“You don’t really have to beat her. We just want you to make the team.”
“There are two other girls in her Semi-Final faster than me.”
“I know that. Don’t get yourself disturbed. You’ll take them in the Final like Grant took Richmond.”
“Would you tell Doc about the stiffness in my legs?”
“I’ll tell him. I’m going up to the Jacaranda right after this. Now don’t forget. Fix that massage with Ingrid, and you’ll be fine tomorrow.”
*
Klugman was less sanguine when he reported to Serafin. Possibly the way he related the conversation was influenced by the circumstances. He had found the consortium in one of the Jacaranda’s three cocktail bars. Melody’s perfume waged battle with Valenti’s cigar smoke over a table cluttered with empty glasses. Sternberg was telling jokes. Everyone was there, even Lee, sipping tomato juice and eating an olive.
This was the first time Klugman had visited the Jacaranda since arriving in Eugene. He and Ingrid had rooms in a four-story walkup, chosen for its proximity to the residence hall where Goldine was staying.
“What’s yours?” Armitage convivially asked.
“I won’t bother, thanks,” said Klugman. “I only wanted a few minutes with Dr. Serafin.”
“No trouble, I hope?” said Sternberg. “Now, where was I with this broken-hearted camel?” He picked up the threads of his story.
Klugman moved behind the chairs to Serafin, and squatted to give him the news. “I don’t want to cause alarm,” he said in an undertone, “but I’m a little concerned about Goldengirl.” He reported the symptoms.
“Heaviness?” repeated Serafin.
“I’m wondering if this could be a reaction to the change in altitude,” said Klugman. “Years ago I did some training at the U.S. altitude camp at South Lake Tahoe, and they warned us to expect a reaction when we came back to sea level.”
“You think we don’t know about altitude effects?” Serafin said in a hiss. “Of course the body has to make an adjustment. It wouldn’t be the reason for this. She’s already gone past the time when that would make any difference. This must be psychological. I’ll get Lee to come outside.”
“You sure there’s nothing wrong?” asked Sternberg, as Serafin stood up.
“Nothing, I assure you. Just updating on the tactics for tomorrow,” Serafin announced. It didn’t carry a lot of conviction.
When Lee had heard Klugman’s account, he was emphatic in his diagnosis: “A common anxiety symptom. She’s had no competition today. It’s given her time to dwell too much on what she still has to face. All athletes exhibit symptoms of anxiety and helplessness prior to major competitive events. The desire to find a let-out can become quite obsessional. Simulated illnesses or injuries are usual in these circumstances. I suggest you prescribe a mild sedative, William. By tomorrow morning, the physical manifestations will have miraculously vanished.”
“Of course. Just as I thought,” said Serafin. “If you come upstairs,” he told Klugman, “I’ll give you something to take back to her now. You’re going past the hostel?”
“She’ll be with Ingrid just now,” said Klugman. “I told her to get a massage. That should help relax her.”
“Sensible,” conceded Serafin. “You’ll see them both, then. Tell Goldengirl I shall look in right after breakfast tomorrow. And tell Ingrid I shall want a word with her as well. There’s a small service I want her to perform.”
*
Klugman had to admit next day that Lee had been right. When Goldengirl arrived at Hayward Field for the afternoon’s events she was bubbling with confidence. “Sure, I slept well, Pete. I really am primed to go.” She hooked a thumb in the waistband of her tracksuit. “See, I’m wearing my gold shorts today. The first time this meet. That’s how great I feel.”
“You took the tablet last night?”
She grinned, and blushed. “Between you and me, Pete, I didn’t. I knew I could sleep okay without it, and I did. I was that tired. No sense taking sleepers if you can manage without. Maybe you should have taken it. You look terrible.”
“I’m okay. It stirs up memories, watching the finals. Makes me realize I’m getting no younger. Come on, it’s time you started limbering. The Semi goes at three-fifteen.”
“Don’t I know it! The Final at five-thirty, followed by the four hundred Final at six.”
“Press conference six-fifteen.”
“That’s positive thinking,” said Goldine.
*
Most of Eugene had turned out for the afternoon’s events, which included Finals in the men’s 400 meters and 110-meter Hurdles, as well as Day One of the Decathlon, but there was no question that the real draw was the girl the papers — still casting around for an epithet that would stick — described as the Bakersfield Express, the Runaway Blonde and Galloping Goldine. The moment she appeared in her white tracksuit, there was a rush of autograph hunters. Officials, obviously alerted, diligently headed them off.
When the moment came for her first run of the afternoon, the concentration of interest was exceptional for a Semi-Final. Ice cream vendors squatted in the stands, their trays on their knees. As the starter raised the gun above his shoulder, all conversation stopped. A motor mower was audibly at work on one of the fields outside the stadium.
In the beer tent behind the main stand, Valenti heard the buzz of excitement that followed the shot. There wasn’t time to get to a point where he could see the finish. These things lasted twenty seconds or so, no longer. He would definitely catch the Final.
“I figure that was the Semi,” he told Sternberg as he deposited the glasses on the table outside.
“Yeah?”
“We missed it.”
“Does that grieve you?”
“Well, I aim to watch the Finals.”
“Will it make one scrap of difference if you watch?”
“I guess not, but I have invested some.”
“You’re the kind of guy who sits beside a ticker-tape machine looking at stock prices,” said Sternberg.
Over the public address came an announcement: “The result of Semi-Final Number One of the two hundred meters: first, Goldine Serafin, unattached, twenty-three point twelve seconds …”
In the stand, Serafin asked, “That’s odd. It looked faster. What was her time on Monday, Melody?”
“In the Quarter-Final? Twenty-two point seventy-two.”
“She won,” said Cobb. “The time is insignificant. Better she saves herself for the finals to come.”
“You’re right, of course.”
By the Competitors’ Entrance, Klugman turned on three small boys brandishing ballpoints and programs. “Piss off, you kids. She’s signing no more autographs. That’s definite.” He put an arm around Goldine and steered her toward the training field.
“Pete, something is wrong,” she said. “I don’t have the lift in my limbs any more.”
“You won,” he pointed out. “You’re in the Final. Okay, maybe you’re a little tired, but you were still good enough to beat Devine.”
“Shelley Wilson ran twenty-two point nine in the other Semi.”
“Don’t start fretting about the other girls. Run your own race. Just two to go.”
*
Ingrid was sitting alone in a TV lounge adjoining the student common room on the University campus. Dr. Serafin had told her to keep well away from the stadium after she had carried out his instructions. Her steps had taken her through the deserted campus. She had passed the common room, noticed that it was open, and looked inside. It was all right to go in there; Goldine had taken her there for a coffee after the massage. So she had walked through to this empty room, with comfortable chairs and a TV. “Be inconspicuous,” Serafin had said.
On NBC, they were showing the Trials.
“… took the bar off with her heels,” the commentator was saying as the screen showed a high-jumper in slow motion upended inelegantly on the air cushion. “Dani won’t be pleased wit
h that. You really can’t afford to leave your legs trailing in this style. That’s reduced it to three, then: the two Crown Cities girls and Janis Nelson.”
A switch of cameras brought a close-up of shapely buttocks encased in gold stretch-nylon.
Ingrid frowned.
“The girls are testing their blocks prior to the two-hundred-meters Final, which gives us a chance to take another look at this tall, attractive blonde they’re already calling the greatest find in years, Goldine Serafin, winner of the one hundred meters, now seeking to add to her tally with the first of two appearances in finals this afternoon. In Monday’s Quarter-Final, Goldine destroyed a brilliant field and set a new U.S. record for this event with twenty-two point seventy-two seconds, and although her Semi-Final earlier this afternoon was a little slower at just outside twenty-three, I can’t see anyone threatening her, can you, Herb?”
“No, Dave. She’s the girl in form. She looks unbeatable. I just hope she can hold this form till one month from now in Moscow, because she’s going to give Ursula Krüll one hell of a shock if she runs anything like she has this week in Eugene.”
“Thanks, Herb. Let’s take a look at the rest of the line-up as they go to their positions. That’s Jean Shadick, one of the two white girls in this Final, and the youngest in the race, at seventeen. Fifth in the one-hundred-meter dash. A good run here might clinch a place for Jean in the relay squad. Debbie Jackson, the girl in green, disappointed a little in the hundred, but came through with a second place in the Semi-Final this afternoon. Number two ten is Shelley Wilson, the fastest qualifier, with a twenty-two point ninety-three, and candidly, the one girl in this event who looks remotely, capable of matching Goldine Serafin. Second in the hundred, she regards the two hundred as her strong event. In your picture now, Jo Carroll, a sophomore at Tennessee State, unlucky not to make the Final in the shorter of the two dash events, eager to join that relay squad if she can. One seventy-eight, the familiar figure of Mary-Lou Devine, undefeated last season, finding it tougher this Olympic year, but already assured of her place in the one hundred line-up for Moscow. But no question who the favorite for this event must be: the Runaway Blonde, Goldine Serafin. She has the outside lane this time, so I don’t think she’ll be seeing too much of the opposition. How do you dig those gold pants?”
She was shown in close-up, lifting her feet to check that her spikes were clear of mud, then tossing back her hair, almost white in the low-angled sunlight.
“The sort of girl you only see in commercials,” said the commentator’s sidekick. “Each time she comes in focus, I expect to hear violins playing.”
“On your marks,” said the starter’s voice.
“In lane order, then,” came in the commentator. “Number one ninety-one, Shadick; one eighty-two, Jackson; two ten, Wilson; one seventy-six, Carroll; one seventy-eight, Devine; one eighty-eight, Serafin. The two-hundred-meter Final.”
“Set.”
A long shot of the six girls in the hunkered regimentation of the start.
The shot.
“Away first time, and Serafin gets another bullet start Wilson looks good in lane three, but it’s the Bakersfield blonde who’s running clean away again. Coming off the bend, the rest are making no impression on the stagger. Into the stretch, it’s Serafin out alone. But Shelley Wilson’s moving up with a late run. She’s cutting back the lead. It’s going to be close. Here she comes! On the line, Serafin! Snatching it on the dip. Wow, that was closer than she expected, I’ll bet. Devine third, Jackson fourth. The time, Herb?”
“Just outside twenty-three seconds.”
“Confirming what we saw for ourselves, that Shelley Wilson was running close to her best, but Goldine Serafin isn’t quite the runner we saw earlier in the week. She was tying up in that last fifty meters, understandably showing the strain of a very active week. This must raise doubts of her ability to hold off Janie Canute in the four hundred, but now let’s take a look at that finish in slow motion.”
Ingrid switched to Tom and Jerry.
*
“You okay, chick?” asked Debbie Jackson. “You don’t look so good.”
Goldine didn’t look up from the bench where she was sitting, slumped forward with her hair draped over her knees. “I’ll be okay. Would you please ask the photographers to let me alone?”
“You should put your sweatsuit on. It’s getting cool out here.”
“You want your coach?” asked Shelley Wilson. “They won’t let him into the park, but we could walk you over there, keep the press off.”
“I just want to sit here for a while. I don’t need anybody.”
“Please yourself, honey.” Debbie Jackson draped the sweatsuit top around Goldine’s shoulders, then turned to the cameramen. “Okay, fellows, you got your pictures. Now let the chick alone, will you? She has another final in twenty minutes, and she needs to psych up.”
*
Serafin jammed his Zeiss binoculars against his eyes again and brought the group of girls into focus. “Why doesn’t she get up?” he said. “She ought to be loosening up for the four hundred. Where’s Klugman? He should be with her.”
“Coaches aren’t allowed in the center,” said Lee. “That’s one of the meet regulations. It’s printed in the program.”
“To hell with the program. We hired the man to do a job. She needs him at this time.”
“Not necessarily,” said Lee. “She knows what she has to do. There’s no way Klugman or any of us can help her at this stage. It’s a question of whether she has the inner resources to produce another all-out effort. We always knew this afternoon would be the crunch.”
“I don’t understand why she made such heavy weather of winning the two hundred.”
“We must teach her to phase her effort more economically over several days,” said Lee. “It’s no use breaking records in the heats if you have nothing left for the finals. Look, she’s on her feet now.”
*
“Hi, Goldine.” Janie Canute’s greeting was as friendly as before; the note of strain in the voice had to be nerves. She pulled off her tracksuit top, revealing the incredibly narrow span of her shoulders. Where she got the strength from was anyone’s guess. “You all set?”
“I wouldn’t say so.” Goldine mustered a smile. “How about you, Janie?”
“I always get the shakes. Watch the two girls in lanes five and six. Speedburners. They move off fast. Nearly threw me in my Semi.”
“Thanks.”
Janie had shut her eyes. When she opened them, she crossed herself. Then she went to her mark in lane 1. She was wearing knee-length striped black-and-white socks.
“Good luck, Janie.”
“God bless, Goldine.”
*
Dryden had left his seat and walked around the track perimeter, away from the finish where the crowds were, to watch the race from a point on the last bend. When the girls reached there, the discrepancies of the staggered start would be neutralized. They would know what real position they held, what remained to be done in the seventy meters or so to the finish. A shout of encouragement there might be timely.
They were down in their blocks at the opposite end. Goldine was in lane 2, the girl Canute on her inside. The shot that started them cracked across the stadium with an echo Dryden took for a recall shot. But all the girls were striding out. So far as he could judge, Goldine was maintaining the gap between Canute and herself, but the two girls in 5 and 6 were pouring it on, stretching away from the rest.
In the back straight the eight finalists chased their elongated shadows on the ocher-colored track. The crowd was muted, reserving its support for the home stretch. Now he could hear spikes pounding the surface.
Going into the last bend, against all expectation, the two on the outside had held their lead. It looked awesome. Canute was moving up on Goldine, who seemed unable to find much more.
The leaders hurtled by, ten or twelve meters clear. Dryden heard their breath, they passed so close. Canute in her s
triped socks was level with Goldine, but it was obvious neither could catch the leaders. This was a battle for third, for the only place left.
There was an instant when the curve of the track brought Goldine’s eyes square with his. He didn’t expect her to spot him, nor did she. Instead, he glimpsed a look compounded of agony and near-despair. He had seen it once before. La Jolla Beach. Am I so grotesque?
He leaned over the barrier like a kid at a football game, and yelled, “You can do it, Dean!” And then he was watching the two girls’ backs as they forced themselves up the long stretch to the finish. The crowd, spotting the real issue of the race, had come to life.
From where he was, it was impossible to tell the outcome. He drew back from the barrier and looked at his hands. They were shaking. He wanted a cigarette, but he knew he would either crush it or drop it.
“Martinez wins,” called the announcer. “Jones, second. We’ll have to wait for the photo for third.”
*
People were kneeling at Goldine’s side where she had flopped on the turf. Someone was warding off a TV camera. A physician asked if she was okay.
She sat up. “Tell me who got third.”
“We don’t know yet. Won’t be long.”
A short way away there was another group around a lolling figure.
“Is she all right?” Goldine asked. “Help me up, would you?”
Rubber-legged, she took the few steps to where they were assisting Janie.
“I guess we underestimated the opposition, Janie. Still, thanks for a great race. It’s up to the judges now.”
Janie smiled. “One judge, Goldine. I’ll abide by His decision.”
Someone peeled down her socks to assist the circulation.
“Don’t do that,” she said quickly.
But it was done. Her exposed right calf was discolored by a large bruise, the skin badly grazed.
“Janie, what happened?”
“There was no reason for anyone to know. I had a small accident on my way out of the hostel this afternoon. One of those things.”
“What exactly happened?”
“Someone bumped me on the steps by the entrance. A black lady. Poor soul, she seemed unable to speak. It was a shock, but I had a couple of hours to get over it. It didn’t affect my running just now, really it didn’t.”
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