“You seem to have done just fine. And really, I don’t need impressing.”
“Easy to say, and yet—” He paused and the expression of genuine befuddlement on his face made him look so boyish and sweet that Betty felt herself weakening.
That evening had been the beginning and the end all at once. It surprised Betty how easy it had been to fall for Bill. He was confident and that made him appreciative of others. She never sensed he was trying to compete with her and they had an easy compatibility, the kind of friendship that felt like it had been cultivated over years balanced with an electrical current between them that made the discovery of each other seem brand new. They became a steady item. At first, they spent afternoons and evenings alone, talking and laughing, developing silly jokes and stories, but as Bill regained his mobility, they socialized and headed to the cinema and then dances and parties. And he was good for her. When she worried about the news headlines touting the talents of Babe Didrikson, the rising track star from Texas, Bill reminded Betty how good she was and told her not to worry.
“You should try something different. Give yourself a change from athletics,” Bill mused, reading the newspaper one afternoon at Betty’s house. “Look here, the Miss Chicago Pageant is next weekend. You should do it. Wouldn’t that be a lark?”
Betty giggled. “When I was in high school, I did all of my school shows. I could sing and dance for the talent segment.”
“So why not try this? It will keep your mind off Babe.”
“You’re right, why not?” Betty said, nodding and leaning over Bill to jot down the pageant entry information. Several days later, she surprised herself by winning a spot as a finalist.
A WEEK LATER Caroline visited Betty at her house, and the two sat on Betty’s pale pink eiderdown comforter with two color harmony charts spread in front of them.
“See? With your blond hair, you’re supposed to wear delicate colors like pink.” Caroline pointed to the chart with the picture of a brunette. “I’m supposed to wear deeper shades and dark red lipstick.”
There was a knock on the door and Betty’s father leaned in.
“You’re home!” said Betty.
Caroline pulled at Betty’s arm to see the time on her wristwatch and then hopped off the bed. “How’s it almost three o’clock already? Howard’s picking me up outside in a few minutes. I’ve gotta go.” She scooped her sandals off the floor and headed toward the door.
“I don’t care what these charts say, I’m not giving up bright colors,” Betty called after her.
“Suit yourself. Bye!” Caroline said, laughing.
Betty’s smile vanished as she took a good look at her father and realized his face appeared ghostly. “Goodness, what’s wrong?”
Mr. Robinson grimaced. “I need to talk with you.”
Betty knocked the color charts aside. What was this all about? She walked to the parlor and found her father pouring himself a brandy from the sideboard. Odd. He never drank at this time of the afternoon. She sat on the love seat and he took a seat in the wing chair across from her, swirling his brandy, his gaze lost somewhere on a spot on the Persian carpet underfoot.
Without preamble, he said, “I lost my job today.”
She gasped. “How?”
“All winter my supervisor’s been urging me to let some of the staff go, but I kept refusing and even offered to have my salary reduced to cover some of the budget shortages. My negotiations have been in vain because now we’ve all been fired.”
Betty struggled to make sense of it all. “Should I look for a job?” she asked, half expecting the offer to be dismissed, but her father’s silence revealed his uncertainty. Her heart sank. Everything had been going so well lately. Bill. Her training. School. Sure, the Robinsons had been tightening their belts over the last couple of years, everyone had, but life had felt steady. Jean, her sister, and her husband, Jim, weren’t going to get rich off his job as a professor at the University of Chicago, but he was tenured, worked consistent hours, and enjoyed his students. Over the last year, Mr. Robinson’s job had become precarious, but he had been with his company for as long as Betty could remember. How was it all gone?
“I’m going to try to find something new, of course. You should still plan to race in the Olympic trials next month, and hopefully you’ll qualify for Los Angeles. Beyond that, I don’t know what will happen.”
Betty felt as if the air had been knocked out of her chest. This was serious. “What about school? There’s only one more year.”
Mr. Robinson’s shoulders sagged. He raised his glass slowly as if it weighed a hundred pounds and slugged back its contents. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to afford it.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Betty awoke to another sweltering day. Outside the window of her second-floor bedroom, the leaves hung on the oak trees, limp and faded as butcher paper. The dull drone of motorcars hummed in the distance, and the usual clamor of early morning bird chatter was subdued. Her sheet lay in a tangled mess at the foot of her bed, pushed down sometime while she slept, so she tugged it up and spread her coverlet over the mattress. All night, worries had circled her mind and kept her from sleeping well.
She groaned as she swung her legs off the bed, but was brought up short by a postcard from Amsterdam pinned to her wall. Only a couple of weeks to go until the championships. She needed to focus on that. She had been waiting almost four years for another trip to the Olympics, and it was almost here. The first time around almost seemed like a dream. This time, she’d be able to enjoy it, knew more what to expect. And now she knew she was good, not just a fluke. Maybe Olympic success would lead to new opportunities, chances to help support herself. Some of the Olympic swimmers had gotten film contracts. Who knew what could happen?
She pulled a seersucker shift from the closet and dressed. The mirror reflected her lean legs and tanned, toned arms, and she ran a brush through her sun-lightened short hair.
Betty headed to the kitchen and found a plate of sliced melon waiting on the counter. She slid a cool piece of the fruit into her mouth with her fingers, savoring the sweetness as it hit her tongue.
Out of the corner of Betty’s eye, she noticed a Marshall Field’s shopping bag resting on the floor by the kitchen door. A tuft of fur poked out of the top. Betty leaned over to inspect the tan-colored cashmere coat with its soft rabbit-fur collar and pale pink satin lining as her mother appeared in the doorway.
“What on earth is your favorite winter coat doing out here in this heat?” Betty asked.
“I never really wear that old thing anymore, and it can fetch a good price. A little bit of money to stash away, just in case.” Her mother placed the shopping bag into the pantry and turned back to Betty. “Is Bill coming around today?” she asked, her voice unnaturally chipper.
Betty wanted to embrace her, say something about how they would be fine, they’d figure out a way to get through this hardship, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead it was easier to nod and feign cheeriness. “Yes, we’re going to have a picnic by the lake later, but first I’m going to ring Wilson and see if he’ll take me up in his plane. It’s the only place I imagine where I’ll find any break from this heat.”