A woman opened the door, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes? May I help you?”
Burton took off his hat and held it to his chest. “Hello, ma’am. I’m Coach Moore and this is Miss Schultz from Fulton High School. Are you Mrs. Stephens?”
Her face blanched. “I am. Has something happened to Helen?”
“No, I’m sorry, she’s fine, ma’am,” he stammered, flustered. This wasn’t how he wanted their meeting to start. “There are no problems with her at all.”
Mrs. Stephens looked relieved before frowning in confusion. “So, what’s this about? My husband is in town at the moment.”
“That’s all right. Again, Helen’s not in any sort of trouble.”
She gestured for them to enter. He followed Mary Lou inside onto a faded Persian carpet, laddered with rents. The house exuded an air of defeat. The ceiling and floor lines slanted—all angles showed signs of settling through long winters, parched summers. A scrim of dust textured the surfaces of the threadbare upholstered furniture and lumpy horsehair divan. But there were a few surprises. A rickety bookshelf lined the far wall, loaded with leather-bound books and paperbacks, an unusual sight in a rural farmhouse. Across from the bookshelf were an upright piano and a harp, both polished to a buttery shine.
Mary Lou clasped her hands together. “Ohh, who plays the harp?”
“I do.”
“And the piano?”
Mrs. Stephens nodded, her expression appearing to slip from guarded to something more neutral as she looked at the instruments.
“That’s wonderful. I’m the band director at the school.”
“That so?”
“Yes. In fact, the spring concert is approaching. This year’s orchestra and band are both quite good. May I give you a few tickets so that you can bring your family to enjoy some live music?”
A faint smile appeared on Mrs. Stephens’s face. “Thank you. I tried to get Helen to play the piano, but she couldn’t seem to sit still.” She waved toward the door leading to the kitchen. “I was in the midst of rolling out some biscuits; why don’t you both come on back and have a seat while you tell me about why you’re here?”
Mary Lou and Burton did as instructed and took seats at the kitchen table. The smell of flour hovered in the air. A paperback of The Good Earth was set facedown on the counter next to the board with the biscuit dough.
“I see where Helen gets her love of reading,” Coach Moore said, bobbing his chin toward the book. “She always seems to have a book in her hand. And she reads some pretty impressive literature for a girl her age.”
Mrs. Stephens gave a small nod. “May I make you both a cup of coffee or tea?”
Coach Moore cleared his throat. “We’re fine, ma’am, but thank you for offering. As you said, Helen may not be one for sitting still, but she’s truly a gifted athlete. Actually, that’s why we’re here to see you.”
Mrs. Stephens picked up her rolling pin but paused and looked at Coach Moore, ignoring the lump of biscuit dough lying on the floured cutting board on the counter behind her.
“Helen’s a remarkable runner, even without any training,” he said. “I saw her play basketball for your church and was astonished by her speed so I set up a time trial for her. She was faster than anything I expected. But see, the problem is that we don’t have a girls’ track team at Fulton High. So, if I could get your permission to have her run with the boys’ track team, I think she could experience all kinds of success.” His voice was sounding faster and faster and maybe even a bit desperate, but he didn’t know what else to do so he added a feeble, “Yes, ma’am. I really think she could. Really, she could.”
Mrs. Stephens stared at him.
Mary Lou leaned forward. “I know what you’re thinking, Mrs. Stephens. When Coach Moore came to me about Helen’s extraordinary talents, I couldn’t believe he’d even consider encouraging a girl to run. I mean, where will such a thing take her? A girl athlete? I can understand why you thought the piano would be a more productive pursuit.”
“Exactly,” Mrs. Stephens said.
Burton shifted in his seat. Where was Mary Lou heading with this? But before he could say anything, she kept going.
“But here’s the thing,” Mary Lou said. “Helen isn’t interested in the piano and something like track could offer her some interesting possibilities. Did you know that running is something that could help her get into college?”
Mrs. Stephens placed her rolling pin back on the counter. “You don’t say.”
Mary Lou continued. “And if you’re worried about what people may think about your daughter training with the boys, I’ll avail myself to chaperone her to any meets she may race in.”
Burton kept watching Mrs. Stephens. “And I’ll be watching her like a hawk. Nothing untoward will happen under my guidance.”
Mrs. Stephens blinked and looked back and forth between them. “Do you honestly believe this could help her get into college?”
“Absolutely,” Burton and Mary Lou said in unison.
“I’m a graduate of William Woods College,” said Mrs. Stephens, joining them to sit at the table. “While there’s no doubt my circumstances are modest, I’ve held on to what I learned in college through thick and thin. I’d love to see Helen enjoy the same opportunity, but money is very tight these days.”
“I understand completely. I myself attended Westminster College,” Burton said, and Mrs. Stephens’s eyes flashed at the mention of the men’s school affiliated with William Woods. “With some instruction and experience, and if she keeps up her grades, of course, Helen could have a good shot at attending William Woods.”
Mrs. Stephens tapped her index finger against her lips as she thought. “My husband will be hard to convince. He can barely understand why Helen should even bother with high school. He thinks she should stop her education and divide her time between working here on the farm and in the shoe factory south of town.”
“Helen’s a good student.” Burton sensed he was close to getting Mrs. Stephens to agree with him, but it felt like a delicate balancing act so he picked his words with care. “It would be a shame to let such a promising young woman not complete high school and see what opportunities are available beyond that.”
Mrs. Stephens nodded. “Let me work on him.”
“Of course. In the meantime, do I have your permission to have Helen train with me?”
She paused and looked down at her chapped hands before returning his gaze, a determined glint in her eye. “Yes. She can start running, but let’s not make a big fuss about it. The fewer people that know about this, the better.”
Burton wanted to jump out of his seat and cheer, but he kept calm and crossed one leg over the other. “Yes, ma’am.”
30.
May 1933
Chicago
ALMOST A YEAR HAD PASSED SINCE BETTY’S PLANE crash. Dr. Minke’s prediction that one leg would be shorter than the other was right, so she limped. For months, she had told herself that learning to walk again would solve her problems. In reality, it almost brought about more unsettling questions. She could walk, but pain dogged her with every step. Stiffness plagued her left shoulder. She had returned to school for several weeks in the early spring, but abandoned her studies after deciding that her degree in physical education felt futile. She could not reconcile her hopes for the future with her reality of constant pain and frustration.