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’sthe 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 hasseemed 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.
A figure steps onto a box and tips up his Homburg. I sit a little taller, hoping I look like an elegant lady floating along on an ebony swan. Nathan waves his hat. He doesn’t have Mr. Q’s dreamy looks or Merritt Payne’s statuesque physique, but he has the noble bearing of a compass that always points north.
A pair of pink arms asks for a lift, and soon, Lizzie is standing beside him. They are a handsome pair. Nathan would have an easier life with someone like her, someone with whom the law against miscegenation has no bearing. Her Miss Sweetie hat swivels between Nathan and me. Maybe she is thinking the same thing.
Joseph leads us to a chalked line on the outermost position on the track. I shake off the stiffness in my limbs caused by an anxious mind and draw an effortless breath. “Thank you, Joseph.”
He hits a brace. Then he follows the grooms to the sidelines.
Twelve beasts grunt and paw at the ground to the left of us, springs loaded and ready to fire. The track strikes me as narrow and flimsy as cardboard. One wrong move, and I couldbe smashed into a papery pulp, a bit of bark caught under forty-eight pounding pistons.
A few horses down, Thief undulates as if he were made of liquid, with the leprechaun clinging, amphibian-like, on his back. The man is no longer looking at me but muttering at the clouds. Perhaps he is praying. It seems like a good time to get religion.
Scanning the stadium, I finally spot Billy Riggs near the center, blocking the view behind him with a garish plum-colored top hat to match his suit. Our gazes connect, and he stands, sweeps off the top hat, and gives me one of his mocking bows. It occurs to me that just as Old Gin and I have done our best to blend in, Billy makes his way by not blending in. Perhaps his brazen style is meant to draw attention away from his crimes, not the least of which is the crime of having a great-grandparent who was colored. Around Billy, folks chatter, their faces animated, and I wonder what secrets lie in the basement for them. For all of us. My eyes find Mrs. Payne again, holding out a gloved hand for a guest to kiss. Her hands may be clean, but she’s as slippery as a hundred bathing Billys.
Before the field begins to lose the line, the man with the red bowler raises a gun. “Ready?”
I grip the stirrups and lean forward.
“Set?”
I imagine myself as the wind, light and strong, and not invisible.
Bang!
Forty-Four
I kick my heels hard, screaming, “Giddap!” as loud as I can. Sweet Potato charges!
In the span of two seconds, several things happen. Something spooks horse number 1, and he sets off in the wrong direction. Jockeys 4 and 6 with their hayseed eyes jerk their horses sideways, knocking off 3 and 5, whose horses almost go to their knees.
Just as Joseph suspected, 4 and 6 are up to no good, and it is hard to predict what they plan next.
