Flygirl (6 page)

It's my turn to drop my eyes shyly. My stomach turns over and my skin prickles as a blush of shame spreads over me. I don't feel white, but I do feel less like Ida Mae. I wait in the hall in the hard wooden chair and wonder if I've made a mistake. After all, if she's here, maybe they would take me as I am, too. And then I could talk to this woman. My palms start to sweat. This is going to be harder than I thought.

A minute later, the office door opens and a girl with a milkmaid complexion and light brown hair comes out of her interview smiling in her Sunday best. She turns her broad smile on me. “Good luck!” she says, and she hurries toward the elevator.

“Janet Weakes,” the secretary calls. Janet Weakes is the colored woman. She nods and goes into the office, shutting the door behind her.

Her interview does not take long. Three minutes later she emerges, her head held high, but her face holds the opposite of the smile the milkmaid wore. She does not look at me or at the secretary, just shakes her head and waits for the elevator to arrive.

I watch her back, her shoulders, the chestnut brown legs beneath her charcoal gray dress suit. And I know that she's been turned away because of that deep brown skin. I take a tissue from my purse and fiddle with it, trying to dry my palms and stop the feeling that ants are marching up and down my spine. I wish Jolene was here. But she's not. I guess that's what it means to pass for white—suddenly, you're all alone.

“Ida Mae Jones,” the secretary calls out.

My knees go weak, but I stand. I clutch my purse, my makeshift pilot's license a good luck charm in my hands. You do want to fly, don't you? The voice is Jolene's, or maybe it's my father. I can't tell. All I know is the answer is yes.

 

The interviewer has a real serious look on her face, like Mama when I'd bring home a not-so-good grade. I hesitate inside the doorway, drop a small curtsy, then bring it up short, realizing I'll look like the help that way instead of a white lady pilot.

The woman sitting behind the desk is fair-skinned, with dark hair cut into an efficient if unfashionable bob and a sprinkling of freckles. She looks more like a flapper than a military officer. In fact, she's not wearing a uniform, just a skirt suit of navy blue wool.

“You know,” she says abruptly, “I've met more than a few good women pilots out there . . . but good flying isn't the only qualification. It's a shame.” She looks past me into the hallway. I follow her gaze and let the door shut behind me. The colored woman has come and gone, but it looks like she's on both of our minds.

“Ma'am,” I say, and tug my gloves off my hands.

She looks up at me. “Say, nice hat.” I feel myself blush and mutter a thank-you. So much for my newfound confidence.

“Elisabeth Murphy,” the interviewer introduces herself, standing up behind the desk. I come forward to take her outstretched hand and curse myself for taking off my gloves. What if her skin is fairer against mine? I smile and shake her hand, hoping to distract her.

“Ida Mae Jones.” I don't know if it's my smile or the fact that I'm a hundred shades lighter than the lady who just left, but Elisabeth Murphy doesn't seem to realize she's shaking hands with a colored housemaid.

“Pleasure, Miss Jones. It is ‘miss,' I take it? Few husbands allow their wives the freedom to fly, let alone join the armed services.”

I laugh in nervous relief and take the offered chair. “Oh, it's ‘miss,' all right. Much to my mother's dismay.”

Elisabeth Murphy laughs. “Ah, yes, the single woman's burden, a lovingly over-involved mother. What does she say about you being here today?”

I take a deep breath. I don't know what I expected Uncle Sam to ask me today, but this is not it.

“Actually, ma'am, she doesn't know. I mean, she knows about the program. I couldn't help but tell her, but I don't want her to know about this until it's for sure. She's . . . well, it'd take some doing for her to see another child off to war as a good thing. So she doesn't really know.”

I study my shoes, embarrassed by how young I must sound. I blush and my skin gets even darker when I think about the truth. How angry my mother would be at me for using Daddy's license to be somebody I'm not. How she'd just die inside if she knew I was playing white.

“You know, maybe this was a mistake.” I start to rise, clutching at my purse, trying to pull back on my gloves. My face is hot, my skin prickling. Whatever confidence made me think I could do this is gone. That feeling of certainty I felt in the attic, holding Daddy's pilot's license, has left me, replaced with a cold, stinging sureness that I am about to get into more trouble than I can possibly handle.

“I can't say I don't understand, Miss Jones, but the type of pilots we need are getting hard to come by. Lots of eager girls, but not ones with the right attitude. You came in here and you curtsied, first thing. That's something I don't see every day, except on the base, where we salute our superiors. It shows a humility a lot of kids don't have today. A humility our boys are learning every day we fight overseas. It'd be a shame if we didn't at least finish the interview and see where it goes. Who knows, maybe your mother will come around if she knows that you are special enough to make it into the WASP.”

I can't believe my ears. Here's this white lady, smiling encouragingly at me. She's come all the way from Washington, D.C. And she wants me. Ida Mae Jones.

Elisabeth Murphy nods at the chair.

I close my eyes.
Mama, forgive me.

I follow Mrs. Murphy's lead. She sits down. I slowly, slowly follow.

“Good. Now, that was the hard part. Being sure you want to be here. So, convince me. What makes this worthwhile to you? It's a hard life; you might not make it through training. Most girls don't. And people in your hometown will not understand. But I know you know that already. So why, Miss Ida Mae Jones? Why do you want to be a WASP?”

I swallow hard, but the answer is easy. “Because, Miss Murphy. I want to fly again. I want to fly.”

Elisabeth Murphy nods slowly. “That's not good enough.”

I feel myself start to blush again. Stop it, Ida Mae, don't show this woman who you are, don't give it away now, now that you've decided to stay. And then I realize, that's it, show her
who
I am, not what I am. I am Ida Mae Jones of Slidell, Louisiana. Even if I'm playing at being white, even if I paint myself blue, I am still the child of my parents, still that little girl who loves her brother and loves to fly.

“My daddy brought home a Curtiss JN-4 when I was eleven years old. He taught me how to fly her, and that plane was my first real friend, aside from my brother Thomas. Daddy used to say the only time we are free is when our feet are off the ground.”

“Well, a lot of people don't think women can fly,” Elisabeth Murphy says. “Certainly not military planes. But that's what the WASP are here to do—prove them wrong.”

“Yes, ma'am.” I smile self-consciously. Pay attention, Ida Mae. Don't forget what line you're walking. I take a deep breath and start again.

“So, when the war started, and the Japanese bombed our own ships and our own soil, my brother went off to fight to keep us free in his way. He's doing his part, and I want to do mine. Now, I can stay at home stretching flour rations and collecting nylons, or I can do what God and my daddy taught me to do. I can fly. I can fly straight and far or however the army needs me to. I learn quick and well. And I just know, if you give me a chance, I can do as good a job or better than any—” I have to stop myself from saying “white woman.”

Elisabeth Murphy smiles. “Go ahead, finish your sentence. ‘Better than any man.'” She grins more broadly. “Good. You need that kind of spirit. The army is a hard place for a woman, Miss Jones. And the Women Airforce Service Pilot program is even harder. We have a lot to prove. The men don't think we have it in us to fly, let alone fly for the government. We'll show them otherwise, but it takes determination and skill. We can teach you the skills. But you have to bring the rest.”

She looks at me for a long moment, and I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. Slowly, my shoulders relax. What am I first, I wonder, a woman or colored?

“Don't look so concerned, Miss Jones. Tell your mother there's a good chance you'll wash out in the first month, and you'll be home with your tail between your legs ready to listen to all of her ‘told you so's' and settle down to make fat, happy babies.”

Elisabeth Murphy flips through the files on her desk. I resist the urge to mop my forehead with the handkerchief tucked into my handbag.

She eyes me. “But I don't think so. Now, did you bring your license?”

My heart skips a beat. “Yes, ma'am.” I feel like I'm moving in molasses when I hand Daddy's license over to her. I hope the glue stays stuck, I hope the typing looks official. I hope a lifetime's worth of hoping. And then she's nodding and handing it back to me.

“Congratulations. This is only the first step.” She thrusts out her hand. I take it, bewildered.

“Expect papers to arrive in about a week. If they give you the final go-ahead, training for the next class starts in one month. Texas. Ever been?”

I shake my head slowly, dazed. She shrugs and hands me her card. “Well, you'll get enough of it soon. You can reach me at that address if you, or that mother of yours, have any questions.”

I rise to my feet for the second time, light-headed with disbelief. I forget myself and curtsy again. “Thank you, ma'am. Thank you very much.”

I want to whoop for joy. A grin slides across my face. Jolene will never believe this. Not until there is a letter in my hand signed by President Roosevelt himself. And even then, she'll think I'm fooling.

“There's that curtsy again. Good luck, Miss Jones.” Elisabeth Murphy opens the door. “You'll need it.”

“Mama, there's a white lady coming up the walk.” I can hear Abel's voice ring out, calling to Mama in another part of the house. Sound travels farther than I ever thought, out here in the strawberry fields. I turn around to see who's been following me from the turn off the road. It takes a second for me to realize who he's talking about. Me.

I walk down the little road that becomes our driveway, gloves on my hands and Mrs. Wilson's hat still perched on top of my head, my face half hidden behind the blue veil . . . I forgot to change, I wanted to get home so bad. Well, there's nothing to do about it now. I can bring the hat and stole back tomorrow morning. The stockings feel silky against my legs. No wonder Jolene loves them so much. I'll have to wash them and give them back to her scented with lavender perfume to say thank you.

The farmhouse door opens up and Mama steps out on the porch. The minute she looks at me, I know she doesn't see a white lady. She sees something else. Her face goes blank.

“Hi, Mama,” I say, and close the last few feet between me and the front steps. She lets me get halfway up, her hands resting lightly clasped in front of her apron. I smile up at her and she slaps me. Hard. Tears fill my eyes.

“Mama!”

“Don't you ‘mama' me, Ida Mae Jones. One look and I can tell what you've been doing. Playing at that same mess as your daddy's people. Do you think white folks don't know? Do you think they can't tell what you are? A high yellow putting on airs and a borrowed hat.”

She comes toward me, all the way to the last step, and holds on to the banister, as if she is on a ship and I have gone overboard, lost at sea.

“You take back that hat and those stockings and whatever ideas have gotten into your head, girl. You are part of
this
family. All the clothes in the world can't change that.”

I blink back my tears. My mouth opens, but I don't know what to say. “I didn't think . . .”

And then I see the tears in my mother's eyes.

The porch door swings open and Abel peeks out. “Ida?”

The look Mama gives him sends him scampering away. I hear the side door slam open and shut and I know he's gone to find Grandy. I drop to my knees in the dust of the driveway, the gravel scraping the tender stockings on my legs. I can't look at anything but the gloves on my hands. Mama's Sunday gloves.

I hear Mama go back up the stairs. The front door creaks and she's gone.

“Go clean yourself up, Ida,” Grandy says as he comes around the side of the house, his work boots crunching on the gravel. “Then you can explain yourself.” I look up and Abel is hiding, scared, behind Grandy's legs. Neither of them reaches to help me as I pull myself up to my feet. No one holds the door for me when I follow them inside.