Flygirl (18 page)

“Ready when you are.”

Patsy and Lily have joined with some of the girls from the barracks next door to take us into town. One of the girls is from Houston. She drove to training and keeps her car at the field. I haven't spent much time in the actual town of Sweetwater. I feel more comfortable on the base, where I don't have to worry about NO COLOREDS signs or worse. Still, I'm feeling good after my successful swim lesson, and I desperately want to get Mama, Grandy, and the boys something nice for Christmas.

The ride into town is chilly, chillier than it has been in Sweetwater since we first arrived. Bad enough it's December, but the cold gets even worse at night. On the open plains, it drops twenty degrees or more when the sun sets. “I'm going to have to buy myself another sweater,” I tell Lily as we climb out of the car.

“We're the same size. I've got a dozen of them in one of my trunks,” she says. “You can have whatever you need.”

The rest of us stop in our tracks. “You still have your steamer trunks?” Patsy asks. “I thought they made everyone ship them back home after the first day.”

Lily blushes deep red. “My mother was horrified at the thought of leaving me out in the ‘wilds of America' improperly dressed. She doesn't know about Urban's turbans, or the zoot suits, or anything. It would kill her. So my clothes are in storage down at the train station. Don't tell anyone at the base.” She shakes her head. “It really is too much.”

We laugh and head off down Main Street to see what we can see. “I think I'm going to buy a new tablecloth for Mrs. Harper,” Patsy says. “She was the sweetest little lady you could ever meet. Ran the boardinghouse in Florida where I lived last season with my air show. Closest thing I've got left to family, next to you girls.”

“Oh, Patsy,” Lily says. We squeeze her hands and she squeezes back.

“The life of a wing-walking gypsy, eh?”

“There's a linens shop just down the road,” Lily offers. “I'm sure you can find something there.”

“Join me?” Patsy asks us.

“Oh, no, I've got to find the drugstore and see if they have Mother's favorite perfume. It's a tradition, every Hanukkah.”

“What about you, Jones? Anything on your list in the way of linens?”

I shrug. “My mother might be able to use a new towel or two.”

“Or maybe an apron?” Patsy suggests with an encouraging waggle of her eyebrows. I laugh.

“Maybe. But it would be nice to get her something that didn't remind her of all the work she has to do.”

“There's always perfume,” Lily suggests. The thought makes me laugh again.

“You don't know my mother. She'd say, ‘Ida Mae, God gave us soap to keep us clean. Why do I need to cover it up with lilacs or lilies?' Oh, no offense, Lily,” I add. But Patsy and Lily are both laughing.

“Then I guess bubble bath is out of the question.”

“I guess so,” I admit. “I really haven't thought of anything good, except for an awl for my grandfather. There's a hardware store around here somewhere, right?”

Lily shrugs. “I suppose so, but we'll have to ask.” She looks at her watch. “We'll have to hurry, too, if we want to get back to base and finish our homework before dinner.”

“Well, that settles it, musketeers,” Patsy announces. “One for one and all for themselves. Meet you back here in forty-five minutes, presents or no presents. I've got a tablecloth to hunt down.”

We all nod and walk off in our separate directions. I haven't gone far down the sidewalk before I realize that I have no direction. Sweetwater is a small town, so I imagine I can manage to find the hardware store without any help. There just aren't that many streets to walk down. But this is the first time I've been alone in Texas since I got here and it makes me nervous. As long as Lily and Patsy are with me, I blend in and look like I belong. But the minute they disappear into their storefronts, I can't help but start seeing the WHITES ONLY signs hanging in every window.

A second look tells me it's not every store, just the nice ones where Lily and Patsy have gone. I remind myself who I'm supposed to be and head off down the street once again. I doubt there are two hardware stores on Main Street.

The street is full of strollers, window-shopping and gathering Christmas gifts. A little towheaded kid runs by me in dungarees and a camel jacket. “Hey, Tigger!” he shouts. I jump, then realize he's not talking to me. A little brindle-striped dog has just rounded the corner. The boy doesn't see him. He looks about close to tears. “Tigger, where are you?”

I swallow my fear and call to the boy. “Don't worry, he's just over there.” I point to where the dog is standing in the shadow of a lamppost, his pink tongue lolling as if he is laughing at the whole adventure. The boy grins at me.

“Thanks, lady. I thought he was lost for sure.”

I smile back. The boy reminds me of Abel. “You'd better go fetch him,” I say.

“Hey, you're one of them army airplane ladies, aintcha? Out at the base?”

My smile gets even bigger. “That's right. I'm training to be a WASP.”

The boy's eyes gleam with what I mistake for enthusiasm. Too late, I realize, it's mischief. “My mama says the WASP are easy women. Loose as a goose, she says. Is that true?”

My smile drops into a deep frown. An angry fizzle fills my chest, but there's no point taking it out on a child. I don't let my shock show on my face. “Son, your dog's getting away.”

The kid turns to see Tigger disappear around the corner. Without another word to me, he takes off after the dog, shouting its name.

Half a block later, I find the hardware store. I walk in through the front door and think about how Grandy always has to use the rear entrance at the big hardware store back home or shop at the smaller Negro-owned one outside of town. I hold my head up high, so high that I almost run into a stock boy.

“Whoa, sorry, miss,” the kid says. He can't be more than fifteen. I feel like a real adult compared to him, and I act like one.

“That's quite all right, young man,” I say. “But maybe you can help me. I'm looking for an awl.”

“An awl?” The boy's face screws up, and for a moment I think he doesn't know what I mean.

“Yes, an awl. You know, for boring holes in wood?”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he says, sounding insulted. “I'm just trying to think of where I put them.” He smiles self-consciously. “I've been here four weeks, and I'm still trying to get the inventory down right. You might ask Jacob, up front. He's real good at recalling the stock.”

“Thank you.” I squeeze down a narrow aisle of penny nail bins and make my way to the counter. A colored farmer is standing in line before me, overalls dusted with clay, rough hands holding a new length of chain out to the store clerk. The look of distaste on the clerk's face is evident. I've seen that look before, aimed at me.

“Sorry, MacIntyre, we don't have any more like that.”

“I don't want to buy more. I want to return it. You sold me more than I need.”

“We don't take returns on cut chain, boy, you know that.”

It burns me to hear a man as old as my grandfather called “boy.” But I duck my head, the way I've always done, and listen, and take it. And so does the farmer, MacIntyre.

“Can I trade for it, then? I could use some nails for the barn door.”

The store clerk shakes his head. “Sorry. May I help you, miss?”

It takes a second for me to realize he is talking to me. It's as if the farmer and his complaint no longer exist.

“Uh, yes. I'd like to buy an awl. The best you have.”

“Oh, those are in the stockroom. I'll be right back. Anything else before I go?”

I look at the chain in the farmer's hands. “Yes. I actually need a piece of chain like that one. How long did you say it is?”

The farmer looks startled. He takes his hat off to me and lowers his eyes. “It's two feet, ma'am. Two feet, seven inches.”

I smile brightly. “Why, that's perfect. That'll chain my granddaddy's shed door perfectly!” I turn to the clerk and frown just as darkly as my smile had been bright. “Oh, but you said you're out of that chain, didn't you?”

The clerk hesitates. “That's right. But we've got other types of chain in the back.”

“Oh, no. That one was the perfect size. Well, that's too bad. Maybe I'll wait and buy the awl and the chain together somewhere else.”

Evidently, there is a second hardware store in town, because the clerk suddenly looks inspired.

“I tell you what. Old MacIntyre here was just about to trade in that piece of chain for some nails, weren't you, boy?”

MacIntyre has the dignity not to nod. He just stares at the store clerk, who goes a bit pale beneath the glare.

“Well, why don't we do this, then. Give me that there piece of chain, boy, and pick out the nails you need. A quarter pound. Not an ounce more, mind you, and we'll call it even. And ma'am, you can have your chain and your awl right here, easy as pie. That is, if you don't mind a chain that's been touched by a nigger.”

I smile brightly again, but this time, it doesn't reach my eyes. “I guess it'll have to do.”

MacIntyre shakes his head and drops the chain on the counter. The clerk watches over him as he measures out a quarter pound of nails. It bothers me enough that I clear my throat. “I really am in a bit of a hurry,” I say.

“Oh, of course.” The clerk takes a last look at the farmer and hurries back to the stockroom.

MacIntyre takes his time filling the little paper sack with nails, but when he is done, it weighs exactly a quarter of a pound. He puts his hat back on and nods without looking at me. I do my best to ignore him, like a white lady should, but I can't help a little smile.

He passes close to me as he leaves the store. In a voice so quiet I barely hear him, he says, “Child, you gonna get yourself killed, or worse, doing what you're doing.”

I look at him in surprise and I know that he sees me for what I am—a colored girl playing at being white. My stomach twists and I feel my cheeks start to burn. I look up and the stock boy is standing in the aisle, watching us. The old farmer takes the chain off the counter and drops it into my hands. “Get on out of here, now,” he says. The door swings shut behind him, bell chiming as it closes.

My heart pounds in my ears and I drop the chain. The jangle of metal makes the stock boy jump. He rushes to pick it up, but his eyes are on me. I feel cold. And now this skinny little white boy is staring at me like an ape in the zoo.

The clerk abruptly reappears, all smiles, with my awl. His face falls when he sees the chain on the floor.

“Damn it, Henry,” he says to the stock boy. “Sorry, ma'am. Watch your step there. I've got that awl for you.”

I can't reply for fear that my voice will shake, and then what will this white man think? The stock boy, Henry, puts the chain on the counter.

I swallow hard. Move, Ida, before the stock boy says anything. But my legs feel weak. Killed, or worse, the farmer said. I stumble on a knot in the wooden floor and have to catch myself.

“Ma'am,” the clerk says with concern, “are you all right?”

“No . . . I . . . I . . . ” I fumble through my purse for my money. Calm down, Ida, I plead with myself. He's just a stock boy. Even if he did hear what the farmer said, he's a kid. I'm a woman. A white woman. Just stick with it.

It's harder than any flight maneuver I've ever peformed, but I manage to find my wallet and pay hurriedly, sweat on my brow, my hands shaking. “Thank you.” My voice comes out in a dry whisper.

The clerk frowns. “I can call a doctor for you—”

“No! I'm fine, just fine.” I force myself not to glance back at the stock boy as I rush past him and back outside into the cool December air. I can't hear anything over the sound of blood rushing in my ears. My face is hot. Every moment in the open street feels dangerous. It takes all of my willpower not to break into a run.

Suddenly, Patsy and Lily are there.

“There's our girl,” Patsy exclaims. But one look at me brings a frown to her face.

“Oh, no! Are you sick, Ida?” Lily asks out of concern.

I shake my head. “No, no. Just tired.” My voice is high with strain.

“You poor dear, you do look exhausted. Let's get her home.” Patsy steers us toward the car where the other girls are waiting.

Their concern soon fades into talk of the holiday to come. I take my seat in the back and smile when necessary, but it's a false smile. Not until we reach the gates of Avenger Field do I start to breathe again. Sweetwater isn't safe for a colored girl like me. One word from that stock boy, or the farmer, or someone else who can see me for what I am and I'm finished. Texas isn't kind to coloreds. Grandy tried to tell me that. From now on, I'll stick to the base. But inside, I know even New Orleans won't be the same for me anymore. I'll only feel safe in the sky.