“Yo,” he called, “Jughandle John!”
“Yo, Fish,” said Johnny. “How’s business?”
“Poor of late,” he said.
I bought a balloon for Timmy. Johnny had worked with Fish at Robinson’s Circus. When Fish could no longer do the strenuous routines, he’d gone into balloons. Even without his makeup, Johnny said, Fish was a sad case. “Could go like that for me.” He patted the velocipede seat. “If not for my new career.”
We ambled past hog pens. The prizewinner, a 935-pound leviathan, inhabited what a sign called “the most spacious apartment in swine-dom.” Farther on was an amphitheater in which young bulls were being shown. Attendants led them by rings in their noses, jerking upward to force their heads high. People in the stands watched attentively. Judges examined each bull in turn, prodding and measuring, feeling the tightness of skin, having the attendant jerk the nose ring or walk the animal once more.
“I’ll not witness this,” said Cait. “It’s torture for the poor creatures.”
We bypassed an enclosure where horses were judged and entered, at Cait’s urging, Floral Hall, where we walked among fragrant lantana, heliotrope, begonia, achyranthes, moss fuchsia, myrtle, and countless rose varieties. Johnny and his velocipede drew curious stares. Every five minutes he asked me to pull out my watch. Finally he said he’d go out to the track; he was too nervous.
“We’ll go too,” I told him. “Here, we brought something for you.”
Cait squeezed my arm. The gift was my doing. I handed him the package I’d been carrying. He opened it and pulled out a maroon cyclist’s suit and a pair of canvas shoes.
“It’s silk,” I said. “Remember Mrs. Bertram, does the uniforms? She made it from your measurements. Here’s the cap, underneath. Those are the new light sporting shoes Harry’s ordering for the team.”
“Hell, Sam,” he said, swallowing as he fingered the silks.
“Come on, let’s sign you up and find the dressing tent, see how you look.”
We walked to an oval track behind the exhibit halls where contestants already wheeled around the circuit. We followed Johnny to the judges’ stand.
“Bruhn,” said Johnny. “Sent in my deposit a month back.”
The official, a pleasant-looking man with ruddy cheeks and yellow hair that matched his straw hat, ran his finger down a list, found the name, glanced at Johnny, then stared.
“You funning me?”
Johnny stood silently, very still.
“What’s the problem?” I moved forward. “Don’t you have his entrance money?”
“This isn’t for coloreds.”
I stood dumbfounded for an instant, then wondered how we’d been so naive not to think of it. Hadn’t Johnny known? I glanced at him. Kinky red hair, flat nose, coffee skin—features suddenly overwhelmingly dominant. Had he hoped to brazen his way through? I couldn’t read his frozen expression. Christ!
“Look,” I said placatingly, “if it’s a question of compensation, maybe we can reach some sort of—”
“Niggers don’t race here,” the man said flatly, pleasantness draining from his face. “Here’s your fee.” He held out two greenbacks.
Johnny did not move.
He shrugged and laid the bills on his table. “I’m sorry, I didn’t make the rules.”
“You can’t turn him away,” I said. “He’s practiced for weeks.”
“Don’t beg, Sam,” said Johnny quietly. He turned his velocipede and started back the way we had come.
“What is it?” I heard Timmy say. “Is Johnny a nigger?”
“Hush,” Cait said.
With the helpless feeling that something enticingly close was slipping away, I yelled, “Wait!” I caught Johnny and wrapped my arm around his shoulders. “Come on, we’ve got to think of something.”
“I’ll never get used to it.” There was a faint quaver in his voice. “In the circus it didn’t matter, ’cause in makeup nobody noticed, leastways you could pretend they didn’t.”
“We’ll work something out,” I told him, without a glimmer of an idea.
“. . . no dignity in it, Sam.” His voice shook more perceptibly. “All’s I want is the chance to be something on my own.”
“Makeup!” Cait suddenly said behind us.
I turned. “What?”
“If Johnny borrowed clothes from his friend,” she said, “and wore makeup . . . you see?”
I saw. It was brilliant. Or at least an answer. “Let’s go!” I practically knocked Johnny down trying to turn him around.
“No, no, NO!” He dug his heels in, anchoring himself. “Miss Cait, I appreciate you trying to help me.” He held the racing suit up; the fabric shimmered. “I want to wear these colors you got me, like a racer’s supposed to.” He turned toward me. “Sam, I don’t want to be no damn clown no more.”
Cait and I looked at each other. Timmy held her hand. We stood there. In the distance we heard the official’s megaphoned announcement that the race would begin in five minutes. People were moving past us toward the track.
“This isn’t right,” I said. “Walking away, giving in.”
“That’s ’cause of who you are,” Johnny said, sounding calmer. “Tell you what, we’ll watch ’em race. Find out about the competition.”
I suspected he was doing it more on my account than his own. We made our way back to the official.
“No problem with us going in to watch, is there?” I said dryly.
“Matter of fact,” he said, looking less than pleased, “there is, but I won’t push it. ’Less there’s trouble.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a hell of a lot.”
“Samuel, don’t,” Cait warned.
We sat in the grandstand. Johnny secured his velocipede below us, where he could watch it. It attracted a lot of attention.
Over two dozen entrants gathered at the starting line. The winner’s prize would be fifty dollars, the distance two miles—four times around the long oval. Johnny scrutinized the racers disdainfully. Only two wore racing gear. All of the machines were wood. Closely bunched, the cyclists pedaled furiously through the first lap. The pace slackened noticeably as the pack stretched into a thin line during the second and third laps, and fell
