At Every Turn by Anne Mateer

first, ten laps each. Then the winners will race for fifty miles. The homestretch is a bit wider than the backstretch, so you have to watch yourself there. The turns are wider still, so there is room for shifting position. Obviously we can’t practice banked turns on this track, so we’ll just have to do our best for now. If I decide to let you drive—and I’m not saying yet that I will—there will be some practice rounds on the track to work out the kinks.”
    “Okay.” I stared out over the hood of the car. The metal buckles of the leather straps cinched over the hood gleamed in the sunlight.
    “For now, let’s just focus on speed. Get her up above seventy and then slowly build. Ready?” He pulled his goggles over his eyes. I did the same. Then he hopped from the car and cranked the engine. The roar of it sparking to life chased every last butterfly from my being.

    I’d thought all my previous excursions would have prepared me for our practice runs. I was wrong. By the time we returned home four hours later, my legs shook, my arms ached, my head pounded.
    But Webster declared me a success. Now I only had to find a way to Chicago.
    It took every ounce of strength and determination I possessed to lift my feet up each step and lumber into my bedroom. It hurt even to press the button to call for Betsy.
    “Would you please run a hot bath?” I asked when she appeared in my bedroom.
    “Yes, miss.” Her eyes questioned, but I avoided any answers.
    “And would you bring up a tray of light lunch, please? For after my bath.”
    “Of course.” She disappeared to do my bidding.
    I sank to the edge of my bed, fighting the pull of the mattress, the comfort of a short nap. Or a long one. I refused to show weakness. Webster would be watching. I had to revive.
    A soak in steaming water soothed my muscles and cleared my head. By the time I consumed the light luncheon on my tray, I felt quite my usual self again. Or at least no more weary than after my typical drives. And I’d come up with a plan.

    Webster eyed me as I climbed into my Runabout. I took care not to wince as I lifted my arms. Settled behind the windscreen, I relaxed. At least until Webster appeared outside my window.
    He squinted. “What are you up to now?”
    “I’m off to secure my trip to Chicago.”
    His expression turned pensive. He sighed out a long breath. “I guess everything depends on that, doesn’t it?”
    “Father will concede. I feel sure. He only tried to keep it a secret so Mother wouldn’t object. But she’s still in bed with the bee sting.”
    “Whatever you say.” He patted the hood of my car as if it were the haunches of a Thoroughbred.
    I fired up the engine and took off toward town.

    “Good afternoon, Father.” I sauntered into his office and planted a kiss on his cheek.
    He leaned back in his chair. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
    I sat and smoothed the green silk skirt over my knees, flicked a piece of lint from the fabric. “Actually, I have a request.”
    “I told you, Ally. No money for that scheme of yours.”
    I sat silent for a moment, my heart aching. Didn’t he care that this was important to me? “Why? Help me understand.”
    He fished a cigar from the box on the desk. “We’ve been through this before, Ally girl.”
    “Not really. Explain why this incenses you so when you don’t bat an eye about Mother’s charitable work.”
    He puffed on his cigar. One hand rubbed across his forehead. “I don’t trust that man.”
    “Who?”
    “Pastor Swan.”
    “Did he try to cheat you?”
    “No.”
    “Did he malign you?”
    “No.”
    “What then?”
    “I don’t know if I can even explain. It’s just that my father instilled in me the need to be independent. And it’s served me well.”
    I opened my mouth, but he wouldn’t let me interrupt.
    “Oh, it’s fine for you women, although your mother doesn’t see the need for religion to make her happy.”
    My eyebrows arched. Happy? Not exactly the word