached for it and, without thinking—it was too hot for thinking—stuck it into her mouth, clenching it between her teeth. Though she kept her tongue away from the splintery surface, the taste of dust and the powdery grit of dried-out wood filled the insides of her mouth. She shook her head back and forth and barked, trying to get a reaction from Doogie.

  Nothing.

  The creature only furrowed her furry brow in puzzlement. It wasn’t until Helen bent over and clapped her hands and stamped her feet that Doogie’s tail started to wag. The dog rose and stretched from her haunches, extending her back legs one at a time. As she watched Helen’s antics, the rhythm of her wagging tail increased.

  Helen turned and ran down the stairs, hoping Doogie would chase her. With each step, the creases behind her knees felt slippery with sweat, but she wanted to run, feel the air move around her, no matter how hot it was. She wanted escape, action, and freedom from tedium.

  She aimed for the front gate. When she was running as fast as she could, she turned and found Doogie loping along beside her. At that moment, Helen’s foot caught on something. Maybe it was one of Bobbie Lee’s toy trucks, or a gardening trowel of Ma’s, or maybe just one of her big feet got in the way—she never figured it out.

  But she flew.

  She sailed over the flat ground and marveled at the surrounding stillness. The dusty brown yard. The fields stretching beyond the fence. The silent barn. And then she landed with a whoomph!

  Pain screamed through her chin, lips, and neck. Everything burned. With the wind knocked out of her, she simply lay in the cloud of dust, lungs straining, eyes tearing from the pain, mind reeling. Doogie’s snout poked her cheek, her breath snuffling hot against Helen’s face. A gurgling sound came from her own throat. She tasted copper in her mouth. She wanted to cough, but something blocked her throat and a bib of blood appeared to be blooming over her pale yellow cotton work shirt. Doogie barked, quick staccato sounds that made the hair on Helen’s arms stand at attention. She tried to pull the shingle from her mouth, but it hurt too much and, defeated, she dropped her hands back to the ground.

  F
rom behind her, the screen door banged open. Ma screamed. Bobbie Lee’s high voice whimpered. A stampede of feet. The toes of Pa’s scuffed work boots appeared and a towel was pressed into her neck. Voices rose and fell, but what were they saying? She stopped trying to understand. Her throat burned as if consumed by flames. She closed her eyes and faded from her surroundings.

  From far away, Doogie continued to bark.

  WHITE SHEETS, WHITE walls. An unnatural, sterile sense of blankness surrounded Helen. She couldn’t move her head.

  “Helen,” Ma’s voice said gently from somewhere beside her. “We’re at the hospital. You’ve had an accident. Don’t try to talk.”

  She tried to swallow but it felt like trying to jam a boulder down her throat. She gagged, unable to breathe. Her eyes watered.

  “There, there,” Ma murmured, but Helen couldn’t see her. She wanted to move, adjust herself from the overwhelming sense of stiffness, but she couldn’t. She wanted to look around, but she couldn’t. Her eyes now watered from frustration, not just pain.

  “Bertie, is she awake?”

  “Yes,” Ma answered.

  “Aha, here she is.” A man’s voice hovered farther away, low and calm, and then a round face with glasses and gray hair bobbed into her vision. Dr. McCubbin. “Helen, we need to stop meeting like this.” Cold hands cupped her cheeks, lifted up her eyelids, prodded her chest. “Your broken wrist mended a lot more easily than this will, but sit tight. I’ve performed a small procedure that will leave you feeling tired for a spell. In fact, you’re going to need a quiet summer. Lots of rest and no talking. You’ve punctured an important part of your throat and it’s going to need time to heal properly.”

  The doctor disappeared from Helen’s line of vision. The white wall returned. Her mother’s voice drifted past her, along with the doctor’s. She closed her eyes and slid into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

  4.

  July 1928

  Malden, Massachusetts

  LOUISE’S HEART HAMMERED. THE GROUND SPED PAST and gravel pinged off her shins, but she didn’t let up.

  When her basketball teammates had led her to the railroad tracks and pointed down the long straightaway, she almost hadn’t believed them. This was where the track club trained? She had been running along these tracks for as long as she could remember and knew this section like the palm of her hand. With a shrug, Louise set off in a pack with the others, not wanting to shoot to the front right away, especially since she was one of the youngest girls out there. She’d be fifteen in the fall and attend the high school. At this point, it was best to fit in, get a read on the different girls. Only after they were done warming up and Coach Quain had explained the interval workout did she allow her gait to lengthen. She rocketed to the front, savoring the feeling of letting loose. When she ran, her thoughts faded and the burn of exertion took over. It hurt, but that was part of running’s draw, hitting the delicate balance between pain and release. It was a relief, a reprieve from thinking too much. From remembering.

  When she reached the railroad tie with a splash of red paint on its end, she slowed, turned, and dashed back to where Coach Quain waited, stopwatch in hand. The other girls trailed behind her, their faces splotchy and strained with exertion.

  Louise was fast.

  For as long as she could remember she had run everywhere.

  When most people walked, she ran.

  But then there was the accident with her sister and running changed. It became less about having fun and more about testing herself. She needed to be fast. She had memories, painful ones, that reminded her she would never be fast enough to save what was important.

  When her basketball teammates encouraged her to go to Coach Quain, the man who sponsored the Onteora Track Club, she wasn’t sure she could do it, yet a curious longing in her wouldn’t let up. Could a stopwatch tell her something she didn’t already know?

  Suddenly, the earth seemed to quake. The five o’clock train from the city roared past. She blinked her eyes to keep from getting dizzy as it clattered along beside her, a streak of glistening metal, smoke, and moving parts. Pale faces pressed to the windows, a few grinning and waving. Not until it rounded the bend and disappeared did its import sink in.

  Five o’clock.

  She needed to get home. Emily could be left in charge only for so long. Louise summoned a final burst of effort and Coach Quain blurred as she sprinted past him and then slowed.

  He whistled, looking at his stopwatch. “Now, look at that. You’re the speediest girl I’ve ever seen.”

  Pride stirred in her chest.

  “You don’t even look winded,” he marveled, appraising her up and down.

  In truth, she felt exhausted but had no intention of revealing how hard she had been working. The other girls ran past, their eyes glassy with fatigue, sweaty hair plastered to their foreheads. The exposed skin on their bare legs and arms looked pale, mottled, and vulnerable to the blazing-hot sun, but the darkness of Louise’s skin hid the sizzle of blood coursing through her veins. In a town full of fair-skinned Irish, Louise was from one of the few black families, but Coach Quain didn’t appear to give the color of her skin a second thought.

  “I hope you’ll join us. With your natural ability, think how fast you’ll get with a little training and coaching. What do you say?”

  “Thank you, sir, but I need to talk to my parents.”

  “You do that. We’ll be back out here tomorrow. Same time, same place. You’re young, and I wouldn’t put you in any big meets until next year, although some time trials later this summer season might be useful. Could be good training for a girl with so much potential like you.” He held The Boston Globe out in front of him and pointed to a page. “Did you know girls are running in the Olympics this year? All the way over in Europe? Who knows? Maybe one day this could be you.”

  Louise nodded as she jogged away, but she had no idea what he was talking about. Girls racing in Europe? She veered off the railroad tracks and loped along the sidewalk past modest brick houses lining the streets. Figures visible in the windows went about their evening routines. Dinner dishes clattered. Cooking smells wafted along the evening air. Fried onions. Roasted chicken. Freshly baked bread. Her stomach rumbled in response. When Louise reached her family’s dark shingled house, she cut across the lawn, took the porch steps two at a time, pushed the front door open.

  “Louise, that you?” Emily’s voice called from the back of the house.

  Louise glided down the hallway, past closed doors, and entered the kitchen to find her sisters—Emily, Julia, and Agnes—and brother standing around the kitchen table. Emily and Julia both held books in their hands while grass stains covered Junior’s trousers.

  “I’m here, I’m here. Sorry, it went later than I expected. Let me wash up and I’ll be in to start dinner. Junior, go clean up. Girls, set the table, please.”

  “Did you make the team?” Junior asked, his wide dark eyes shining in anticipation.

  “Yes.” She paused in the door of the washroom. “But now don’t you go saying anything about it to Mama yet. Understand?”

  “When you gonna ask ’em?” Julia asked.

  “Not sure.” A sense of guilt eclipsed the triumph that had fueled her run home. How could she fit running on a track team into all of her responsibilities?

  Moments later, she was back in the kitchen assembling plates of cold roasted chicken from the icebox and making a potato salad. The sound of the front door wheezing open caused all of their heads to swivel toward the hallway entrance. Mama and Papa were home.

  “How are you all?” Mama asked, working her way around the table, kissing the tops of everyone’s heads. Louise breathed in her mother’s smell of laundry soap. It was Tuesday, washing day over at Mrs. Grandaway’s house, where Mama worked as a domestic. She would be extra tired from wrestling with the wringer all afternoon.

  After Mama and Papa retired to their room to change out of their uniforms, homework was set aside, Julia set the ta
ble for dinner, and then they all sat and clasped hands, heads bowed.

  “Thank you, Lord, for this fine meal and for granting us another day to live in your good grace.” Papa looked around the table. “Anyone want to add anything?”

  “Lord, thank you for making me the best pitcher in Malden.” From under his long fringe of dark eyelashes, lashes that Mama always lamented were wasted on a boy, Junior looked at everyone with an impish smile. “I struck out a bunch of the boys at the park today.”

  “Please, Lord, grant Junior humility,” Mama said with a sigh, though the wrinkles around her eyes crinkled in amusement.

  “I been thinking about Baby Grace today and hope God’s found her some kind angels who take care of her and play with her so she doesn’t get bored and whiny,” Agnes said, her lisp making the seriousness of what she was saying take a moment to sink in.

  Mama let out a whimper that was halfway between a gasp and a sob.

  “No one gets bored and whiny in heaven,” Emily corrected. “It’s perfect there.”

  “Well, I hope those angels are nice and give her some of those peppermints she loved,” Agnes said, her little sharp chin jutting out in indignation.

  The kitchen stilled for a moment. Thinking about Grace caused a pain to shoot straight through Louise’s heart. How could she have been so foolish as to leave her brother and sisters alone for a couple of hours? How could she risk something like what had happened to Grace happening again? Right there, she decided she would not return to practice with the Onteora Track Club. Not the next day or any day after that. How could she have been so selfish? She had failed to look after her siblings properly once and she would never make that mistake again.

  Papa cleared his throat. “I hope he’s keeping our baby close and giving her everything she wants too, sweetheart. Now let’s enjoy some of this wonderful meal that Louise put out for us.”

  The tenor in the room shifted, loosened a little, and without looking at each other, everyone raised their forks to begin eating, but Louise’s appetite had vanished. A hollowed-out sense of grief and failure weighed upon her, heavy and suffocating.