Louise’s hand with the needle froze midair. The last time she had seen Dr. Conway was seven years ago, when she had raced over to the man’s house, frantic to find Papa. Dr. Conway had been working in his home office, and when Louise spluttered out the story of what had gone wrong, he insisted the three of them ride back to the Stokes home in his automobile, but their speedy return was not enough to save little Grace. The tiny girl had spent four days unconscious, burns covering her small body, before she succumbed to her injuries.
In a flash, Louise could be back in that moment when she entered the kitchen to find flames licking at little Grace’s pretty blue striped pinafore. That awful smell of burning fabric, hair, and skin could return to Louise all too easily and unexpectedly—when she brushed her hair in the morning; when she sat in English class contemplating an assignment; when she set the table for dinner. Each time, grief could still descend upon her with startling intensity that, even seven years later, left her reeling.
Every night before Louise fell asleep, she replayed the memory of when she had found her sister, matches strewn around her, flames lighting the kitchen floor like fallen stars. She couldn’t help herself. Reliving that afternoon had become part of a sickening ritual for sleep and she couldn’t stop it. If she replayed the afternoon step by step, she slept deeply and dreamlessly, but if she tried to push the memory away, it prowled around the corners of her mind, rearing up and clawing throughout the night as she tried to sleep. Each time, she fixated on the moment when she froze, watching her sister scream. She had been slow to throw the tablecloth over Grace and beat at the flames, and even slower to run for help. Her legs had felt spongy and her feet ungainly as she made her way to Dr. Conway’s house. The panic binding her chest had left her unable to breathe, and she felt sick to her stomach. Why had she been so slow? Would Grace still be alive if Louise had run faster?
Louise stared at the pale pink puckered burn scar along her left hand, the visible reminder of all that had gone wrong that horrible afternoon. In a flat voice, she said, “I was invited to try out for the Onteora Track Club. Dr. Conway must have seen me running with them earlier today.”
Mama glanced up from her sewing.
Her father took a seat at the table. “Did you make the team?”
“Doesn’t matter because I’m not going to do it. There’s too much to do here.”
“It’s true, you have responsibilities, but you’ve always loved to run. Is this something you want to do?” Mama asked.
“No, ma’am.”
Mama placed her mending on the table and shook out her hands, exchanging a look with Papa. “It strikes me that your sisters and brother are getting old enough to handle themselves a bit . . .” Her voice trailed off. The ticking of the kitchen clock filled the room. “Listen, Louise, what happened with Grace was an accident. It’s too big a burden for a girl your age to carry.”
“It’s too big a burden for anyone to carry,” Papa said in a low tone.
Mama bowed her head a moment. When she raised it, her eyes were shiny and she reached for Louise’s hand.
“Dr. Conway said your running was a sight to behold. What you’ve got is a God-given gift, it is,” Papa said. An unmistakable glow of pride showed on his face.
Mama’s hands, dry and calloused, gripped Louise’s tightly. “As long as you keep up on your schoolwork, you have our blessing to try this, see what happens. You’ll be going to the high school this fall. Seems like a good time to let your brother and sisters take on more responsibility.”
“But they—”
“I’ll handle them. It’ll be fine.”
Louise considered how she had felt leading the pack as she raced past Coach Quain. For those few minutes, the pit of sorrow and guilt she carried had dulled. The self-consciousness she felt about her dark skin had eased. Her mind quieted and she existed only as a body in motion, powerful and free. She wanted to feel that way again.
She nodded. “I’ll try it.”
THE CHICAGO EVENING STANDARD
July 30, 1928
“Dispatch from the IX Olympiad: What’s the Matter with the Americans?”
Amsterdam—American athletes have always run roughshod over the rest of the world in track and field events, but in the most stunning reversal in Olympic history, the men from the United States are experiencing one setback after another. Before shoving off from New York, Major Gen. MacArthur insisted his American team had nine gold medals “all sewn up,” but that prediction appears to be unraveling as three of those nine events have already been won by other countries. At this rate, the American flag won’t be waved from the winner’s podium once. Team managers and coaches are quick to point out that Amsterdam does not have its facilities ready, and the team is stuck living aboard the S.S. President Roosevelt and contending with everything from a leaky pool to tennis courts of differing sizes to a swampy track. Dutch engineers are busy at work fixing the venues.
When Olympic officials advised the women’s swim and dive teams to train in the harbor, they headed to Paris on a shopping excursion. “If they think I’m dipping a toe into that icky water,” said perky fourteen-year-old swimming champion Miss Eleanor Holm of California, “they have another think coming!”
The dreary weather is also being blamed as less than ideal for peak performances, but all nations are training under the same sky, and rain clouds do not appear to be targeting only the American athletes.
Team managers have been grumbling about the lack of recovery time for the athletes. “With the Olympic trials a mere couple of days before departing for
