“Better check to see if you left scorch marks along that final lane,” Caroline shouted.
“Good thing I didn’t knock you over when I ran into you.” Betty laughed.
“Ha, if anything, I’m worried that I might have hurt you during that crash,” Helen said, soaking in the exuberance of the victory. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m better than fine! I feel wonderful!”
The minutes after the relay were a whirlwind of congratulations and backslapping. The women were ushered into the locker room, where they cleaned off and changed, all giddy with the thrill of winning. Helen buttoned herself into her dove-gray serge dress, feeling nearly limp with relief that the relay was over with no mishaps.
Betty appeared at her side, straightening her skirt. “So, do you have any plans now? What do you say we go out and celebrate?”
Helen couldn’t believe her luck. “That would be swell. My coach ended up having to go back to Missouri because his wife went into labor with their first baby so I’m on my own, staying in a boardinghouse down by the university.”
“We can go somewhere nearby.”
“Count me in.”
Moments later, Helen gathered outside on the sidewalk with Betty, Caroline, and a tall man introduced as Howard, Caroline’s husband. The rain had held off and the wind that buffeted them felt chilly yet refreshing. “I’ll bet we can find a place to eat if we head toward the city,” Betty said, pointing toward lights down the street. Tidye had needed to go home, but the rest of the group set off in that direction.
“Goodness, I think I need to take four steps to every one of yours,” said Betty, skipping to keep pace with Helen.
“Sorry.” Helen slowed, her face reddening. She took a look at Betty, marveling that the woman whose face had graced her childhood bedroom’s wall in Fulton for years was now beside her—in the flesh!
“Don’t be sorry. Your long stride is”—Betty shook her head—“amazing.”
“Thanks.” Helen was searching her mind for what she could say, something interesting and witty, when they passed a little joint with a sign lit up in the window saying BAR.
“What do you think? How about we head in here?” Betty asked.
“That’s certainly not where my coach and his wife take me after races.” Helen laughed and then pointed to a placard in the window: No unescorted ladies will be served. “But what about that?”
“You forget, we’ve got Howard with us,” Betty said.
Caroline and Howard lagged behind, walking arm in arm, so close their heads practically touched, and Helen studied them with a dart of longing. To be a competitive athlete and have found love—what a lucky life Caroline led.
“If this is what you city folks do, then count me in,” Helen said as they entered the low-ceilinged dim interior. Only a few men sat at stools around the bar and the handful of tables were open. Along with a haze of cigarette smoke, a scratchy recording of “Blue Moon” drifted over the place from a gramophone. Howard left the women as he went off to find the men’s restroom, and Betty plunked her pocketbook onto a table and began to pull off her coat.
“Think they serve food here? I’m famished,” Helen said.
“If they do, I’m not sure you’ll want to eat it,” Caroline answered, pulling a lipstick from her handbag and quickly tracing it over her lips.
Helen chuckled. “You’d be surprised. I’ll eat anything.”
“We’ll just have one drink and then go find food.”
A bartender arrived at their table wiping his hands on the small apron he wore around his thick waist. “Well, well, what are the three of you doing in a place like this?”
Betty said, “We just won races up the street at the armory. We’re here to celebrate.”
The man cocked an eyebrow. “What kinda races?”
“Running. You can read all about it in tomorrow’s papers,” Helen said.
“We don’t serve unescorted dames here. I could lose my license,” the bartender growled.
“Well, we’re in luck then, because here comes my husband.” Caroline pointed to Howard as he reappeared.
“You’re with these ladies?” the bartender asked Howard, making it clear by his unamused expression that he considered Caroline, Betty, and Helen to be anything but ladies.
“I am.” Howard smirked at the women, removing his fedora with a flourish.
“Fine. What’ll it be?”
“We’ll have three extra-dry martinis,” Betty said without looking at a menu. “I’ll take extra olives in mine, please.”
“You got it,” the man said, glaring at Betty before turning to Howard. “You?”
“A Manhattan, please.”
The bartender gave them all a final contemptuous look and lumbered to the bar. Caroline wrinkled her nose. “I almost wish Howard wasn’t with us, just so we could have picked more of a fight with him.”
“I’d rather not have to bail you out of jail, my dear,” Howard said.
“What’s in a martini, anyway?” Helen asked.
“Don’t worry, you’ll like it.” Betty lit a cigarette.
Helen looked around at the dark walls of the bar and the scuffed floor and shrugged. She pulled a cocktail napkin closer and began to tear little pieces off its corner. “You should have seen the list of things my coach left me to think about before my race. A lot of it is stuff he usually does for me, like asking about the schedule, how many qualify from each heat to advance, all those details. And then there are strategy suggestions like making sure I pay attention to my early throws because those count and trying to avoid the outside lanes on the track.” By now she had torn the napkin to shreds, and she knew she was talking too much, but she couldn’t stop. “He also wrote, ‘The best always get beat—prolong it as long as possible.’”
Betty swept the destroyed napkin into her palm before dumping it into her pocket. “Don’t worry. At some point, everyone loses. That’s what competition is all about.”
Helen chewed on her lower lip, grateful
