by Mateer, Anne
I slipped into the chair on Father’s right. My mouth watered at the sight of the fluffy scrambled eggs and strips of crisp fried bacon on my plate. I bit into a biscuit and let my napkin catch the butter dripping down my chin.
“Alyce, did you learn nothing at that school?” Mother seemed to float into the chair at the opposite end of the table from Father with a grace I could never manage for myself. She sighed as I reached for the coffeepot and filled her cup. “And what in heaven’s name are you wearing?”
I shrugged. “I picked it up in Chicago.”
“Really, Alyce. Where on earth did you find a frock so drab?”
“It’s quite the fashion, Mother.” I smoothed my skirt over my legs. White crepe with sprigs of pink flowers, a pink sash at the waist, and pink shell buttons up the bibbed front. I liked this dress, liked how I felt . . . normal in it. At least as normal as the daughter of the wealthiest man in town could feel.
Mother’s manicured eyebrows seemed to rise as high as the ornate ceiling above our heads. “Fashionable with your church people, I suppose. I can’t imagine your classmates succumbing to such an ordinary costume.” She rested her elbows on the table, her chin alighting on her clasped hands. The Venetian lace at her wrists fluttered like butterfly wings before settling on the sleeves of her silk dress.
I fought the downward tug on my lips. What she’d paid for her dress might feed a Gold Coast village for a month. A dress she didn’t even deem worthy of a public wearing. And yet she constantly devoted her time to the charitable efforts of her ladies’ club, so I had to believe she cared about someone besides herself. She’d had nothing when she became Father’s wife. Couldn’t I excuse a bit of self-indulgence?
“Leave her be, Winifred.” Father spoke from behind Saturday’s edition of the Indianapolis Star. He reached for his coffee, took a long draught, and returned the cup to its place on the table. “We don’t want to run her off after we’ve just got her home again.”
Mother opened her mouth to reply.
“Anything interesting in the paper?” I jumped into the silence as I watched Mother from the corner of my eye. Then I popped a bite of scrambled eggs into my mouth.
“War in Europe. Presidential election. The usual.” He turned another page. “Oh—here’s something you’ll like. They held an automobile race in Tacoma, Washington, on Saturday.”
I ceased to notice the food I forked into my mouth. Instead, images of speeding motorcars and swirling smoke filled my head and quickened my pulse. “Who drove?”
“Rickenbacker. De Palma. A few others.”
“Board track or dirt?” I gulped down half of my tepid coffee in excitement.
“Board. Cracks filled with gravel instead of left open.”
“Wonder if that was to Rick’s disadvantage.”
Father snorted and turned another page. “Doubt it. Eddie Rickenbacker’s a natural. Guess the results will be in the paper today.”
Thanks to the interurban, the Indianapolis Star arrived in Langston just a few short hours after the ink dried.
“Alyce.” Mother sighed my name.
My stomach tumbled, regretting its desire for food. Why did her disapproval affect me so?
She turned her irritation on Father. “Really, Harry. Do you think it proper for a girl of her age and station to converse about such things? It’s bad enough that you allow her to drive. And then keep us in this backwater town with no eligible men to court her. Must you fill her head with auto racing, as well?”
I couldn’t quell my grin. I felt sure merriment twinkled in my eyes, too. So I kept my gaze pinned on Father.
He chuckled. “Say what you will, Winifred, but if her attention to racing keeps your Chicago dandies away from her, all the better.”
My silent mirth gave way to heated cheeks. I pressed my linen napkin to my mouth. Oh, to escape the conversation that replayed like a phonograph record in my head. It had started the day of my thirteenth birthday, Mother insisting I learn feminine accomplishments and leave off diving from haylofts and climbing trees—and driving my own motorcar and talking about auto races. Those things, she insisted, invited scandal, not suitors. Without Father’s indulgence all these years, I imagine I would have suffocated long ago.
Father folded the newspaper and set it aside. “I don’t intend to give my girl to just any young swell that comes along. And I won’t let you foist on her a man who’s only interested in her inheritance.”
Money. Africa. I folded my napkin and stared into my lap, preparing to make my request. Father had championed me once this morning—would he do so again? I shot a quick prayer heavenward before addressing him.
“Yes, my girl?” He hummed a bit of a tune as he finished his breakfast.
I took a deep breath. “I need some money.”
“Money?” He reached inside his jacket, pulled out his wallet, and tossed a bill on the table. “Will that do you for a few pretties?”
President Grover Cleveland’s face stared up at me, Twenty Dollars inscribed beneath his name. “Actually, I need a bit more than that.”
He chuckled and wagged his index finger at me. “I knew you’d catch on to your mother’s schemes one of these days.”
Mother rolled her eyes and excused herself from the room as he picked up the money, slipped it back into his wallet, and returned the wallet to his pocket. “Just charge what you need. I’ll cover the bill.”
I jumped from my seat, my hand restraining Mother’s exit. “Wait, Mother. You should hear this, too.”
She stopped, returned to her chair, and pushed her half-empty plate toward the center of the table.
I clasped my hands behind me. “It isn’t clothes, Father. Or anything like that.”
His left eyebrow rose, giving his face a lopsided look. “Not tired of the Packard already, are you?”
I shook my head.
His eyebrows sank into a deep V. “Smashed it up, did you?”
“Alyce!” Mother bolted upright.
Father shook his head. “I always knew you would one day. Can’t drive as fast as you like to without losing control at some point.”
“My Packard is fine. It’s just that I need . . .” My throat constricted around the largeness of the number. “I need three thousand dollars.”
Mother gasped.
“Three thousand dollars?” Father pulled the square of linen from its place in his collar. “What in heaven’s name for?”
“Wait here. I’ll show you.” Before either could protest, I dashed up the stairs, grabbed the picture from my Bible, and scurried back to the dining room.
I slapped it to the table. “There.”
Both of my parents moved closer, peered down into the faces that lived vivid in my memory.
“Why, they’re children.” Concern etched itself around Mother’s painted lips.
“What does this mean, Ally?” Father’s grumble stirred the breakfast in my stomach once again.
“A man and his wife who work in Africa came to our church yesterday. They live among the people in a place called the Gold Coast. In Africa. People with little to wear, little to eat.” I held my tongue before mentioning their need for Jesus. “I want to give three thousand dollars to help advance their work.”
Silence.
Mother dropped back into her chair. Father paced in front of the tall windows.
“That charlatan Swan put you up to this.” Tight words, portending a storm of great force.
I flinched but didn’t retreat. “No, sir. This was my idea.”
He stopped pacing and faced me. “Well, it was a blame-fool one. I hear what you’re not saying, Ally. They’re over there touting religion to those unsuspecting people. I won’t be a party to it.” He stalked toward the door.
I hurried after him. “But, Father, everyone’s expecting it.”
He froze, then turned. “What do you mean everyone’s expecting it? Who thinks you have that kind of money?”
“Everyone at church.” I moist
ened my lips. “I told them I’d give three thousand dollars to help fund the work.”
“You did what?” His face turned the color of a ripe strawberry as his voice rose, the full fury of the storm lashing out. “Let me tell you, missy, not one cent of my hard-earned money is going toward this foolishness. Do you hear? If you’re so all-fired determined to participate in this scheme, you’ll have to scavenge for that money yourself. And don’t even think about wheedling it from your mother!”
My mouth dropped open as he charged out of the room. Not since the day when Grandmother told him of my walk down the aisle at church had I seen him so angry.
The front door slammed shut, tinkling the chandelier overhead. I sank back into my chair and groaned as Mother swished from the room after throwing me a disapproving look, but whether she resented my request or my making Father angry, I couldn’t tell.
The silence made my thoughts loud. Where in the world would I find three thousand dollars? And how would I ever face my church again if I didn’t?
The swinging door creaked open.
“You can come in now, Clarissa.” I slumped a bit toward the table, my chin resting in my upturned hands like Mother’s had not long ago.
Clarissa bustled into the room, shaking her head and tsking under her breath. “You barely ate a thing.” She whisked my plate from the table and set it atop my father’s empty one.
“I’ll work up an appetite for lunch. I promise. Maybe Grandmother will even feel up to coming to the table with me.”
Silverware clinked against china. “Don’t you worry, Miss Alyce. The Lord will provide, especially once your grandmother gets wind to pray.” A broad grin lit Clarissa’s freckled face as she pushed her backside against the door into the pantry, hands piled high with dirty dishes.
Grandmother’s prayers. Normally a comforting thought. But even Grandmother didn’t have the faith to believe the Lord would change my father’s heart this time.
4
My shoes clicked across the stone path leading through the back garden and around the small gazebo in its center. The varied blooms didn’t catch my eye, though their scents trailed after me. Questions zipped through my head like cars racing around a track, demanding my attention. But I couldn’t think. Not here. I needed the wind knotting my curls, fields and trees whizzing past in a blur. Then my mind could relax. Then I’d hear the voice of the Lord explaining where I’d gone wrong.
The trunks of waving green-leafed tulip poplar trees stood guard around the end of the red carriage house—Father’s long-ago concession to Mother’s insistence that the building’s presence, however necessary, ruined the ambiance of her garden. Leaving the path, I traipsed across the grass, dew wetting the ankles of my stockings.
One of the large double doors angled open. I slipped into the dim interior, shivering in air still tinged with cool from the darkness of night. In my girlhood, the pungent smell of horseflesh hovered over this place. Now the perfume of gasoline and oil filled my nose. Instead of a pony, my Packard Runabout sat in the shadows. A kitten of a car. This morning I needed a tiger.
“Webster?” My eyes searched the shadows. An empty spot told me Father had left for work. And there, huddled next to the far wall, sat an unpainted auto body covering a powerful engine. I drew in a deep breath. Father’s racing car. He’d hired Webster to build it and to maintain our other autos, as well as to repair broken machinery at the plant.
I ran my hand over one of the leather straps holding the engine’s cover secure, stroking it like the back of a well-loved cat.
“A beauty, ain’t she?” Webster Little wiped the grease from his fingers before shoving the dirty rag into the back pocket of his overalls. He pushed up the flat brim of his cloth driving cap. A lock of dark hair escaped, sweeping across his broad forehead, above his dusky eyes. His wide mouth split into a grin, coaxing one from me, as well.
I wondered how many hearts that grin had broken. Not intentionally, of course. Webster didn’t seem to be that type. But for a man I suspected to be near my age and unmarried, it wasn’t hard to fathom.
My fingers curled around the steering wheel and then slid onto the crude seat. “You got the body on her.”
“I did. Once we hit a hundred miles an hour up that hill, I knew it was time.”
I frowned. “I wish you’d have let me drive it that day.”
“With just the engine on a frame and a crate wired to it for a seat? I don’t think so. Your father would have killed me with his bare hands if he’d found out.”
I ran a hand around the circle that would steer the powerful car. When I looked up, he stared down at me, his visage open and honest. Would he be willing to risk Father’s ire now? “I could drive her today.”
Webster’s head swayed like a disapproving schoolteacher’s. “Ally, I told you. Your father’s not—”
“I need to drive her. Please?” I clasped my hands in front of my chest, knuckles whitening. “Father needn’t know.”
One of his eyebrows rose. “Because no one will notice a half-built racing car tearing up the roads. Or a woman behind its wheel.”
“Not if we take her out to the track.” I plucked an old duster from a nail on the wall, thankful I’d traded my Sunday corset for a newfangled brassiere. I buttoned the duster over my simple dress before settling a pair of goggles on top of my head. “You coming or not?”
“Ally, you can’t—” His nostrils flared, but his eyes twinkled. He grabbed another pair of goggles. “I’m certainly not letting you take it out alone.” He jogged to the doors, pushed them open wide, and met me behind the car. We rolled her into the open before he cranked the engine to life. The roar reverberated through my head. And with every rumble, my excitement climbed.
Webster shut the doors of the carriage-house-turned-garage and hopped in beside me. I eased the auto into gear and puttered down the brick drive. We moved slowly at first, past the house and onto the hard dirt road out front. I turned left, away from town.
“Hold on.” I eased off the clutch and let the gas out a bit.
“Don’t let ’er go till we hit the track,” Webster called out over the engine’s noise.
I nodded, both hands on the wheel.
“So what happened?” Webster laced his hands behind his head and slouched lazily in the seat beside me.
I raised my voice above the din. “I asked Father for some money.”
“Money for what?” he shouted over the motor and the wind.
A small gap appeared in the tall grass of a fallow field. My foot jammed down on the brake pedal as I jerked left, into the wheel ruts. The uneven path threatened to jolt me from the car. I gripped the wheel more tightly, focused all my effort on maintaining control of the car as the path carried us toward the back of Father’s property.
A clump of trees to my left drew nearer. Waving grass obscured the half-mile dirt oval from any but those who knew of it. Father. Me. And Webster.
No errant stones or holes marred the surface of the track. Webster must have been here recently. I motored onto the more level surface. Spark plugs firing fast, gas flowing without restraint, we surged forward.
The first turn came quickly. I eased off my speed and held us steady, eyes locked on the straightaway. Then we gained speed again.
Three laps around the oval. I shifted gears once more. We flew forward, the speedometer inching up toward fifty miles per hour as Webster squeezed the bulb of the pump beside him to send more oil to the engine.
The sun rose higher, transforming the moist coolness of morning into sultry summer air that slammed against my cheeks and tangled curls about my face.
“Sixty-seven,” I yelled, glancing at Webster and pointing to the speedometer. A grin stretched across his face, shoving his round cheeks closer to his goggled eyes. I hunched over the steering wheel, head low, eyes on the path slipping beneath my tires.
“Watch the curve.” Webster’s voice sounded far away. I eased back just a bit on the gas and pressed the brake
as I rounded the far end of the track.
Then, with another straight stretch before me, we shot forward, even faster than before. I peeked down. The needle quivered at seventy-two. My breath caught in my throat as a thrill shivered down my spine. Could I go faster? Heart pounding, I rested my thumb on the lever in the center of the steering wheel.
Webster’s hand appeared on top of mine. He wanted me to slow down. Rounding the track once more, I moderated the spark plugs, the gas, employed the brake, until finally, after another lap, we ambled off across the field and arrived at the real road once more. I turned the car opposite of home and tooled along at a respectable twenty miles per hour.
I looked at Webster. He raised his eyebrows in question as he slung his arm across the back of the seat. “What’d it register?”
“Over seventy. I had to look quick.”
He whistled. “Felt like it. Turn here.” He pointed to a small trail on the right.
I eased the auto onto another bumpy road. Little more than wagon tracks, really. The trees thinned, opening into a small clearing on the bank of a brook. I killed the engine, tore off my goggles, and unbuttoned my duster as the roar in my ears gave way to the soothing sound of water gurgling over rocks. As soon as my limbs quit trembling, I intended to make good use of the liquid on my dirty face and parched throat.
As if reading my mind, Webster climbed from the car and knelt at the edge of the stream. With a cupped hand, he drank from the clear water before splashing it over his face and hair and neck and shaking himself dry like a common mongrel. He slapped his cap against one leg. Dust flew up in a cloud before he settled himself at the base of a tree and leaned against the wide trunk. “You never did answer my question, you know.”
“Your question?” My muscles tensed. I stood at the edge of the creek and removed my duster. Relief flowed over me as a breeze cooled my skin and rustled the leaves that shaded me from the sun. I drank the clean air into my lungs and then leaned down to scoop cold water into my mouth.