“So where are we going?” Louise asked.
“Swing Street, girl.”
Swing Street. Louise had heard of it—the blocks famous for clubs and live music. A shiver of anticipation skipped up her spine. She needed to forget about money, Dee Boeckmann, Malden, even her family. Just for a night. She needed to live in the moment because New York could be the end of the line. In a few days, she could be back at home, working for Mrs. Clark and reading about the team heading to Berlin in the newspapers.
They headed along Seventh Avenue until they reached Fifty-Second Street. Here, neon signs created halos of red, yellow, and bright green, bathing the clusters of brownstones lining the narrow street. The croon of saxophones and piano melodies seeped out from open basement doors and windows. Tidye adjusted their pace to match the saunter of others as they trawled the block, but it wasn’t the glorious sense of escape that brought Louise up short—it was the people! Clusters of black and white people mingled along sidewalks. Louise had never seen such a thing. She was used to being the only black woman in school, at track meets, or at work, so this was a whole new world.
And then there was the fact that everyone was wearing such beautiful clothing. Back in the hotel room, Louise’s new frock had made her feel attractive and daring with its low neckline and trim silhouette, but now, surrounded by the other club-goers, she realized she looked plain and conservative. Gauzy sweeping flared hems, elegant T-strap heels, gowns of metallic lamé and crepe de chine—everyone looked so confident, so sophisticated. The heat lent the city an intimacy that unsettled Louise, but it also contained a certain allure. So much slick bare skin everywhere. Some of the women’s gowns revealed long, smooth bare backs. Men with their shirtsleeves rolled up past their elbows leaned against the brick walls, chatting and smoking with one another. These folks were definitely not on their way to Sunday-morning church services!
Laughter and the clink of glasses floated past them. An easygoing sense of joy suffused the air. Louise never traveled into Boston at night, so the close press of club-goers, the music, the sense of festivity—it was all new to her. Tonight, she could be whoever she wanted.
“HERE WE ARE,” Tidye said, steering them underneath a flashing sign and into a dark doorway. “Get ready to meet some of the best athletes in the country. And they’re college men,” she added in an excited whisper.
Inside, music, heat, and cigarette smoke left Louise dizzy and overwhelmed.
“Tidye,” a deep voice called, and a tall black man with wavy dark hair and a thin mustache stood and waved.
“Hey, Ralph, hey, fellas,” Tidye cooed. Four other black men rose, all tipping their hats, and Tidye beamed. “This here’s Louise, but she’s the Malden Meteor to all of you.”
The group chuckled appreciatively and Louise shook hands, squinting to see each face in the candlelight from the votive in the center of the table. Surrounding them sat white and black men with double-breasted striped suits and broad shoulders, and women with perfectly coiffed hairdos and evening gowns trimmed with beads that caught the light enticingly. It all felt forbidden and risky, and the fact that no one else seemed to notice the novelty made Louise feel like she was in a strange world, but the racket of worries and sense of disconnect in her head dissolved as one of the men leaned forward, smiling, the bright white of his teeth leaving Louise dazzled. “I’m Mack. How about some champagne to celebrate your races last weekend?” he said.
She nodded and he raised his arm to get a nearby waitress’s attention. As Louise watched Mack, she glimpsed Tidye on the other side of him, gazing at him hungrily. The waitress strolled over to their table and stood with a hand on her hip.
“I’ll take a glass of champagne for the lady, please,” he said, grinning at Louise. In the blaze of Mack’s attention, Louise’s whole body warmed by several degrees, and when he didn’t turn to ask Tidye about a drink, she felt a small flicker of satisfaction.
“Louise, you’ve probably never had champagne before, have you?” Tidye asked loudly, a sharp edge in her voice, as the waitress sashayed back toward the bar.
Louise smiled, immune to Tidye’s barb. Mack was interested in her and the realization felt like the best prize in the world.
“New York City is as fine a place to try it as any other,” Mack said, and everyone laughed good-naturedly.
Ralph leaned back in his seat, crossing one foot over the other. “Tidye, you want some champagne too?” When she nodded, he signaled to the waitress for one more before turning back to the table. “We’ve been all over Midtown today drumming up funds with some suits from the AOC. Thanks to having Mr. Golden Boy with us, I think we got plenty.”
“I thought your team didn’t need to do any fund-raising,” Tidye said.
“They have us out there hustling for the General Fund. When you’ve got a fella like this, someone who everyone wants to meet, you make sure you use him.” Ralph slapped the shoulder of the man sitting next to him, a man whom Louise recognized from the newspapers. Jesse Owens.
Louise would have known his wide toothy grin anywhere. The men clinked their glasses of beer against his. Jesse winked at her over the rim of his beer and her face heated. In his lightweight gray suit and fedora, he looked like any other good-looking young man, but ever since his remarkable performance the prior year at the Big Ten track meet in Michigan, at which he had set several world records all within the course of one hour, he was whom everyone talked about. Even back home, Junior talked less
