Nathan and his father respond at the same time. “You?”
“It was supposed to be Old Gin on our horse, Sweet Potato.”
The letter Nathan is holding crunches in his fist. “This is madness.”
His father harrumphs. “Dangerous place, the track. Saw a horse take a bad fall on a sprint a few years back and had to be put down.”
“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 amare? The deuce—sorry, Mother—it’s not yourmarethat 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 usingmyname, 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?”
