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.