Fast Girls Page 23

  Coach Moore’s gaze followed Helen’s. “Stella Walsh. She’s from Cleveland, races for Poland.”

  “She won the gold medal in Los Angeles?”

  “She did.”

  “So, she’s the fastest woman in the world?”

  “Yes,” he said, his face solemn. Her fingers trembled as she tried pinning her bib onto her flat chest. When she finally attached it, Coach Moore was studying her. “Helen, don’t let all of this stuff—the crowds, the size of this place—don’t let it distract you. You’ve been running well lately. Remember that.”

  She faced the crowd and let the yelling and cheering from the bleachers wash over her. “You know what? I think I like it. This feels pretty good.”

  He clapped her on the shoulder. “Well then, soak it in. This is just the beginning.”

  35.

  THE FULTON CRIER

  March 26, 1935

  “Monday Will Be Helen Stephens Day in Fulton”

  St. Louis—On Friday, March 25, seventeen-year-old phenom Helen Stephens blew away the competition at the National AAU Championships in front of 4,000 spectators at the St. Louis Arena. The newcomer won the shot put and broad jump, but her biggest coup of the day came with winning the 50-yard dash in 6.6 seconds. Helen made her victory look easy, flying across the finish tape about four feet ahead of the Polish champion, Olympic gold medalist Stanislawa Walasiewicz, better known as Stella Walsh.

  When asked about her reaction to beating Stella Walasiewicz, Helen gave reporters a sly grin and asked, “Stella who?” And with that mocking response, the Fulton Flash has thrown down the gauntlet to the fastest woman in the world. This rivalry will be the one to watch in upcoming months.

  Superintendent of Fulton Public Schools Mr. Waddington announced that Monday will be Helen Stephens Day to honor the city’s luminary. “I’m proud to say that I encouraged Coach Moore to cultivate the talent of this young woman before anyone believed she had what it took to be a champion,” he explained to a group of reporters who gathered at the high school on Saturday morning. An assembly will be held at Fulton High School at 11 A.M. on Monday. Afternoon classes will be canceled so that all faculty, staff, and students can participate in a parade that will travel to Court and Fifth Streets before returning to Fulton High School.

  Helen’s medals will be on display inside Fulton Savings Bank through the week.

  According to AAU officials in St. Louis, it’s not too early to start picturing Helen representing the United States in the 1936 Olympics. All parties interested in supporting this promising young woman are invited to drop off monetary donations addressed to the Helen Stephens Booster Club, located at the Fulton Methodist Church.

  Helen sat under the hair dryer, tapping her foot. It felt like hours had passed since Ma and Mrs. Moore had roused her out of bed that morning and rushed her to Mrs. Georgia Richardson’s beauty salon to prepare her for Helen Stephens Day on Monday. Mrs. Richardson herself had spent ages snipping at Helen’s hair and wrapping it around curlers, and Helen wanted to see the results.

  As soon as she had stepped inside the salon, she felt as though she was entering a secret world, one that had been hidden from her for all of her life. So, this was how women managed to look beautiful. Professional help!

  Helen looked up to find Mrs. Richardson and Mrs. Moore gliding toward her, both holding several shopping bags. Mrs. Richardson flipped off the power on the hair dryer and pulled the shiny silver dome away from Helen’s head. While she leaned close to inspect Helen’s hair, Mrs. Moore dropped the bags and pulled out a shoebox, opening it with a flourish.

  Helen admired the pair of shiny black high-heeled shoes, but shook her head. “Those will never fit.”

  “Oh yes, they will. They’re size twelves, just as your mother instructed.”

  Helen’s face reddened. “But . . .”

  “Don’t say another word. Did you know that a group of Fulton citizens gathered this morning to create the Helen Stephens Booster Club? They’ve raised money to prepare you for some public appearances. Why, you’re making a speech on Monday! We’ve got to get you ready for it! I’ve used a portion of the proceeds to purchase shoes and some other fundamentals for you.”

  “Fundamentals?”

  Mrs. Moore looked at Mrs. Richardson, and they nodded at each other before pulling Helen out of her seat to lead her behind the salon’s privacy screen. Mrs. Moore pulled another box from a shopping bag, scrabbled through layers of white tissue paper, and removed two garments of flesh-colored fabric with clips and strings—Helen had never seen anything like them. Mrs. Moore chuckled. “It’s a girdle and garter belt. Now Lord knows you don’t have an ounce of anything that needs to be sucked in, but still, it’s only proper. Your mother is making some lovely new dresses, but in the meantime, I picked this up for you too so you can walk out of here looking like a new woman.”

  Mrs. Richardson held up a light blue tea-length dress and nodded. “Well done, Mary Lou. This will do nicely on her.”

  The women handed over the new clothes and turned their backs so Helen could dress, but after only a minute Helen mumbled, “Um, Mrs. Moore, how does this thing go on?”

  Mrs. Moore spun around to see Helen holding the girdle, confounded. “Oh heavens, I envy the fact that you’ve made it this far without knowing how to wear one of these.” She helped her into it while Mrs. Richardson unrolled a pair of silk stockings before offering them the light blue dress. When they were done, the women tugged Helen out from behind the privacy screen and pointed to the full-length mirror.

  “Well, what do you think?” Mrs. Moore asked.

  Mrs. Richardson held her hand to her heart. “Mercy me, it’s a miracle.”

  Helen hardly recognized the young woman reflected back at her. Her dreaded birthmark? Covered up. New bangs and a dash of pancake makeup had done the trick. Frizzy hair? Gone, tamed and styled into graceful shiny waves. Even the color had improved with shimmery golden streaks running through it. Her gaze traveled down the mirror to the dress. Elegant pearl buttons ran down its bodice. She swayed from side to side, holding out the A-line skirt, admiring how the filmy fabric swished and swirled. Even her nails looked shiny, trimmed, buffed, and polished.

  And her feet. Lord, her feet. Her vision blurred with tears as she took in the pumps. She’d given up any dreams of wearing stylish shoes long ago.

  She straightened, for the first time proud of her height. She’d never imagined she could look like this. Not after all of Pa’s hurtful comments over the years. Even after yesterday’s victory, he couldn’t bring himself to say he was proud of her. When she’d arrived downstairs that morning, he’d been standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms folded across his chest.

  “Heard you had a lucky race yesterday,” he said.

  Lucky? She almost laughed. She was tempted to describe how reporters had crowded her after the race, wanting to know how it felt to beat a renowned champion, and how the town was preparing a parade in her honor, but she took in his sour expression, weatherworn skin, and stooped shoulders. How diminished he was. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Instead, she kept her face neutral. Her success on the track was because of her hard work. Luck hadn’t played a part of it and neither had he. Why give him a piece of her accomplishment? Or the opportunity to cut her down again? She was tired of how he took out his life’s disappointments on her.

  “I’m the fastest woman in the world,” she said. And before he had time to react, she turned to Ma’s and Mrs. Moore’s beaming expressions and walked out the front door to go to the beauty salon.

  As she took in her physical transformation in Mrs. Richardson’s mirror, she realized she had a choice with how she dealt with Pa. From now on, she would engage with him as little as possible. Frank Stephens would no longer hold any power over her.

  “Oh, honey, I’m so glad you’re happy,” Mrs. Moore said. “You look like a film star. I’ll drive you home. We’ll be able to knock your mother over with a feather when she sees y
ou.”

  Mrs. Richardson blinked away tears. “You are my finest work yet, dear. But before you go anywhere, let me put on the final touch.”

  She hurried away, rummaged through a cabinet in the back of the shop, and returned holding out a small gold tube. “You must wear lipstick. This cherry red will be perfect. Now pout for me.”

  Helen raised her eyebrows at Mrs. Moore, who nodded, urging her on. Helen pouted her lips as Mrs. Richardson traced the lipstick over them.

  “Now look,” she said, handing Helen a blotting paper and miming how to use it. “Doesn’t that shade look marvelous?”

  Two other women having their hair done had wandered over to take in the spectacle. “She’s a vision,” one cooed.

  Mrs. Richardson stepped back, crossed her arms, tilted her head, and appraised her handiwork. “Good,” she announced, nodding. “But if you ever want to do something about your brows, stop by and I can help.”

  “My eyebrows?” Helen asked, frowning at herself in the mirror.

  “I think she’s had enough change for one day,” Mrs. Moore said, helping Helen shuffle out of the shop in her new pumps. “See you ladies at the parade on Monday.”

  On the drive back to the Stephens farm, Mrs. Moore told Helen all about the reporters who had swarmed their house that morning, even trampling the tulips lining the sides of the walk. Helen half listened, running her fingers along the soft fabric of her dress. She’d never owned something so silky before. She then twisted her ankles this way and that, so she could admire the heels and the sophistication they gave her long legs. It had barely been twenty-four hours since she had run the race and already her life felt transformed.

  Once home, Helen found Ma perched on a chair in the front parlor talking to a man. At the sight of Helen, both sprang to their feet. Helen took a few unsteady steps forward, conscious of the smart click of her heels on the floor.

  “This here is Dwayne Goodwin from The St. Louis Register,” Ma said.

  The man shoved his hand out and took Helen’s. “Your mama was gracious enough to offer an appointment with you later today, but I said, ‘No, ma’am, no chance my editor is going to let that fly,’ so I’ve been sitting here waiting for you.”

  As he spoke, Helen couldn’t lift her gaze from the sight of her own hand in his. She couldn’t quite believe those glamorous fingernails clasped in his ink-stained hand were hers. “Well, here I am. What can I do for you?”

  “I caught up with Stella Walsh last night to ask her for her reaction and she said your win was a fluke and she doesn’t think you can beat her again. Now, what do you make of that?”

  “I think she better use a dictionary to look up what fluke means. Can you take a picture of my face so she can get a good long look at it in your newspaper? ’Cause she’s not going to see it again in a long time. When we’re on the track, all she’ll see is my backside.” Helen watched the reporter’s face split open with delight as he scribbled down her remarks in his notebook. Seeing that he was getting a kick out of her, she added, “I also hope she likes the taste of cinder because she’s going to be eating it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if she chases after me.”

  “Woo-whee, our readers are going to love this. When do you two plan to face off again?”

  “I’m ready any time. She can name the day.”

  “Terrific,” said the reporter, tipping the brim of his cap at her and making his way to the door.

  “You know where to find me for more,” Helen said, watching as the man pushed his way out the door.

  After he had left, Ma wagged her finger at Helen. “No more of that, you hear? I won’t have my daughter sounding so boastful.”

  Helen gave a sheepish glance at Mrs. Moore. The night before, when she had said, “Stella who?” to the reporters, Coach Moore had whisked her away from the crowd.

  “Helen, if we’re to continue working together, you must be an honorable sportswoman at all times. I will not tolerate any incivilities,” he’d said.

  “To be fair, they threw me off with her real name. You know, the Polish version?”

  He had folded his arms and given her a long look.

  “Sorry, Coach,” she had mumbled, chastened, but apparently it hadn’t been enough because here she was getting a rise out of a reporter again. She couldn’t help herself!

  Helen took in the scandalized expressions of Ma and Mrs. Moore. “Everyone likes a little gamesmanship. And anyway, Stella started it by calling my win a fluke, so what was I supposed to say?”

  Mrs. Moore appeared to be hiding a smile behind her hand, but Ma harrumphed, then pointed to two dresses hanging over a kitchen chair. “I’ve made progress. You should try them on, but be careful because the bodice seams are only basted so I could be sure they fit you before I sewed them in earnest.”

  Helen lifted the dresses from the chair.

  “And Mr. Draper stopped by earlier with this beautiful coat. He wants you to know that Draper’s Dry Goods would love you to stop by and visit,” Ma said in an amazed voice. She lifted the fawn-colored wool coat from a shopping bag and handed it to Helen.

  “I’ve never had a store-bought coat,” Helen said, holding it out in front of her as though it were something breakable.

  “Try it on,” Mrs. Moore urged.

  Helen slid her arm into one of the sleeves, sighing as her hand brushed along the satin lining. Easing it along her shoulders, she slid her other arm into it and pulled its edges close together, nuzzling her cheek along the soft collar as she rubbed her palm down the front of it, pausing at one of the pockets to pull out an envelope and open it. “Holy cats, there’s a gift voucher here for two dresses.”

  “If you’re not careful, you’re going to be the best-dressed girl in Fulton,” Mrs. Moore said.

  Helen shook her head in amazement at the riches being bestowed upon her all because of one good run. Her hand shook as she stroked the collar of the coat. It felt too good to be true.

  “This’ll look fetching with my rabbit rifle slung across my shoulder, don’t you think?” she asked with a wink.

  36.

  May 1935

  Chicago

  “HAVE YOU READ ABOUT THIS GIRL, THE FULTON FLASH?” Jim asked as he and Betty enjoyed lunch at their favorite spot in the main quad at the University of Chicago.

  “No, I haven’t read the sports pages in a while.”

  “There’s a young girl out of Missouri, a high-schooler, who beat Stella Walsh and is winning races left and right. She’s being hailed as the next big thing.”

  “Since Babe’s turned professional, I suppose reporters must be excited for someone new to keep everyone on their toes.”

  Jim packed the remains of his lunch away into his sack. “Have you thought about trying out for Berlin?”

  Betty snorted. “The next Olympics? No. Our morning runs are plenty, thanks.”

  Jim dropped the subject, but over the next few weeks, Betty couldn’t stop thinking about his offhand remark. She was running well. Certainly not as smoothly and easily as she once did, but she often finished her runs well ahead of Jim now.

  She decided to visit Caroline and see how her friend was faring with her new baby, a daughter named Joan. Maybe she would float the idea of training for Berlin to Caroline and check her reaction.

  When Betty arrived at Caroline’s doorstep and knocked, her friend threw open the door and practically smothered Betty with the strength of her embrace. “You came!” Caroline shrieked.

  “Watch out, I brought some of my mother’s delicious molasses cookies and I’m going to spill them all over the floor.” Betty laughed.

  Caroline cocked her head toward inside the house as she accepted the plate. “I hope I didn’t just wake the baby.”

  They waited a moment, listening, but no sounds could be detected, so Caroline led the way into her small kitchen to put the kettle on for tea and then the two tiptoed into Caroline and Howard’s bedroom to peek at little Joan lying swaddled in a Moses basket at the foot
of their bed. Pink cheeks, a perfect swirl of dark hair, and a pert nose were the only parts of her visible above the folds of a pink crocheted blanket. The women backed out of the room and Caroline closed the door behind her.

  “She’s a doll,” Betty said, embracing her friend.

  “Thank you. It’s amazing how much time this tiny creature consumes. Do I look exhausted? I feel like I’ve aged twenty years in the last few months.”

  “You look wonderful.” Since Joan’s birth, Betty had seen Caroline a couple of times. Each time her friend seemed a bit paler, her cheeks thinner, but she appeared happy. “And Joan’s filling out. She’s going to be tall like her mama.”

  “You should see how quickly she pedals her legs in the air when she’s free. I keep telling Howard that we’ve got another runner on our hands,” Caroline said, leading them back to the kitchen.

  “What about getting back into it? Running, I mean. I told you how I started training with Jim. Well, he brought up the idea of training for Berlin. At first I thought he was crazy, but now it’s all I can think about. What do you say? Would you want to train together? Any interest in giving the Olympics one more try?”

  Caroline pulled the kettle off the stovetop before it whistled and poured water into a teapot. She sat, lost in thought as the tea steeped. “All things considered, Joan’s a dear little thing and a good sleeper, and I daresay I could use some exercise. What did you have in mind?”

  “The IWAC’s folded because of the economy, but there’s the Catholic Women’s team. We could join and see how it goes.”

  Caroline poured the tea into the teacups. “Howard misses running too. What if he coaches us in the evenings after you’re both done with work? Then I can bring the baby and she could nap in the pram while we run.”

  “Do you think Howard would really want to do this?”

  Caroline winked. “I can be very convincing when I put my mind to it.”

  THE FOLLOWING WEEK, Betty met Howard and Caroline at a park down the street from where they lived. Caroline parked Joan, who was asleep in her pram, in the shade of an elm tree. “I got a good feeding into her before we left, so we’ll both be happy.” She took a final peek at the baby. “I also rang one of my teammates from Los Angeles. She lives here on the South Side too so I invited her to train with us. Before she gets here, I want to tell you something so you won’t be surprised: Tidye’s colored.”