“So Maizie is one-eighth colored?”
“Yes. Your math is quite keen. Does it really matter, Dr. Charing?”
“I wish it didn’t, Mr. Glidewell,” said Dr. Charing. “Why doesn’t she just change her name? Pass as white. Wouldn’t that make sense?”
James hesitated for a minute. He knew the answer and he hoped that Dr. Charing would understand. “If she did that, she would be denying her heritage. Maizie is proud of who she is, and she should be. And so are we. She is Maizie. We love her. If her skin were darker, we would feel the same.”
Chapter 102
The Glidewell Team
End of April 1935
A week before the running of the Kentucky Derby, the city of Louisville was ramping up. Staffs of hotels, restaurants, and other venues were preparing for the economic boom that the Derby brought every year. Bars, jazz clubs, and street corners were alive with energetic crowds and music.
The Glidewell team was hard at work, all systems go. Having done very well in the stake races in Arkansas, the team had an air of confidence. James had arrived a few days earlier to help with the team’s management, meet connected horse breeders, and take in the excitement of having a contender in the mix. This was what he had been dreaming about for decades: a horse and jockey who could compete in this premiere event.
James was staying at the Brown Hotel awaiting the arrival of Mary and Maizie. The hotel met James with some fanfare. A horseshoe-shaped spray of red roses right by the registration desk wished the Glidewell team good luck in the Kentucky Derby. In his room was a box of chocolates and a bottle of champagne “courtesy of the management.” James heard “Glidewell’s Glory Be” falling from the lips of other hotel guests. His pride swelled in those moments.
Glory Be was running well on the Churchill Downs dirt track, the stallion appearing strong and capable. He had turned into a well-developed racer with a knack for finding the finish line before the rest of the field. He rarely threw his head at the start; the stallion knew what to expect. He didn’t like strangers telling him what to do, but Tommy had no problem handling the beautiful thoroughbred. Glory Be had a willful nature but was accepting of a master who understood him and exerted control. Tommy did. Glory was a hell of a horse, and he was Tommy’s. There was something else about Glory Be that set him apart from the others this spring—the horse wanted to win and knew how to do it.
Capp had been working hard all spring. He was Glory Be’s other workout rider. Like Tommy, Capp knew how to handle him. He took him easy around the track, gradually building up speed. Capp’s workouts were for endurance building. Glory Be’s endurance was good, and all that needed to be done was maintain it. So every day Tommy and Capp worked with the horse, making sure there were no errors in training that could result in an injury. Corky, Ernesto, and Fritz, a third Glidewell stable hand, worked three other Glidewell horses brought to Churchill Downs for development. They served as grooms in Hench’s barn; the entire Glidewell team was on the job.
On the Wednesday before Mary and Maizie were due to arrive, Capp was working in the barn, hanging tack, and making sure Glory Be’s every need was met. He was anxious for Maizie to arrive so he could show her around and have her observe how much Glory Be had matured. And there was that other thing: he missed her. Leaving the barn around five in the afternoon, Capp felt weary and decided he’d return to the bunkhouse for a shower and nap before dinner in town. There was much to discuss with James, and a nice, quiet dinner was the way to do it.
As he walked to the bunkhouse, he sensed someone behind him. Turning around, he saw that it was Tilly. She was with Bob Hench’s young stable hand, Skip. Just as Capp arrived at the bunkhouse door, Tilly yelled, “Capp, wait up. Skip and I want to tell you something.” Capp paid no attention, walked through the bunkhouse door, and closed it behind him. Before he could get to his dresser and find some clean clothes, Skip and Tilly were standing at the end of his bed in the empty bunkhouse.
“Tilly, you shouldn’t be in here.”
“Who says?”
“It’s a men’s bunkhouse.”
“No one really cares, right, Skip?” Capp could tell Skip had been drinking.
“Skip, you go. Sober up somewhere. Don’t let Bob see you this way. Tilly doesn’t care if you lose your job, but I do. Now get out of here,” said Capp. Skip pulled his arm from Tilly’s grip and left.
“Oh Capp. Look at you all mad. Now why you want to scare my little boyfriend away?”
“Boyfriend? He gonna lease your farm? Tilly, what’s wrong with you?”
“Ah, Capp. I’m just gettin’ excited about the Derby. I hear your horse did well in Arkansas. I just wanted to come and congratulate you. Want some gum?”
Capp shook his head. “Leave, Tilly. I’m saying it nice. Please.”
“Capp, let’s go have a swig of whiskey. I got some. Just you and me.”
“Leave me alone. Now, get out!”
Tilly stood still. Her demeanor became a slow burn, getting hotter as it radiated through her. She walked up to Capp and slapped him hard on his left cheek. Capp stepped back and put his hand on his jaw. Then, catching him off guard, she kneed him in the groin. Capp bent over in agony. Through his pain and anger, he said in a halting, breathless, whisper, “Tilly, get the hell out of here,” his words peppered with pain.
She took a flask from her coat pocket and put it to her lips and took a swig. Holding the whiskey in her mouth, she spit
