Flygirl (8 page)

There's ham casserole for dinner, the last of the meat from Sunday's big meal, with noodles and bread crumbs and mayonnaise in the sauce. Usually, everyone likes ham casserole. It's hot and tasty and sticks to your ribs. Tonight, I push it around on my plate, and I'm not alone.

Mama stares at her plate.

Abel pokes at his food. He's always either hungry as a wolf or finicky as a cat. Tonight's got him jumpy.

Only Grandy seems to have an appetite. He chases forkfuls of meat and noodles around with a slice of bread. Grandy has been a farmer his whole life. He won't waste a meal, no matter what else is going on.

“Now,” he says when he's satisfied. He sits back and takes a sip of black coffee. “How do you think this is going to work, Ida Mae?”

I blink. “Well, I'm due at the training camp in two weeks, and then I either make it or I don't and I come home again.”

“Are they paying for you to go?” Mama asks. Those are the first words she's said on the subject since the fight in the kitchen over a week ago.

I glance down at the table, the letter memorized already. “No, Mama. They say I've got to pay my own way. But it makes sense, right? I mean, I haven't actually become a WASP yet.”

Mama sighs and stirs some molasses into her coffee cup. Sugar is too hard to come by to use it every day.

“But I've got my Chicago money I've been saving. I can pay my own way.”

“Chicago,” Mama says with a shake of her head. “I should never have let you carry on about that.” She looks so tired it makes my heart ache.

“Come to that,” Grandy says, “what about rest of your pay, Ida? We all work together in this family. With you gone, that's another bit of money that's not coming in for us,” he points out. I swallow and nod.

“I can set some aside for you and Mama and Abel from my savings. Then there's a stipend during training, $150 a month. I can send some of it to you. And when I get assigned, I'll be making a real paycheck. I can send money then.” It suddenly feels possible and real. I can do this, I know I can make it work.

Grandy doesn't sound convinced. “So, you have to buy a train ticket and be gone for who knows how long . . .” He shakes his head and turns to Mama. “Well, Stella, she wouldn't be the first colored girl who passed for an opportunity. And flying for the military—that's a big one.”

Mama's face stays carefully blank. “How many of those girls ever come back?” she asks Grandy quietly.

Grandy nods and rubs a big hand slowly over his cropped white hair. “Sure, there's that. But if they keep the men and women anywhere near as separate as they keep the Negroes and whites, ain't no convent gonna be safer, despite what they say about them WACs.”

Mama stays silent. Grandy shrugs. “Besides, what are we gonna do for her here? The girl's got the bug, just like her daddy. It's the army or Chicago one of these days, and nobody's watching out for her in Chicago.”

Mama looks at her hands in her lap. When she looks up at Grandy again, I can tell a decision's been made.

Grandy shakes his head. “I've got to tell you, Ida Mae, this is one for the record books,” he says. “I mean, a little colored girl flying for old Uncle Sam.”

“Does that mean I can go?”

Grandy shrugs. “Your mama and I have been talking. And you're not a baby anymore. An adult has to make adult decisions.”

I look at Mama. All the planning in the world won't matter if she says no to me. I can't stand to break her heart.

“If it'll help Thomas,” Mama says at last. I can hear the resignation in her voice and it pains me. But a yes is still a yes.

I slump back into my chair, glad to have Grandy's blessing, stunned to have Mama's, no matter how begrudging.

I start to ask if they're sure, but it's not worth having them change their minds, so I hold my tongue.

“Show me that letter,” Grandy says. I pull it out of my pocket and place it on the table. Grandy takes it and gives a low whistle.

“Texas. Uh-uh. Texas is hard, baby girl, hard for the colored man. You've got to be extra careful not to slip up. They won't take kindly to it in Texas. And if anybody asks or even suspects something, tell them you've got Spanish blood on your mother's side. More than a few folks around here claiming Spanish Creole blood.” He gives me a look of concern that turns into concentration. “I got a few friends out by Sweetwater. It's not much to look at, from what I hear.”

I can't help but smile. “I'll be looking at the clouds.”

Grandy grins. He pats me on the arm. Abel gives me the thumbs-up. Mama gets up and gathers the dishes. I start to help and she waves me away.

“Just sit down. I've got to get used to doing this by myself,” she says. There's nothing I can do but watch as she carries the plates to the kitchen sink and begins washing them one by one. She's humming “Amazing Grace” as she washes. The same song we sing every Sunday in church, but tonight I can only remember it as the hymn we sang over my father's grave.

“Shoo, fly, don't bother me. For I belong to somebody . . .” I hum to myself like the words can keep away the fear gnawing at my insides. Those two weeks have flown by and here I am, itchy in my travel suit, a wool skirt and matching jacket, white gloves. I wish Abel was here to sing with me, to hold my hand. The only brown faces I've seen are on the side of the road, working in prison gangs. This is the last leg of my journey, the bus from Sweetwater to the WASP base at Avenger Field.

The bus was waiting for us outside the Blue Bonnet Hotel in town. I even had a room for a night at the hotel without anyone sending me across the tracks to the Negro neighborhood. The night was cool enough for me to smooth out my hair with an iron, and it stayed straight all the way up until we got on this bus. That's when I learned that Texas is hot. Hot enough to make even my good hair go frizzy from sweat. I check to make sure I have enough setting cream to keep it tame, even if my curls get wet. In the summer in Slidell, it can get so you wish you could take off your own skin. Stripping down to your bloomers just isn't enough. Some days are so humid, you can't tell where the air ends and your sweat begins. Like being in a wet oven, that's what Slidell summers are like. But this Texas heat is like desert heat. It's drier than dry, but you sweat in it just the same.

I resist the urge to put a hand to my hair, because it'll only make it worse. Instead, I end up fidgeting with my handbag. I'm like to tear the handle off before we get to our destination.

Pretending to be white is like holding your stomach in at the lake when the boys walk by. You know they're looking, but you don't want to be seen the way you really are, tummy all soft and babyish, with a too-small chest and behind. So you stand up tall, suck it in, tilt it forward, and try to do the best you can. Jolene was always better at posing. A regular Jean Harlow. Not me. I suck it up, stick it out, and I'm surer than sure I'll never get to the end of this bus ride without being found out.

I look around, trying not to show that I'm moving my eyes. I'm not the only one in gloves. I sigh, relieved. Now that I've made it this far, I'll do anything not to stand out. I close my eyes and remember the last time I felt this scared. Right before my flight test in Alabama, when I didn't get my license. Not a good sign.

There are twenty-five of us. There are supposed to be a hundred girls in all, but I guess the rest have cars or came out yesterday. At eight o'clock this morning, the bus pulled up to take us to Avenger Field. It's a queer one. They call it a cattle truck, but it looks more like a long horse trailer, a big metal box with rectangles cut out for the windows, although there isn't even any glass. And the hard seats seem like an afterthought. It makes me wonder what kind of planes they've given us. But I don't care what they look like. I just want to get there.

For the first time since leaving New Orleans, I don't need to think about sitting in the back or the front. I'm squeezed square into the middle of all the other girls. I say girls, but some of them are women, all right. In age, they look to be anywhere from my age to a little younger than Mama. There are brunettes, blondes, redheads, and even a few people going gray early. And every single one of them is white.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead with a folded handkerchief. I feel sick.

“Are you all right, sister?” The girl across from me is looking at me with concern. She looks like Snow White, all black curls, ruby lips, and creamy skin, eyes like blue forget-me-nots. I wave her away.

“I'm fine, thank you,” I say. I fight the urge to add “ma'am” or bow my head. Jolene warned me not to be a maid. I twist my fingers in the fabric of my skirt.

The woman smiles. “The hell you are. None of us are. How could we be, with this damn heat, this damn bus, and—” She pauses. “Well, I ran out of
damns.
How old are you, honey?”

“Twenty last month,” I tell her. I really do think I might be sick. “I need some water.”

“Hold on. Driver?” Snow White is up and walking down the bouncing bus aisle with perfect balance. I would have tripped over myself with all of this jouncing, but Snow White is cool as November, a real beauty queen.

“Hey, Mack,” she says to the driver. “We've got a sick girl back here. Do you have something she can drink?”

The driver fumbles around for a canteen under his seat. I put my head down on my knees, dizzy. My hands shake and my stomach turns sour. Drinking from a “whites-only” water fountain would earn me a beating back home. Sharing this man's canteen could be a hanging offense in Texas for all I know. But then I steel myself. You wanted to fly, Ida Mae. This is what it takes.

A moment later, Snow White's lifting my head up with a cool, dry hand. “Here, honey, take a sip. It'll help.”

I sit up and put my lips to the metal rim of the canteen. A split second before it touches my lips, I realize it's not water. The rich, fiery smell of whiskey hits my nostrils. I push it away, eyes burning from the fumes. The liquor has splashed my mouth. I wipe it away with my handkerchief. Some of the other girls around me laugh and whisper. And all I wanted to do was lie low.

“Better?” Snow White asks.

“That's not water,” I say hoarsely.

“Oh, I know, honey. But this rotgut is almost as good as smelling salts. You'll be all right now, at least until we get to the base.”

I sit up straight and stare at Snow White. My cheeks get hot, but I don't say anything. I don't feel anywhere near “all right.” My hands are still trembling, but now it's as much from embarrassment as it is from fear.

Snow White smiles. “Oh, honey, I'm not messing with you. I was trying to help, really. I was afraid you'd pass out before we got to the base, and then they'd send you right back home.”

I can feel my face go from red to gray. “Of course. Thank you.” I cover my eyes with my hand and sigh. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

“Don't worry,” Snow White says. “We'll get through it somehow.” I give her a wry smile. I hope she's right.

Snow White sticks out her hand. “The name's Patsy, Patsy Kake. You can call me Cakewalk.”

“Ida Mae Jones.” I shake her hand. This time, I can't help but bob my head, like a seated curtsy. She doesn't seem to notice.

“Pleased to meet you, Jonesy.” I start to correct her and decide against it. The less I am Ida Mae, the better off I'll be. Patsy's hand is cool in mine. We give each other a tentative smile.

The other women are whispering excitedly and looking out the window at the flat, unending plains. I want to be home in Slidell. I want to sit at the edge of the berry fields and spread my toes in the grass and never hear another word about the war again.

Then the bus driver lets out a shout. All of the girls on the bus stand up at once. Airplanes are flying overhead.

“That sounds like an AT-6,” one of the girls says. I don't recognize the name from the spotter cards Thomas sent me and Abel: like a playing deck but with pictures of both U.S. and enemy planes so we could identify them in case of an air raid. “That's an Advanced Trainer,” another girl says, which explains why I don't know it. I've got every plane on that card deck memorized, but they're the real deal, not teaching planes. Some of these girls must have family in the air force to know what a military trainer plane looks like.

Like a bunch of tourists, the other girls scramble to see the AT-6, racing to the left side of the bus. Me, I sit real still and let the sound of the buzzing engines wash over me. My stomach settles right down, like a perfect three-point landing. I'm here, I tell myself. Daddy would be proud.