Forty-Five
“Tie!” announces the man in the red bowler hat.
The cloudbuster shuts off as fast as it let down, and the ground steams at its departure. Ameer trots beside us, panting and, for the first time, looking chastened. Johnny Fortune grinds his black eyes into mine and spits. He knows he was bested. Still, he holds up his fists in victory, and cheers explode all around us. The eye sees what it wants, and they would never have let us win, anyway.
Billy Riggs also knows he was bested. His wet clothes have darkened to a shade that must match his mood, and he sits with his palm smashed up against his cheek. The sight of his misery lessens the throbbing cut in my thigh, and a horseshoe of a grin edges up on my face.We are even now, you scoundrel.Noticing me floating in my saddle, he uncrumples himself and rises. I expect one of his mocking bows. But instead, a grudging smile unfurls on his face and he begins to clap. I know the next time I pass through the doors with the Jesse James dice, I will not leave empty-handed.
The fanfare passes in a blur, the victory lap around the track with Johnny Fortune and Ameer, the handshaking and occasional claps on the back, the tearful hugs from Mrs. Bullis, and the photograph of me, the Atlanta Suffragists, and the Bluebells—well, at least Noemi—taken by a man with an accordion-style camera. While Sweet Potato tries to eat her wreath of carnations, Nathan embraces me longer than he should. “Where is Lizzie?” I ask.
“She said it wouldn’t work out for us and took a coach home.”
I’d like to think Lizzie did not know about her mother’s attempt to unmask me. She was never the bad sort. I expect this will be the last I see of her, though a part of me wishes things could’ve been different between us.
As soon as I can escape, I steer Sweet Potato back to the print shop. There is only one face I wish to see.
My feet go cold when I spot Dr. Swift’s wagon parked next to the Bells’ house.
Without even tying up Sweet Potato, I rush into the house, past Mr. and Mrs. Bell’s surprised faces, and into Old Gin’s room.Please no, don’t take Old Gin.
Bear greets me with awoof!To my surprise, Dr. Swift has pulled a chair up beside Old Gin, and between them is a Western chessboard.
“Grandfather,” I cry, knees wobbling under me. “I thought—I thought...”
Dr. Swift’s eyes glint with amusement under his thick brows. “You thought I might’ve beaten your grandfather inchess? Don’t worry, he’s checked me three times already, and I only arrived ten minutes ago.”
Old Gin lifts his face to me. With his new orange striped cap, his eye bandage, and a beard beginning to icicle down his chin, he looks like a stringy old pirate who, despite a few rocky seas, still has a few more voyages left in him. “You had a nice ride, hm?” His dry words float out, understated as always.
I let out a half sob, half laugh. “The bats of good fortune have returned. We won.”
He works his jaw, but nothing comes out. Tears troop down my face, but he stops them with his bandaged hand. “I think the bats have been here with us this whole time.” His broken face smiles, and I’m reminded of a gentle boost onto my first horse in a meadow full of light.
Epilogue
Three months later.
The curtain with the horses now decorates the basement wall, opening up our former kitchen. An old desk has replaced my bed in the corner, and one of Mrs. Bell’s whimsical rugs softens the back half of the room, more luxurious than the old speckled rug under my toes. At the spool table, my fingers work a silk cord into a horse knot. Mr. Buxbaum says he can’t keep them on the shelf. Anything with horses has been a hot seller since the race.
The sight of Old Gin’s milking stool warms my heart. He’s out with Sweet Potato. Daily rides have done much for his health.
Graceful Moon’s snuff bottle occupies a prime spot atop our new wall shelf, next to my winner’s medal, a twin to Johnny Fortune’s. With half the winnings from the race, we can afford to house Sweet Potato at the livery down the street, plus save for the future, whenever that decides to get here.
I wind the cord three times around my finger and weave the end through the loops. Silk cord innately has value, but ittakes a patient hand to shape it into something better. What is the job of a parent but to teach a child that she has worth so that one day she can transform herself into whatever she wants. Old Gin was that parent to me, mother and father, teacher and friend. One day—hopefully far into the future—he and Graceful Moon will ride the heavens together, faces no longer turned up to the sky, but part of it.
As for Shang, I hope he found what he was looking for, whether that be silver or self-worth. Wherever his journey takes him, as long as the earth is round, may his path lead home one day.
“Ahoy there.” Nathan’s voice tumbles down the listening tube, which is now also a speaking tube.
Bear woofs.
I cross to the desk. “Ahoy.”
“Would you like some tea or a chocolate? Bear is also offering her bone.”
“No, thank you. I am leaving for Buxbaum’s shortly. May I get you anything from there? Quills? Candles? Giddy goobers?”
“I like my goobers relaxed. Makes them go down easier. Are you sure you don’t want company?”
“I shall be fine. Please tell your mother I shall be back in an hour to help her roast the chicken.”
