Helen’s medals will be on display inside Fulton Savings Bank through the week.
According to AAU officials in St. Louis, it’s not too early to start picturing Helen representing the United States in the 1936 Olympics. All parties interested in supporting this promising young woman are invited to drop off monetary donations addressed to the Helen Stephens Booster Club, located at the Fulton Methodist Church.
Helen sat under the hair dryer, tapping her foot. It felt like hours had passed since Ma and Mrs. Moore had roused her out of bed that morning and rushed her to Mrs. Georgia Richardson’s beauty salon to prepare her for Helen Stephens Day on Monday. Mrs. Richardson herself had spent ages snipping at Helen’s hair and wrapping it around curlers, and Helen wanted to see the results.
As soon as she had stepped inside the salon, she felt as though she was entering a secret world, one that had been hidden from her for all of her life. So, this was how women managed to look beautiful. Professional help!
Helen looked up to find Mrs. Richardson and Mrs. Moore gliding toward her, both holding several shopping bags. Mrs. Richardson flipped off the power on the hair dryer and pulled the shiny silver dome away from Helen’s head. While she leaned close to inspect Helen’s hair, Mrs. Moore dropped the bags and pulled out a shoebox, opening it with a flourish.
Helen admired the pair of shiny black high-heeled shoes, but shook her head. “Those will never fit.”
“Oh yes, they will. They’re size twelves, just as your mother instructed.”
Helen’s face reddened. “But . . .”
“Don’t say another word. Did you know that a group of Fulton citizens gathered this morning to create the Helen Stephens Booster Club? They’ve raised money to prepare you for some public appearances. Why, you’re making a speech on Monday! We’ve got to get you ready for it! I’ve used a portion of the proceeds to purchase shoes and some other fundamentals for you.”
“Fundamentals?”
Mrs. Moore looked at Mrs. Richardson, and they nodded at each other before pulling Helen out of her seat to lead her behind the salon’s privacy screen. Mrs. Moore pulled another box from a shopping bag, scrabbled through layers of white tissue paper, and removed two garments of flesh-colored fabric with clips and strings—Helen had never seen anything like them. Mrs. Moore chuckled. “It’s a girdle and garter belt. Now Lord knows you don’t have an ounce of anything that needs to be sucked in, but still, it’s only proper. Your mother is making some lovely new dresses, but in the meantime, I picked this up for you too so you can walk out of here looking like a new woman.”
Mrs. Richardson held up a light blue tea-length dress and nodded. “Well done, Mary Lou. This will do nicely on her.”
The women handed over the new clothes and turned their backs so Helen could dress, but after only a minute Helen mumbled, “Um, Mrs. Moore, how does this thing go on?”
Mrs. Moore spun around to see Helen holding the girdle, confounded. “Oh heavens, I envy the fact that you’ve made it this far without knowing how to wear one of these.” She helped her into it while Mrs. Richardson unrolled a pair of silk stockings before offering them the light blue dress. When they were done, the women tugged Helen out from behind the privacy screen and pointed to the full-length mirror.
“Well, what do you think?” Mrs. Moore asked.
Mrs. Richardson held her hand to her heart. “Mercy me, it’s a miracle.”
Helen hardly recognized the young woman reflected back at her. Her dreaded birthmark? Covered up. New bangs and a dash of pancake makeup had done the trick. Frizzy hair? Gone, tamed and styled into graceful shiny waves. Even the color had improved with shimmery golden streaks running through it. Her gaze traveled down the mirror to the dress. Elegant pearl buttons ran down its bodice. She swayed from side to side, holding out the A-line skirt, admiring how the filmy fabric swished and swirled. Even her nails looked shiny, trimmed, buffed, and polished.
And her feet. Lord, her feet. Her vision blurred with tears as she took in the pumps. She’d given up any dreams of wearing stylish shoes long ago.
She straightened, for the first time proud of her height. She’d never imagined she could look like this. Not after all of Pa’s hurtful comments over the years. Even after yesterday’s victory, he couldn’t bring himself to say he was proud of her. When she’d arrived downstairs that morning, he’d been standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms folded across his chest.
“Heard you had a lucky race yesterday,” he said.
Lucky? She almost laughed. She was tempted to describe how reporters had crowded her after the race, wanting to know how it felt to beat a renowned champion, and how the town was preparing a parade in her honor, but she took in his sour expression, weatherworn skin, and stooped shoulders. How diminished he was. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Instead, she kept her face neutral. Her success on the track was because of her hard work. Luck hadn’t played a part of it and neither had he. Why give him a piece of her accomplishment? Or the opportunity to cut her down again? She was tired of how he took out his life’s disappointments on her.
“I’m the fastest woman in the world,” she said. And before he had time to react, she turned to Ma’s and Mrs. Moore’s beaming expressions and walked out the front door to go to the beauty salon.
As she took in her physical transformation in Mrs. Richardson’s mirror, she realized she had a choice with how she dealt with Pa. From now on, she would engage with him as little as possible. Frank
