At Every Turn (25 page)

I threw my weight against the accelerator as Webster pumped oil to the engine.

Another straightaway, the grandstand looming to the right, along with the inner wall. Then the tail of my car pulled left. My muscles tensed. I tightened my grip on the wheel, ground my teeth together. I could get control. I’d done it before.

Webster’s hand in front of my face, thumb down. Slow. Slow. But the rear wheels refused to respond. I fought with the steering wheel, but the back end took control. Swerved. The smell of burning rubber stung my nose. A gray wall of concrete hovered near the hood of the car. I yanked the steering wheel to the left, toward the infield. We skidded across the expanse of track, other cars missing us by inches. Then the world spun. Tilted. I wanted to let go, to cover my head, but I couldn’t pry my fingers from the wheel.

A sickening thud. A mass of arms and legs. Pain and a snap near my shoulder. The squeal of metal scraping brick. We screeched to a halt.

Shouts. The rush of feet. Pain throbbed through my body with every heartbeat, held me still even though I wanted to move.

“Webster?” I wasn’t sure I spoke the word aloud, though I tried. I tumbled from the car lying on its side. Searing pain shot through my left arm. I remembered the ducks, the barn, the fall from my childhood. I clamped my arm to my side, held the elbow still with the opposite hand. Something wet dripped from my face, landed red on my jumpsuit. I tasted metal in my mouth.

Where was Webster? I limp-crawled through the haze, tried to wave it away with my uninjured arm. Coughing shook me, sharpened the agony. Hands helped me to my feet, dragged me from the roar of approaching motors.

A shout near my ear. “We’ve got the driver.”

Relief that still no one had guessed my identity. But fear that I still couldn’t find the face I sought.

Another shout. “Over here! Help me move him!”

“Webster!” I shook myself free. One wobbled step and my legs collapsed. The torment in my left arm created havoc in my stomach. Strong arms lifted me, a shoulder lending support. Half carried to the infield, I found Webster. Prostrate. Groaning.

I dropped to my knees beside him. His eyes fluttered open, head lolled to one side. “Go.” At least that was what it looked like he’d said. I heard nothing but the whine of the engines circling the track. Then his eyes drifted shut.

Go?
I couldn’t leave him. Salt stung my lips even as it occurred to me that a man wouldn’t cry. But I couldn’t stop. I had to help Webster—the one who knew me, who defended me, who came back when I needed him. I clawed at my goggles and leather cap with my right hand, my left arm hanging useless. But I couldn’t get them off before hands lifted Webster, settled him on a stretcher, and carried him away. I stood. Swayed. Arms caught me from behind.

“Can you walk, son?” Gravelly words in my ear, the edge of cigar smoke wafting near my nose.

I turned my head. My knees buckled.

Father was staring down at me.

“It’s me.” I prayed the words actually left my mouth—and that he could hear them in spite of the noise.

His eyes widened. His grip tightened. He lifted the goggles from my eyes. “Ally?”

I whimpered. “They can’t know. You’ll be disgraced. But Webster. Get him help. Please.”

Father’s mouth dropped open, his jowls quivering. “Webster Little?” He looked past me, fury staining his neck scarlet.

I yanked at his shirt with my good hand. “It’s not what you think. He tried to help me. He’s always tried to help.” My chest caved with sobs as Father glared back at the confusion. Then I felt myself lifted from the ground. We surged forward, away from the fray.

And the world disappeared to black.

 34 

A
low hum pierced my darkness, muttered words drifting about me like clouds of smoke. I wanted to bat them away, but it hurt to move my neck, and one of my arms refused to work. My eyelids felt nailed shut, but I forced them to rise. Light slammed them closed again.

I lifted my head off the pillow in spite of the pain. “Father?”

Lips pressed against my forehead, large hands encased my free one. Now my eyes opened in earnest. I tried to hide a grimace of pain but saw my discomfort reflected on Father’s face.

Another man stood near, a long white coat over his suit. Then I remembered. The crash. Had I been exposed? And what about Webster?

I tried to smile, but the right side of my face felt stiff. I wiggled my fingers free of Father’s, touched the spot. A bandage covered a patch of skin beneath my eye. Thank goodness I’d never been a beauty. Maybe a small scar would add more interest to my face. “I’ll live, then?”

The doctor’s eyes crinkled with a sympathetic smile. “I think so. A few lacerations and bruises. You’ll be stiff and sore for a while. And that broken collarbone will need to heal. We’ve immobilized it. It needs time to knit itself back together.” He wrote on the pad of paper in his hand. “I’d like to keep you here a few days, just to make sure everything’s as it should be.”

Relief washed over Father’s face, flushing it with color again.

Light reflected off the doctor’s round spectacles. “And you be more careful on the road, young lady.”

My gaze shot to Father. He chuckled, but tight lines framed his mouth as beads of sweat glistened at his temples. “I’m sure she will, Doctor. Thank you.”

The man left us alone.

Father pulled a chair close.

“He knows?” I whispered.

Father shook his head. “Only that you’ve been in an automobile accident.” His lips twitched, seeming to fight a grin. “I cleaned up your face, but of course your clothing was a bit . . . unconventional.”

I giggled, imagining my father whisking me from the speedway to the hospital, removing my driving jumpsuit to find my knickers and shirt concealed beneath. “How did you . . . we . . . get here?”

He grunted. “I didn’t let anyone stop me, that’s how. I couldn’t take you to the medical staff there. If the speedway officials heard you’d driven . . .” His head swished from side to side. “We’d have been more than banished. We might have been lynched.”

I cringed. So many chances taken, not just with my own life and reputation, but with those I loved. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“I know.” He pressed a limp handkerchief to his red-rimmed eyes. “I’m just glad my girl will be fine.”

“But what about Webster?” I wished I could snatch the words out of the air the minute I spoke them, for Father’s face roiled like a thundercloud as he stared at the far corner of the room.

His fists clenched. Then his eyes found mine again. “What was he doing in that car, Ally? I thought I made myself clear. Did he force his way in? Did he put you up to this stunt?”

I groaned. “Don’t you understand? I’ve been driving all along, Father. Since Chicago. Webster and I. Trotter never had anything to do with it, other than posing as the driver to get my money from you.” My voice faltered, fell away. It all sounded so . . . sordid.

His eyes narrowed, then widened as the truth sunk in. “You drove those other times?”

I nodded.

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck as he stood and paced beside my bed. When he stopped, laughter and anger vied for reign. “You do beat all, Ally. But why?”

I picked at a loose thread near the top of the sheet covering me. “I needed the money.”

“The money?” His voice rose. A nurse peeked around a partition and shushed him.

“For Africa—the mission in the Gold Coast. Remember? I promised to help them.”

“But racing?”

“I tried more conventional ways to raise the funds, but the ladies at church were using most of those. Then I thought of driving. Turns out Langston is too small for a taxi service, mostly because no one wanted to pay me to do it. I guess they assumed I had enough money and didn’t need more.” I tried to shrug but cried out in pain instead.

Father’s face paled again as he plopped into the hard chair beside me.

I smoothed the blanket with my free hand until the pain lessened. “When I heard you’d entered the car in Chicago, I asked Webster if I could drive for the pay.”

“You could’ve been killed out there, Ally!”

“I know. But I love to drive fast, Father. And I felt helping those children and their families was worth even my life.” The shock on my father’s face drove me forward. “I don’t regret the driving, though I do regret not telling you what I was doing. Well, that and . . .” I could only force out a whisper. “And not realizing what I asked Webster to give up for my cause.”

He shot to his feet. “I don’t understand your loyalty to that man. If Trotter hadn’t—”

“If Lawrence Trotter hadn’t taken liberties, Webster wouldn’t have had to defend me.” I said each word firmly, staring into Father’s eyes. “Mr. Trotter assaulted me, not Webster.” I ducked my head in shame. “Webster only came to my rescue.”

“But I saw—”

“You saw them fighting, nothing else. Please believe me. I’m telling you the truth.”

A nurse in pristine white stepped into the room. “A Mr. Lawrence Trotter is outside asking to see you, miss.”

Father’s face went slack. A war flickered behind his eyes. He wanted to believe me. I knew he did. But would his pride win out over the truth?

“Please, Father. Please believe me.” And yet why should he? My many lies now lay uncovered before him.

I let the pillow fully cradle my aching head as his shoes clacked across the room and out the door. Only in the silence did I allow the first tear to fall.

I must have drifted to sleep, for by the time I woke, a shade covered my window and electric light glowed dim behind a partition in the far corner. The chair beside me sat empty. I wiggled and then yelped at the pain that shot through my arm. A nurse stepped around the screen, her stern expression melting into compassion.

“They’ll be so glad to hear you’re awake.”

“They?”

The nurse helped me sit up. “Your parents.”

Mother was here. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. Father would have told her the same as the doctor. An automobile accident. I groaned. She’d begin a diatribe of my unfeminine ways.

“And a friend of yours is with them, too, I believe.”

A friend? My forehead puckered for a quick moment. Then I grasped at her sleeve. “Don’t let him in here. Please.”

Her laugh trilled. “It’s a young lady, miss.”

“Oh.” I leaned into the wall of pillows she’d set behind me, no less disconcerted. Who in Indianapolis would know—

Lucinda.

My heart soared with joy but quickly sank in despair. She’d accompanied Webster to the speedway. Was there more than friendship between them?

I stared at the ceiling, begging God to dull the pain in my heart. I should be happy that my two friends had found love.

“Do you feel up to seeing them?”

“No. Yes. I mean—how is Mr. Little?”

“That mechanic who was thrown from his race car?”

I swallowed past the lump banked in my throat. “That’s the one.”

“He’s still unconscious. Concussion. And a leg broken in two places.” She patted my hand. “I’ll send in your visitors.”

A few minutes later, footsteps stopped at my door. Every muscle in my body tightened. I couldn’t look up.

“Oh, my darling.” Mother suffocated me with her nearness, stroking my face, kissing my hand, holding a glass of water to my lips.

Lucinda lingered behind. After a few minutes, my parents moved away, their voices quieting to a murmur. Then Lucinda approached the bed, grabbed my right hand, and pressed it to her cheek. “Oh, Alyce. I’m so glad you’re okay. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you climb out of the wreckage.”

I hissed and beckoned her closer, shooting a glance toward my parents, who now stood behind the partition. If Lucinda had guessed, how many others suspected?

“You recognized me?” I whispered.

She smoothed her skirt, settled into the bedside chair, and leaned close. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You would have thought me mad.”

She laughed, leaned closer. “You’re right, of course. But whyever did you do it?”

The partition rustled. My parents were conversing with the nurse. I swiped my tongue over cracked lips. “For the money, Lucinda. For Mr. and Mrs. McConnell’s African mission.”

Her eyes grew wide. I inhaled as deeply as my sore ribs allowed. “How is Webster?”

Her face contorted as her hand let go of mine.

My heart pummeled my chest. “Please tell me.”

She stared at her lap. “They haven’t let me—us—see him yet.” Her head rose. Tears stood in her eyes. “He asked me to come here with him, you know.”

I nodded, determined to keep my emotions in low gear. “I never meant for anything like this to happen, Lucinda. You’ve already had so much tragedy. I hate to think that because of me you again face losing—” I swallowed hard—“losing someone you love.”

She frowned. “Love?”

I blinked. “Isn’t that . . . isn’t that why he came to your house? Why you came here with him?”

Her face softened. “He helped me—and let me help him—because of my Billy, not because of any romantic feelings for me. And I finally told him I knew about his secret gifts to those in need.”

The thought of my missing money made my heart sink again.

“Besides,” Lucinda said, laying her hand on my arm and smiling, “I have a feeling his heart is already accounted for.”

“Oh . . . I see.”

“Do you?” She looked amused. But for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why.

Lucinda darted from the chair to a spot near the door when Mother swept around the partition and back to my side. “Your father and I will go find supper for ourselves, but I’ll make sure they get some up to you soon.” She kissed my cheek and reached for Father’s hand.

“Wait.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “I have to see Webster.” Pushing to my feet, I leaned into Father’s sturdy body.

“Webster? Who’s Webster?” Mother peered at Father, then me, then Lucinda.

I shuffled forward. “Where is he, Lucinda?”