“Don’t scare the girl.” Mrs. Bell puts a warm hand on my arm. “Jo, it’s true the racetrack is no place for beginners.”
“I know. But Old Gin wouldn’t have entered her if he didn’t think she was as good as the others.”
Nathan’s eyebrows tighten. “It’s not your . . . Wait, your horse is a mare? The deuce—sorry, Mother—it’s not your mare that we’re worried about.”
“I can assure you that I am an experienced rider.”
“Is it the money you need? Does Billy Riggs have something over you?”
“No.”
“George. Now would be a good time to ask her.”
“Ask me?”
Mr. Bell hitches up his belt again. “Yes, well, we could use some help here, though pay wouldn’t be much to start. Of course, room and board would be included for you and your grandfather, either here in the house or, er, downstairs.”
“Though perhaps a few improvements are in order if the latter,” says Mrs. Bell.
All the words collect at my door, waiting for it to open. “You, you are offering me a job?”
Nathan holds himself stiffly by the elbows. “Yes. In addition to the Miss Sweetie column, you could assist with typesetting and research.”
“But wouldn’t we be breaking the law? People would think I was white.”
Mr. Bell sweeps up a finger. “I’d wager most of the agony aunts are actually agony uncles. People don’t care who it is, as long as the advice is good.”
“Maybe one day”—Nathan glances at his father—“you could write columns under your own name.” Mr. Bell’s jaw loosens, and Nathan quickly adds, “It is clear she is a good writer, not to mention more than a little knowledgeable about what goes on here.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Well, girl, what do you think?”
“I think that’s . . .” My throat constricts, siphoning off words. “This is too generous of you.” The idea that one day people might read Jo Kuan’s thoughts and viewpoints in print whirs the pages of my mind. I never imagined someone like me could be permitted to write using my name, but perhaps when you live in a basement, you get used to a low ceiling. The Bells are willing to take a risk on me, so why hesitate?
The mail slot opens again, and a gloved hand stuffs in another letter.
Mrs. Bell presses her hands together. “You would be a help to me in the home as well. With every year, it seems my joints get rustier.”
Three pairs of hopeful eyes press into me. Here is the family that I always wanted, wanting me back. I swallow down my emotions before they leak out of my face. “I will need to talk it over with Old Gin.”
Mr. Bell nods. “Certainly, your grandfather must be consulted.”
“As for the horse race, I’m afraid it is something I have to do.” Nathan’s eyes pick a fight with me, but I study the tight weave of Mrs. Bell’s shawl. A community is like that shawl, and once you are a part of it, you tie your fate to the threads closest to you. Would I be creating a hardship for the Bells if I raced? If something were to happen to me, the Bells would feel obligated to take care of me, just like with Old Gin.
Nathan pins his elbows to his side. His father’s face tightens around the mouth, the look of one reining in words. It is Mrs. Bell who lifts her voice. “The path to progress has never been without risk, whether that path be a march for the vote or an eight-furlong stretch. Jo, if you feel you can do this, we are behind you.”
Mr. Bell lets out a long breath. “I don’t know, Laney, if she were my daughter—”
“If she were your daughter, you would be stitching the number on her saddle pad yourself.”
“I don’t even know how to sew,” he grumbles, but he doesn’t dispute her statement. “Well, you’ve certainly given us an angle. Nathan, maybe you can even draw—wait, where are you going?”
Nathan grabs his coat and his Homburg from the wall hook and then, without glancing back, strides out the shop door.
I bet I know exactly where he’s going.
Old Gin has begun to stir, so I feed him some broth. Then I coax Bear from the room, bringing the used bowl to the kitchen, where Mrs. Bell is taking tea. “May I take Bear for a walk?”
“I’m sure she would love that. The leash is by the door.”
I tuck my braid under Old Gin’s cap, which I’ve taken to wearing out. Then I attach Bear’s leash to her collar. The afternoon sun heats the grass in front of the Bell residence, putting a sour tickle in my nose. Lowering myself to Bear’s level, I comb the hair out of her eyes. I might not know where Nathan went, but she does.
“Okay, Bear, take me to Avalon.”
Woof. She licks me on the nose. Then with a flick of her head, as if to say let’s go, she sets off.
Forty
Bear leads me north along a street full of shotgun houses, long dwellings whose inside doorways line up so you could fire a shot through the front and out the back without hitting any walls. Of course, I don’t know why anyone would want to do that, but not everything in Atlanta comes with an explanation.
After a mile of walking, the houses thin and the landscape grows scraggly, gangs of trees edging out the sky. The sound of running water strums along to the honks of passing geese. I begin to wonder whether Bear knows where she’s going or whether she’s just happy to be on the prowl. “Where’s Nathan, Bear? I hope we’re going to Avalon because I’m getting bunions on my bunions.”
Just as I’m about to call off the search, she dives into a screen of brush so tangled, I couldn’t throw a shoe through it without it bouncing back. I push aside the brush and find that it gives easier than it looks. I follow Bear up a small incline.
Below, a rocky stream about forty feet across runs with clear water. A flattish rock in the shape of a newsboy cap lies midstream. Nathan sits at the lip of the cap, feet dangling over the water, a book open on his lap.
Woof!
Nathan looks up, and his Homburg scans from side to side. He closes the book and gets to his feet. Bear bounds down to the stream and zigzags over a series of rocks to reach him.
“Hello,” I call over the water. “So, this is Avalon.” With the tree line obscuring the road and the hills beyond, it is hard to recognize this as part of Atlanta. Lacelike ferns brush at my face, and the cool air smells sweet and green.
Nathan embraces his dog and rubs her on the neck. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or . . .”
“Depressed.”