“No, of course not,” Betty said quickly. And she meant it. She didn’t have any experience with black people. Her family had never hired any domestic help and she couldn’t picture a single black family living in her neighborhood. If there had been any black students at her high school or Northwestern, she couldn’t remember them. Now that she thought about it, her classmates and friends had mostly been just like her—white.
Howard spread his hands impatiently. “Enough dillydallying, you two. How about taking a warm-up lap while we await Tidye?”
“Good idea,” Caroline agreed. “No reason to stand around here gabbing while the baby sleeps. There’s no telling how long I’ll get.”
So off they went, running along the outside of the park on a worn path. Betty focused on starting slowly, allowing her legs to stretch out with every passing step. The first few always felt the tightest, but after a couple of hundred yards, she had settled into a comfortable gait. When they arrived back to Howard, Tidye was waiting. Betty studied her closely. She was petite and light-skinned with alert, penetrating eyes.
“Tidye, glad you made it,” Caroline called out, smiling.
“You think I’d miss a reunion with you and Howard? I just took a peek at Joan, and she’s the sweetest little thing I’ve ever seen,” Tidye replied.
“Aww, thanks. Here, let me introduce you to Betty,” Caroline said, pulling Betty close.
“It’s nice to meet you, Betty,” Tidye said, extending her hand. Though she was smiling, her expression was cool and watchful.
Betty’s shoulders tightened. She felt a surprising pressure to come off as immune to the potential awkwardness of the moment. It seemed like everyone was studying how she’d behave and she wanted to pass this test. She took Tidye’s hand in her own. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Glad to have another sprinter here.”
Tidye nodded, turning to Caroline. “I’m actually thinking about giving the hurdles a try this time. My legs are nowhere near as long as yours, but I’m a good jumper, so why not?”
Howard looked pleased and held up his watch. “Good idea, but before we get to thinking about hurdles, let’s focus on conditioning and getting the three of you back into fighting shape. Tidye, are you warmed up?”
“Sure am. I ran here from the bus stop.”
“Perfect. I want you all to take a lap at three-quarter effort. Sound good?”
Betty nodded. If there was one way to work past any uncertainty, it was to start running.
37.
May 1935
Fulton, Missouri
HELEN’S LAST COUPLE OF MONTHS OF HIGH SCHOOL couldn’t have been more different from her first few years. Now no one could get enough of her. People didn’t just wave when they saw her; they cheered. She was popular, and no longer as a punch line to a joke, but as a figure of interest, even respect.
One weekend when she was home with her family, Bobbie Lee announced himself to be the official keeper of Helen’s scrapbook. He pulled Helen down to the floor of the parlor, a black leather-bound book spread in front of him. “Look here, Hellie,” he said. “I’ve got the Fulton Crier article about you winning the meet sponsored by Wright City High. I’ve also got this column all about how you won that Leacock Trophy. There’s even a swell picture of you and Coach Moore standing with it.” Bobbie Lee continued to inventory the other races she had won, pointing out pictures and articles, race programs, and racing bibs for each one.
After the National AAU Championships in March, Coach Moore had said they needed to enter her in as many exhibition races as possible so she could set records and establish herself as a serious competitor to attract eventual sponsorship. He had his practical reasons for wanting to race Helen as much as possible, but she had her reasons too. She wanted to show Stella Walsh that she could beat her any time, anywhere, but no matter how many challenges were issued, the woman never took the bait. “Helen Stephens is a nobody,” Stella was quoted as saying. “Why should I waste my time racing her at little podunk high schools in Missouri when I can stay here in Cleveland and train seriously?” Stella’s public dismissal of her rankled, but Helen knew the Polish Flyer was right. Helen needed to set official records and continue to beat significant competitors.
One afternoon, when Helen went out to the track in back of the high school, a tall, rangy-looking woman waited for her next to Coach Moore, her dark eyes serious, chin sharp.
“Helen, remember Miss Boeckmann from St. Louis? You’ve raced against her girls in several races recently,” said Coach Moore.
“Sure I do,” Helen said. Dee Boeckmann, an Olympian from 1928, was the first woman to head the AAU’s Ozark District Committee. “Your girls are fast.”
Miss Boeckmann fixed her gaze on Helen, looking as if she had discovered a shiny gold coin in her path that she wanted to tuck into her pocket. “But none of them are as fast as you. Listen, I’m here to talk with your coach about you coming to St. Louis to join my squad and train with me at Loretto Academy. I hear you’re serious about wanting to go to the next Olympics. There’s no better way to prepare than coming to race with the fastest girls in the region.” And as if she knew exactly what was in Helen’s heart, she added, “We’ll be able to show Stella Walsh that your performance in March was no fluke.”
Helen considered the offer and let her gaze drop to her track shoes. Miss Boeckmann was missing one thing. Shortly after her race in St. Louis, Coach Moore had shown up one day for practice and handed her the track shoes. They were brand-new, shiny black leather. All this time Coach Moore had been paying for everything without asking for anything in return. And it wasn’t like he was swimming in cash. He probably made next to nothing as the high school track coach and assistant coach at Westminster, yet he stuck with her, so while she might not have the fancy tracksuits and facilities that the girls in St. Louis enjoyed, she had something more important: someone who had seen something in her when no one else did. All the money in the world couldn’t buy someone like that.
“I appreciate you coming all this way, but I’m going to stay here and continue to train with Coach Moore.” She glanced at her coach and though his face remained expressionless, she was quite sure he squared his shoulders.
“Sure, I understand why sticking with Coach Moore is appealing, but I promise you that we have everything you need in St. Louis.”
But she didn’t have everything. Coach Moore wouldn’t be there. Also, none of Miss Boeckmann’s girls struck Helen as particularly friendly. In particular, that redheaded one, Harriet Bland, the one who always looked like she had taken a big chomp out of a lemon, rubbed Helen the wrong way. Why give herself over to a bunch of strangers when she could stay close to her family and friends?
Sensing Helen’s reluctance, Miss Boeckmann added, “Look, we can help you out in every way you may need it. Clothes, equipment—why, we’ll even send you to a dentist if you want.”
“Again, Coach Boeckmann, I’m grateful for your offer. Really, I am. But I’m going to stick with Coach Moore.”
The tall woman pursed her lips. “I understand. No hard feelings. I’m looking forward to watching your career and am certain our paths will cross again. If you change your mind, you know where to find me. There’s no expiration date on my offer.”