“But don’t hold your breath, because you’ll still have the most distance to cover on the outside lane.”
The odds rocket away, and my spine contracts like a squeezed concertina. I only hope that Thief is number 12. “Anything else I should know?”
“Stay away from Four and Six. Their riders don’t have a good look on them. They got hayseed eyes, like they’re common and ain’t above taking what’s not theirs.”
Number 4’s the anvil horse. Joseph jerks his head toward 6, a chestnut whose checker-sleeved jockey stands with his back partly turned toward me, staring up at a tree. Water begins trickling down the trunk, and I quickly avert my eyes.
I certainly hope he remembers to thank the tree when he’s done. Threading through the mass, I size up the competition, though I’m really just looking for the piebald with its distinctive white hull and black fringe and rudder. Men scowl when they see me, or laugh outright, and I’m not sure which is worse. One just turns up his nose, staring right through me. Clearly, I am no threat to them, but perhaps that is an advantage. The biggest threats are the ones we fail to acknowledge.
A familiar chiseled profile in a swashbuckler hat and charcoal cutaway emerges from a stable. I should be focusing on the horse he leads, but Mr. Q commands attention in a way Billy Riggs could never hope to replicate, not even with his showy wardrobe or manners. Mr. Q walks with a handsome gait that seems practiced, shoulders rolled back, head held high for viewing. His olive complexion seems carved from soap, with sideburns that must have been shaped with a ruler. The only flaw is a twist to his pillowy lips that, like a scratch in the mirror, isn’t visible from all angles. But once you know it’s there, it is hard to forget.
Something sour coats my tongue. We both got here through a personal connection, but mine didn’t cost a human heart—specifically, Caroline’s. He was just using her to get his horse in the race.
The number 9 is stitched to Thief’s saddle blanket. He is not number 12 as I’d hoped, but at least he is not number 1. Any relief I feel evaporates when a runt of a man in green silks takes the horse by the bridle. It’s the leprechaun who leered at me from the porch of Billy Riggs’s cathouse. His brazen gaze gropes mine, recognizing me, too. So, this is the man Billy ejected for being too rough on women. Mean comes in all sizes, and getting up on a horse doesn’t change that one bit.
I hurry back to Joseph and Sweet Potato, my collar feeling sticky. Any confidence I felt when I left Old Gin drains from my violin boots into the dry earth.
Someone calls, “Line!” and the chaos of beast and man begins to slowly organize. Jockeys mount up, and grooms take positions at the bridle. Companion ponies calm nerves on the way to the track. I step up on Sweet Potato, and her solid warmth calms my own bucking heart.
A colored jockey with an easy smile brings his muscular roan up to us. “Ben Abner, and this is Sunday Surprise.” He speaks like he has a train to catch. “Mr. Buxbaum told me to say hello. It’s a fast track today, but there are a couple sticky parts. Keep those horseshoes on, and don’t let them box you in.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Abner, and thank you, I will,” I respond as if I have any idea what he’s talking about.
He tugs the brim of his cap and clicks his tongue.
Joseph watches the pair trot off, his mouth ajar. “Sunday’s the one I’d bet on. He’s number two, a good spot. The number-two lane wins most often.” Sweet Potato tries to knock off Joseph’s cap, but he ducks. “No offense, girl.” Taking her by the halter, he leads us to the back of the line. The foul leprechaun swivels on Thief’s saddle and shows me an overbite so severe, he could probably slide pecans into his mouth without opening it. I pretend to ignore him.
A big horse like Thief will roll like a boulder off a slope. Once he gets going, there will be no stopping his momentum. We will need to break from the start as fast as possible. Of course, that’s easier said than done, especially with no time to train Sweet Potato. Then again, Old Gin has been training her. Perhaps she already knows how to blow from the line.
We emerge from the trees, a parade of bright silks and clinking harnesses. The grandstand seems to vibrate with all the people cheering, waving their flags and hats, despite the oppressive humidity. I shield my eyes against the glare. A clot of clouds traps the sun, and more seem to be rolling in from all sides.
From the colored section, a cheer goes up when Ben Abner passes by, his tightly muscled back flexing with each of his horse’s hoofbeats.
Someone yells, “Jo!”
Noemi waves at me, Robby next to her. Life is a chessboard, and if you’ve played it right, your best pieces will be standing in the right squares when you need them most. On the other side of Noemi, Rose waves, too, almost hitting the man next to her. He opens his hands, and she jabs a finger in my direction, as if that should explain it all.
Sweet Potato walks tall and there is a swing of joy to her hoofbeats. To understand your horse is to understand yourself. I remind myself it is a small miracle that I am here at the biggest race of the year with arguably the best view in the house. Whether I win back that bottle or not, something has cleared my view. Millinery gave me a way to be seen; Miss Sweetie gave me a voice to be heard. But maybe what I needed most of all was simply the freedom to walk out from the shadows of my hat. Somehow, Old Gin and I have managed to fit ourselves into a society that, like a newspaper, rarely comes in colors other than black and white. There will always be those who keep their distance. But there will also be those who don’t mind riding their safeties in my lane. I spent my whole life worried that the sound of my own voice might give me away, but I was wrong about that. If I hadn’t used my voice, I wouldn’t be here today.
In a special box several rows up, the Paynes watch the procession with other members of Atlanta’s elite. Mr. Payne leans forward against a rail, like the masthead of a ship, his opera glasses fixed to his eyes. He has always been more focused on the future than the present. Next to him stands Merritt, who, for all his invitations, seems not to have accepted a single one of them. His eyes drift from Ameer to me, and he gives me a two-fingered salute.
Mrs. Payne fans herself, her pleasant demeanor on display. She doesn’t acknowledge me. But when I pass, her smile wavers like a candle that feels a breath. Next to her, Caroline watches me with a hawk-eyed diligence. The dancing-lion braid I wove into her hair is still lively under a cream saucer hat. Despite falling off Noemi’s safety half a dozen times—a fact that has seemed to put a spring in Noemi’s step—Caroline declared she hasn’t been bested yet. Though it wasn’t clear if she was talking about the bicycle or Noemi, the winds have shifted for my former mistress. May she feel the stretch of a new wing.
“Welcome to the Race of the Year, eight furlongs of thunderous action!” calls an announcer.
Members of the press have positioned themselves along the gate that separates the track from the spectators, notebooks out and scribbling furiously. Signs on posts list all the sponsors and their horse numbers and colors. I scan the crowd for Nathan, wishing to see him, but dreading the sight of Lizzie on his arm.