After the kids finished running their mile time trial, Coach Moore had stayed behind another hour or so completing paperwork for upcoming meets. When he finally walked out the school’s front door toward the parking lot, a man in faded overalls and a sun-bleached cotton work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows stepped from the shadow of his battered jalopy.
“Evenin’, Coach,” the man said, leaving his hat on.
“Good evening.”
“My boy’s Dexter Ginty.”
“Ah, Dexter is a fine young man. He did real well in last week’s meet.”
“He tells me a girl has joined the team. That right?”
“It is.”
The father worked a lump of chewing tobacco in his lower lip. “That allowed?”
“There are track and field events open to girls, yes. She’s proven to have remarkable talent so I’m giving her a shot.”
The man spat a long stream of dark tobacco juice toward the tire of a nearby car. “Nothing good comes out of girls thinking they’re something special.”
“With all due respect, sir, I’d say the team’s going to enjoy a strong season and it might be partly because the boys are very motivated and challenged this season. We have a good shot at State.”
“I don’t like that the girl is whipping all of them boys in your time trials. It ain’t natural.”
“Like I said, she’s remarkable.”
“Well, how about that girl go be remarkable somewhere else?”
“If she continues to improve, she will,” Coach Moore said evenly. “My guess is that the AAU team out of St. Louis will try to steal her from us and groom her for some big races.”
“I reckon that might be for the best.”
“Sir, if you come out and watch the kids run, you’ll see that nothing unnatural is happening out here. They want to run. I’m helping them get better. That’s all.”
He snorted. “I don’t got time to come watch a bunch of kids run. Some of us work. I hope I don’t have to come see you again about this.”
“You shouldn’t have to. Everything’s fine.”
The encounter with Dexter’s father was enough to make Burton’s blood pound in his temples. He had taken leave of the man, climbed into his automobile, and sat clenching and unclenching his fists on the steering wheel for a few minutes before driving away.
And now this newspaper article.
Again, he groaned and reached for his clipboard and stopwatch. When he opened his office door, he found himself face-to-face with Mrs. Stephens.
“Why, Mrs. Stephens, what a surprise. It’s a pleasure to see you. What can I do for you?”
She clutched her purse in front of her with both hands and turned her head to look over her shoulder before she stepped closer.
“Have you seen today’s Fulton Crier?” she whispered.
His heart sank. “I have, but everything’s fine.”
She pursed her lips but said nothing.
“Honestly, our team practices are going very well,” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
She bit her lip and looked at the floor.
“Would you like me to take you upstairs to Miss Schultz’s room for those concert tickets she mentioned when we visited? I heard the band playing the other day and those kids sounded top-notch.”
“No, thank you. You see, my husband is furious about this article. He’s forbidden Helen to train with your team.”
Coach Moore went rigid and was about to remind her of the scholarship possibilities, but one look at the despondency of her expression and he knew her disappointment outweighed his. He sucked on his teeth for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I need to go fetch her to bring her home for the weekend.”
He pointed to the girls’ locker room. “She’ll be in there. If you and Mr. Stephens change your mind, she’s welcome back any time.”
Mrs. Stephens turned and hurried down the hallway to retrieve Helen. Once she pushed through the girls’ locker room door and disappeared, Coach Moore pulled on his jacket, feeling numb. When he stepped outside, he watched the boys gathered in a knot on the edge of the track. Normally this time of the season, every practice felt promising, but now with Helen gone, everything would change. The sharpness of the grief tightening in his chest surprised him. With a sigh, he walked toward his team.
32.
February 1934
Fulton, Missouri
ANNOUNCEMENT OF SALE—FULTON SAVINGS BANK IS OFFERING 115 ACRES OF ARABLE LAND IN SOUTHWEST FULTON FOR SALE IN PUBLIC AUCTION SCHEDULED FOR FEBRUARY 28.
On her way home from school, Helen ripped the auction sign off the post at the edge of their land and chucked it into the drainage ditch running alongside the road. If the bankers wanted to advertise the sale so badly, they could come over and fish it from the icy water themselves. She pictured a banker wearing a fancy suit wading around in the stream to salvage the poster and smirked, wiping her hands on her canvas work jacket. A cold wind howled across the fields, whipping through her clothes. Clumps of snow patched the fields. She jammed her hands into her pockets and trudged toward home, casting a final glare at the crumpled sign lying in the muck. Similar auction announcements were posted all over town, but that didn’t make her feel any better.
It was a Friday and her parents expected her to spend the weekend crating her belongings and helping her father clean the tools and equipment being auctioned the following Tuesday. Helen pushed her hair out of her face as she stared at their farmhouse, her eyes watering from the sharp wind. She’d miss this old place, but not as much as she would have expected. For every good memory of some high jinks with Bobbie Lee, she had three of Pa making her feel lousy. Ever since moving into town, she had felt lighter, free of the pressure of Pa’s constant criticism and tirades. School was hard, no doubt about it, and some of the kids were mean as badgers, but her grades were good overall. If only she hadn’t been forced to quit the track team. Getting a taste of what it felt like to be good at something and then having it taken away still left her feeling crushed when she allowed herself to think about it.
For that month she had trained with the track team, she had been someone. Someone important and valued. When Coach Moore would spot Helen walking toward the track, his handsome face would break into a broad grin every time without fail. She had never forgotten the first article in which Betty Robinson’s father described his daughter as the best girl in the world. Helen liked to think that Coach Moore might say something like that about her. In fact, sometimes she lost herself in imagining that Coach Moore was her father and it made her feel like a million dollars.
Before Christmas, all the girls in school had flown into a tizzy with the news that Coach Moore and Miss Schultz would be marrying before the holiday. Apparently they all believed they had had a shot with the handsome coach. Such foolishness. Helen knew better. She had discovered a water fountain just outside the music room’s door, and if she leaned over it to take a drink and angled her head just right, she could watch Coach Moore when he stopped in to visit Miss Schultz. The two of them would stand close to each other, talking conspiratorially, both looking pleased as punch. Miss Schultz’s green eyes always trailed Coach Moore when he left the room, a happy expression dancing across her features. Watching them always made a wistful sense of longing come over Helen. Would anyone ever make her feel like that?