Fast Girls Page 17

  “I’m working for my friend from the war. He’s started an aviation company, Bessie Coleman Aero, and I work in the factory.”

  “Building airplanes?”

  “I have a hand in them, yeah. Say, I saw that you’ll be running the relay. Anything else? Didn’t you hold the national broad jump title at one point?”

  “Good memory.”

  “It’s not everyone who has a niece with a national title.”

  “The broad jump isn’t an Olympic event, so I’m only sprinting.”

  He let out a low whistle. “I’ll have to tell everyone at work, see who can come with me to watch you. I’ll bet your parents wish they could be here. Can you believe that you made it?”

  But had she? Louise thought about the eight women vying for four relay spots and suddenly wasn’t sure how to answer that, but she fixed a grin on her face again. “It’s a dream come true.”

  LOS ANGELES MORNING SUN

  August 3, 1932

  “Walsh Wins Gold”

  Los Angeles—Stella Walsh, the Cleveland girl who now races for Poland, set a new world record and won the 100-meter dash in a mere 11.9 seconds. Her manlike stride was enough to beat Canada’s fresh-faced Hilda Strike, who finished a close second. San Francisco’s Wilhelmina “Billie” von Bremen represented the United States honorably by coming in third.

  With the individual sprint settled, competition is heating up for the women’s relay. The United States has a veritable treasure trove of fast and feisty lady sprinters, and rumors about who to expect on the relay roster are flying around the Coliseum. Canada possesses four formidable racers so Coach Vreeland must pick wisely.

  So, who will he choose?

  When asked if he is worried about competition from our gentle neighbors to the north, he chuckled and shook his head confidently. “We have a strong field of sprinters. In Chicago, their times were bunched close together, so I have a lot of options. I plan to announce a shake-up in our relay team within the next few days.”

  With all of this confidence in the air, we can’t help but wonder if turncoat Stella Walsh regrets her decision to abandon her adopted country. After all, what girl doesn’t want to wear as much gold as she possibly can?

  WHEN LOUISE READ what Coach Vreeland said in the newspaper, she felt like she had taken a punch to the gut. A shake-up?

  Overnight, the tenor of the team shifted.

  The next morning, she was on her way to the front desk to check for mail when a group of her teammates filed through the lobby, all in uniform.

  Louise stopped Caroline, “What’s happening? Did I miss something?”

  Caroline’s eyes widened. “We just took a team photo in the garden. I asked where you and Tidye were, but someone said you both weren’t feeling well.”

  “That’s not true at all. We were in our room. No one told us anything about a team photo.”

  “I’m so sorry. I should have known that something wasn’t right. Don’t worry, I’m sure there will be more photos.”

  Louise felt tears welling up. Who had said they weren’t feeling well? Babe? One of the other girls? How had this been allowed to happen? She reached for the nearby wall, determined not to cry in front of her teammates, not that anyone was watching except for Caroline. All the other women walked by them without a backward glance. Caroline watched Louise struggle to retain her composure, her expression softening in sympathy. “I’m really sorry.”

  “I know you are,” Louise said, her throat thick. “It’s fine.”

  But it wasn’t fine. Not one bit.

  THE NEXT DAY the women gathered around Coach Vreeland at the track, ready to start practice, but he frowned as he studied a piece of paper on his clipboard. Babe leaned in close to see. “Hey, Coach, is that a telegram? My publicist said I might be getting one from the president wishing me congratulations on my win in the javelin.”

  Louise kept her face still, but she sensed a ripple of impatience among her teammates. Beside her Tidye huffed, but disguised it in a cough. At every turn, Babe made certain no one forgot her successes.

  “No,” Coach Vreeland answered. “It’s actually from the NAACP urging me to ensure that all runners who qualified in Chicago should get a chance to compete here.”

  Though he didn’t look at Louise or Tidye when he said this, everyone else did. Mortified, Louise dropped her gaze to her track shoes.

  “Let’s try some hand-off practice today,” he said, stuffing the telegram into his back pocket and holding out two wooden batons. “We don’t have much time to prepare.”

  While he explained how the transitions worked, Louise clasped her shaking hands together. The last thing she needed was to be so nervous that she dropped the baton during practice.

  “Make sure that you hold the baton firmly in your hand before you reach the final line in your zone.” He pointed at a mark on the track. “Your team will be disqualified if you don’t have it by that mark, and all of our hopes for a medal will be gone. Everyone clear? We’re not going to lose this race.”

  The women nodded and avoided looking at each other.

  Coach Vreeland placed them in pairs and they started practicing hand-offs. Almost every time it was Louise’s turn and she thrust her hand back to receive the baton, it was not a steady transition. Often the girls weren’t giving her the command to be ready as they approached so she was caught off guard and would bobble it. Or they pushed the baton at her too hard so she’d stumble and drop it. Or the other girl would let go too soon and the baton would fall to the ground. The girls would gather around and look at her with dismay and annoyance. Coach Vreeland would frown and make a note on his clipboard, but he never came over to help her the way he did with a couple of the others. What was she doing wrong? She had done relays before and never had the same trouble. Why was it suddenly so difficult?

  When Tidye was paired with her, the two of them sailed through the hand-off with no trouble. In fact, they were faster than any of the other pairings. “Finally,” Louise whispered. “I’ve barely gotten one hand-off right so far.”

  Tidye pressed her lips together before saying, “The same thing is happening to me. I don’t think it’s by accident.”

  “Tidye, Louise, why are you two just standing there talking? It’s like you two don’t even want to run this relay! Get back to work,” Coach Vreeland brayed.

  Shaken, Louise turned away to run back to her starting line. Was it possible that some of the other girls were trying to sabotage Louise’s and Tidye’s chances for being selected to run in the relay? Or was everyone jittery and making mistakes?

  BACK IN THEIR room, Louise dropped her workout bag and fell into a nearby chair, limp with exhaustion. She watched Tidye remove her track shoes from her bag and wipe the cinder off them. “Did you have anything to do with that telegram?” Louise asked.

  Tidye shrugged. “The Defender and the NAACP are following this Olympics closely. Between the two of us and the men, there’s potential for a lot of Negro success. All of those girls seem to have a coach or someone looking out for them, ready to fight to get their girl a racing spot, but we don’t have anyone. I’m glad the NAACP is paying attention.”

  “But the girls are looking at us like we’re troublemakers. Like we’re not team players.”

  Tidye gave Louise a long stare. “Those girls want to be in that relay and will use any excuse to cut someone else’s chances. You see that, don’t you?”

  “But Coach said we were going to race in that relay. We earned our spots on our own merits.”

  “We did, but I’m not sure merit will have anything to do with his selection.”

  Louise just wanted the opportunity to race. Why had this gotten so complicated?

  SINCE COACH VREELAND’S announcement about relay selection, a constant current of anxiety pulsed in the air around the sprinters. They pretended not to scrutinize one another during practice, but they each searched for weakness, a sign of injury, illness, fatigue. Anything that would push the balan
ce one way or another toward who would be running on the relay team.

  For the next few days, the sprinters practiced baton hand-offs and ran 100-meter timed sprints. With the exception of if she was running against Billie von Bremen, each time Louise ran, she came in first. She’d glance at Coach Vreeland to check his reaction, but he always was looking away or talking to someone. She was putting all of herself into practices, yet he barely registered her. When Coach Vreeland experimented with placing the women in different orders and groups of four, he often appeared to forget Louise and Tidye and placed them into the rotations as afterthoughts. With each slight, Louise dug even deeper into her determination to show him her capabilities. Her times got better and better, yet they had no bearing on his treatment of her. Louise began to grow resentful, but there was nothing she could do. Whom could she complain to? Who cared?

  One afternoon, Louise and Tidye lay on their beds, depleted from the morning’s practice.

  “My quads feel like I’ve torn them to shreds,” Louise moaned.

  “Coach is making it pretty clear we aren’t his first choices,” Tidye grumbled.

  Louise had felt the same doubts, but by not saying them out loud, she had been trying to ignore them. “But we’re both running so well. If he really wants to win gold, there’s no way he can’t consider us for the relay.”

  “Honestly, I’m starting to lose hope, aren’t you?” Tidye’s voice sounded so dejected that Louise rolled to her side to look at her.

  “We can’t give up on this now. We’re good. Really good. I think when he sits down and takes the time to go over his notes, he’ll see that we’re good picks. I keep reminding myself that we’re getting a chance to race for our country and we have to give it everything we’ve got.” But even as she said this, she felt a downward tug in her chest.

  THE NIGHT BEFORE the relay, Coach Vreeland called for a meeting of the runners in the hotel’s dining room and he added Annette Rogers, who had qualified to compete in the high jump, so nine women arrived, Louise, Tidye, and Mary among them. They settled in a corner of the large room. Small flags from nations participating in the Olympics hung from the ceiling. The tables were set for the following morning’s breakfast, and when Louise took her seat, she tried to keep from fiddling with the silverware in front of her. Next to her, Tidye sat on her hands. There was the sound of chairs being shifted, but no one spoke.

  Five of the women at this meeting were going to leave unhappy, and no one wanted to be one of them.

  Coach Vreeland entered the room, checked his pocket watch, and then started talking while looking at a vague spot over the heads of the athletes seated in front of him. “Ladies, I’m making some changes to the relay team. Billie, again, congratulations on winning that bronze medal in the individual hundred-meter.” He paused as the women applauded Billie von Bremen and then he continued, his voice fast and terse. “The Canadians have a strong team, so I’ve made some changes. Billie, Annette, and Eve, the three of you will be racing tomorrow. As for the fourth, Mary and Louise tied back at the finals in Chicago so I’m still considering both of you. You two should be ready to race tomorrow, but I’ll make my decision in the morning.”

  Murmurs of disappointment traveled through the group as Coach Vreeland tipped his fedora to the group and left. Louise could not make sense of his selection. She glanced to Tidye to see tears streaking her friend’s face. Her last-place finish during the finals had come back to count against her. Louise whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I knew something like this was going to happen.” Tidye sobbed as they left the dining room. They crossed the lobby, exited through a back door, and found a nearby spot outside in the garden. By this point, Tidye had wiped the tears off her face, and though she looked sad, her shoulders had a resolute set as she faced Louise. “You’ve still got a shot,” she said, before glancing at the windows overhead and lowering her voice to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “I understand why Billie’s in the foursome. She’s run well. But Annette? She’s a high jumper. And Eve? She just got here and didn’t even qualify. This is rotten.”

  “It is rotten,” Louise agreed. “If Coach looks at our records, he’ll see that my times are consistently faster than Mary’s,” she whispered back. It was true. She almost always beat Mary when they raced. Their times were close, but Louise was faster.

  “If he looks at your records, but you know he might just go with what’s easiest: the white girl. I don’t trust him at all.”

  A nearby light on the side of the building flickered and made a dull buzzing sound as if something had extinguished.

  And then, even in the balmy warmth of the Los Angeles evening, Louise felt cold.

  26.

  August 1932

  Chicago

  AFTER MORE THAN SIX WEEKS IN THE HOSPITAL, BETTY returned home. When Mr. Robinson eased the car to the curb in front of their home, Bill turned from the front seat to look at Betty, who lay flat across the back seat. “Home sweet home,” he said, pushing back a blond curl that had flopped onto his forehead. Before she could say anything, he was out of the car and opening her door. “Ready?”

  Bill scooped her into his arms.

  Under her hands, she felt the broadness of his back, the way his muscles stretched and contracted as he hefted her. She had once moved effortlessly too. She used to rise and cross the kitchen to fill a glass of water at the tap. Walk to the window to check the weather. Dance at happy news. A few steps here, a few there. None of it had required any effort or exertion. She had done it easily, without thinking, not once stopping to appreciate all the things her body could do. She had taken so much for granted. Now the slightest movement required concentration and exertion and resulted in pain. She was supposed to feel lucky and grateful for surviving—she understood this—but she mourned all that she had lost.

  At the door, her mother appeared. “Darling!” she said, her arms outstretched in welcome, but her gaze darted over the three of them with apprehension. She led the way up the stairs, cautioning Bill to watch the step here, the step there. Moments later, Betty was perched on the sofa in the front room, a plaid blanket draped over her legs. From the kitchen, the sounds of cabinet doors opening and closing, drawers squeaking, and footsteps reached her. Her father dropped into his favorite chair near the radio and snapped open his newspaper while Bill settled next to her, lifting her legs so they would lie across his lap.

  “Cubs won,” her father said glumly, riffling through the paper and stopping on the sports section. It was a relief he had taken a job as a security guard and no longer combed the newspaper for employment notices.

  “They got a huge turnout at Wrigley to see ’em whip the Phillies,” Bill said.

  “Now they’re pennant-bound for sure.” Her father’s gaze remained on the paper. “Sounds like it was a rowdy game.”

  “I’m hoping to go to one next week. Did you see the Sox lost to the Athletics?”

  “Lefty Grove had quite a game.”

  Both men shook their heads.

  Her mother entered the room carrying a tray with a pot of steaming tea and a plate of molasses cookies and set the spread on the coffee table in front of Betty. Bill leaned over and plucked a cookie from the tray. “Thank you, Mrs. Robinson, these look terrific.”

  She smiled in relief. “Darling? Want a cookie?”

  “No, thank you,” Betty said.

  “Shall I make you a cup of tea the way you like it?”

  Though she had no interest in tea, it was easier to let her mother fuss over her than to say no. “Sure.”

  “Did you read how Roosevelt’s come out swinging against Prohibition?” her father asked Bill.

  “It’s all everyone was talking about at school,” Bill said.

  Betty slumped back against the sofa, staring at the steaming cup of tea her mother placed in front of her. This would be her future. She would sit on the sofa, useless and dependent on the help of others while everyone else moved through their
days productively.

  Bill nudged her legs off his lap, and she watched him stand and follow her mother to the kitchen as they discussed the latest news on the city’s World’s Fair planning. Betty pushed the blanket off her lap, and before she could talk herself out of it, she swung her legs off the sofa and gripped the edge of her seat tightly to push herself up. She gasped at the burn of pain that shot through her arms and shoulders, but fought to raise herself off the cushions. Her eyes filled with tears. Good Lord. Every muscle in her body screamed with the sudden exertion, but she pulled in her stomach, trying to straighten her back to stand. She could do this. She lifted her head as high as she could and for one moment, she was standing—she felt it!

  It was dizzying and precarious and felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff.

  But then she wobbled and threw her hands out from her sides, grasping for something to cling to, but there was nothing, and before she knew it, she was falling and crying out before hitting the floor.

  A thunder of footsteps shook the floorboards under her cheek.

  Her mother’s brown pumps appeared next to her face.

  “What happened?” Her mother crouched beside her and the lemony smell of Bill’s aftershave enveloped her. He lifted her off the floor. “What on earth happened?” her mother repeated as Bill lowered Betty onto the couch.

  It was the tremble in her mother’s voice that prompted Betty to say something. “I tried to stand.”

  “But Dr. Minke said you should still be resting. Remember how the doctor warned you to be careful?” Frown lines scored the space between her mother’s pale blue eyes. When had her dark hair turned gray? Back at the hospital, Betty had told herself it was the poor lighting of the place, but now back in the family parlor, there was no disputing that her mother had aged.