On Wings Of The Morning (3 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
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There is something I want to make clear here. You might suppose that I am bitter toward my mother, that I hate her for living a life of lies. It simply isn't so. Delia wasn't a liar so much as a hopeless romantic. Hopeless was the life she was born into—poor, uneducated, with a face and body that made men want her as a woman even while she was still a girl. Romance was what made her take the cards she'd been given and try to bluff her way to a better hand, and it was the part that made her believe her own inventions. Delia had a great and misguided faith in the power of myth.
She truly did believe each new “uncle” was the prince on the white horse she hoped he would be, that this one really was unattached, or at least that he would soon become so, and that he really was going to marry her—just as soon as he could, whenever that was.
No, I didn't hate my mother. If anything, I pitied her a little. She couldn't help herself. She couldn't help believing in the power of love and that it was bound to find her eventually and right all life's wrongs. It might have been better for me if she had been different, but there was no point in wishing that. Fairy tales aside, wishing never changed anything. I figured out young that you had to fend for yourself, but Delia never did. She was who she was, and nothing could change that, but that didn't mean I had to go along with it.
In many ways I'm grateful to Delia. Watching the mess she made of her own life made me determined not to make the same mistakes. I would make my own luck—not invent it, imagine it, yoke it to something as ephemeral as love. I would work for it and rely on myself.
I told you. I am a realist. That's the only way to get on in life. But it doesn't hurt to have some luck. The first taste of mine came in August of 1927.
At least, I'm pretty sure it was August. Delia and I were going on an outing with Bert, a car salesman and the first in a series of Chicago uncles. I know it was summer because I wasn't in school, which was fine with me.
Delia had enrolled me in parochial school. It was a quick three-block walk from the apartment we'd rented in a working-class neighborhood of brownstones. Delia said she'd chosen it so she wouldn't have to worry about me getting home safely on my own if she worked late. There was probably some truth in that, but I think my education and our sudden conversion to Catholicism had as much to do with maintaining her image as a bayou belle as any concerns for my safety. In any case, my first year at St. Margaret's had been a rocky one. During the first mass of the school year, I failed to genuflect before entering the pew. Not from any disrespect, but because I didn't know you were supposed to. Until we arrived in the Windy City we'd been Baptists, when we'd gone to church at all, which wasn't often. I tried to explain, but Sister Mary Patrick didn't believe me.
“Don't give me any of your cheek, Georgia Carter. Shame on you! Telling such lies about your own sister. And her so good to take you into her home, providing for you out of what little she has left from her dear husband's estate after the lawyers cheated her out of the bulk of it. You'll stay inside at recess to say the rosary and after school to clean the blackboards.” As you can imagine, things didn't get any better for me when I tried to explain that I didn't know the rosary. It was not an auspicious beginning to my academic career.
So, even though the August heat was thick enough to make the brim on Delia's hat curl and my legs stick sweatily to the leather rumble seat, I was happy—happy to be out of school, happy to be riding in Uncle Bert's new roadster, happy to be headed out to Midway Airport with the rest of the crowds, happy and excited because I was going to see the most famous man in America and maybe the world—Charles Lindbergh, at the Chicago stop on his forty-eight-state victory tour!
After his groundbreaking transatlantic flight from New York to Paris, the papers were full of Lindbergh and aviation. If there was other news in the world, no one cared. Every kid on our block was practically vibrating with anticipation because the Lone Eagle was coming to our city. I had never seen an airplane except in still photographs and newsreels, but that was about to change. I was one of the lucky ones who were actually going to see him because I had access to transportation. Bert had taken the day off work and borrowed a car from the dealership so he could drive us to Midway in style. He seemed a little smarmy to me, but I was willing to overlook that for the time being.
We left early because we wanted to find a good spot where we'd be sure to see Lindbergh. So did everybody else. We were stuck in traffic, with the midwestern sun sweltering down on us. Bert offered to put the top up, but Delia demurred. “That's all right. I imagine it would be even hotter with the sun beating on that black fabric. At least this way we can catch the breeze when it passes. But, of course, you know best, Bert.” Delia smiled and laid a gloved hand on Bert's forearm. “If you want to put up the top, I'm sure that will be just fine with me.”
“Naw,” Bert said. “It's better with the air circulating. I was just worried about you getting too much sun,” he grinned agreeably and laid his arm over her shoulder. Bert had only been around a few weeks, and I don't think he'd quite made his way around all the bases yet. She could have asked him to take off the tires and run that car on its rims and he'd have agreed to it.
“Well, that's why I brought my
chapeau
,” Delia said, tossing out a little French to further charm her already smitten beau. “My mama always said a lady should never leave the house without a nice big hat. And I always listen to my mama.” Delia laughed, showing all her perfect white teeth. Bert joined in, guffawing as if she'd said the funniest thing in the world.
Yech. I rolled my eyes and rested my chin on my hand, disgusted, and wondered if Lindbergh would be gone before we got to the airfield.
I felt the plane a split second before I saw it—felt a vibration come through my elbow where it rested on the metal body of the car, rising up through my forearm, to my chin, to my head, where the humming started in my ears and grew into an echo, a rumble, a roar at once mechanical and alive, more powerful and terrible and wonderful than anything I'd ever heard. I felt a great surge of wind and heat, the stirring of troubled air just before a storm. I looked up.
He was coming in for a landing, flying straight over the line of traffic, not more than a rooftop's height above us. Delia and Bert and all the other people in the stranded cars around us immediately ducked in an instinctive crouch, stooping to protect their heads while covering their ears against the howl of engine noise. And just as instinctively, I leapt onto the back of the rumble seat, shouting, reaching skyward, stretching on tiptoes, unfolding my fingertips high and straight, trying to make myself large enough to touch that wonderful, magical plane, trying to catch hold and fly. The
Spirit of St. Louis
headed straight for me. I imagined that inside Charles Lindbergh saw me, a little girl standing tall with longing while the world around her cowered in fear, and that the wavering dip of his wings as he came in for landing was much more than an answer to a turbulent headwind; it was a private salute between us, an acknowledgement that he recognized me as one of his own. He passed over me, a breaking wave of silver and shadow that felt like a gift of farewell, a remembrance to tide me over until we met again.
The sea surf ringing in my ears condensed and gave way to the sound of my own ringing laughter and the faint echo of Delia's shouting for me to get down, for heaven's sake, get down, Georgia, what were you thinking, you could have gotten yourself killed.
“Did you see it? Did you see it?” I shouted, still laughing. “Delia, did you? He was flying !”
“Georgia! Get down from there this instant! What's got into you? Of course he was flying,” Delia barked, her initial fright giving way to exasperation. “Why do you suppose we came down here?”
What was obvious in Delia's mind was astounding in my own. I was silent for a moment, marveling that she failed to sense what I did, to feel in the wind and heat and shadow the opening of doors. The world never would, never could be the same. Didn't she understand?
Then I remembered, Lindbergh's plane heading toward me, singling me out from the crowd as one who knew, and me rising up to return the salutation. It wasn't for everyone then, this calling to the air. How strange. Looking at Delia, beautiful and desired in ways I could never be, I felt suddenly special, lovely, and more important than I had a moment before. Simultaneously, Delia seemed different in my eyes, smaller and powerless. I was only seven years old, but I knew my mother would never again be as important to me as she had been before I climbed onto the rumble seat and tried to catch hold of a dream revealed. How strange. How wonderful.
3
Morgan
Dillon, Oklahoma—August 1941
 
I
t felt funny to be standing on the front stoop of the parsonage at six-thirty in the morning, but I had to come early. I didn't want anyone to see me. If they did, my visit would be the talk of the town, and somehow or other it would certainly get back to Mama. The first knock failed to elicit a response. For a second I thought about just forgetting the whole thing and going home. Maybe I'd come back later. But I couldn't come back later. This time tomorrow I'd be at the University of Oklahoma, getting myself settled in the freshman dorm. It was hard to believe.
And I still had to drop by Virginia Pratt's house to say good-bye to her.
Maybe I should go over there now
, I thought, but then remembered the time. Mr. Pratt would kill me if I showed up at his house at this hour; besides, my visit to Virginia could wait. It didn't matter if anyone saw me walking into her house. Everybody in my class knew we'd been seeing each other for a couple of months. We weren't going steady or anything, but it was understood around town that Virginia was my girl. No, if I was going to see Paul, it had to be now.
One more time
, I thought and gave the door three good raps. I waited a moment, listening, and heard movement inside. The door opened.
“Hey, Reverend Van Dyver!” I greeted him formally, teasing him because I knew he really preferred for me to call him Paul.
“Morgan! What a wonderful surprise!” He beamed a wide smile. He was completely dressed, in his black pressed pants, starched black shirt, and clerical collar, but his hair looked like it hadn't been combed yet, and he wasn't wearing shoes. His feet and hair were odd contrasts to the rest of his buttoned-up appearance, as though he had dressed himself from the center out.
“It's kind of early but I wanted to see you before I left.” I looked down at his bare feet. “Maybe I should come back later?”
“Don't be silly. Come in! Come in! I am delighted to see you.” He opened the door wide, nudging a curious tabby cat out of the way with his foot. “Come on, Maxine,” he murmured to the recalcitrant feline. “Stand aside and let Morgan come in.”
I came inside and bent down to scratch Maxine between the eyes. She wound around my pant legs and purred a greeting. “I haven't seen you in a while, Maxine. How you doing, girl?”
“That's right. She was just a kitten last time you were here. It has been quite a while, hasn't it? She is full grown now—though between keeping the mice down and eating my cooking, she seems to be carrying a little extra weight. Ah, speaking of cooking,” he said as he walked toward the back of the house, beckoning me to follow, “it smells like the bacon is ready. Come. Sit down and have something to eat.”
I followed him into the kitchen. “Are you sure I'm not too early? I didn't mean to interrupt your breakfast.”
“Don't be silly. You're not interrupting because I haven't started yet. I've finished my morning prayers, my coffee, and my newspaper, and was just getting ready to eat. I made pancakes and bacon, and there is plenty. Maxine and I get tired of eating alone. Don't we, girl?” He addressed the cat, who was sitting at his feet staring hopefully up as he turned sizzling strips of bacon in the pan.
I stood a little awkwardly, not sure if I should sit down or offer to help. The kitchen was small, but orderly and spotlessly clean. I felt in the way. Paul set the cooked bacon to drain on a sheet of brown paper and called over his shoulder, “Take two plates and glasses off that shelf behind you, would you, Morgan? The cutlery is in the drawer by the sink, and there is apple juice in the icebox. Do you want coffee?” He pulled an enormous stack of pancakes from the oven where they'd been warming while he finished frying the bacon.
“No, thanks. I'll just pour myself a glass of milk, if you don't mind.” Paul told me to help myself to the milk. We sat down, and after Paul said a short blessing, we dug in. “You sure know your way around the kitchen, Paul. These pancakes are really good,” I said sincerely.
“Thank you, but it is not so hard. Necessity being the mother of invention, I had to learn to cook. A single man who can't cook is either going to be very thin or very broke from paying someone to do it for him. Can't afford that on a pastor's salary.”
“Still,” I mumbled through a mouthful of perfectly crisp bacon, “I'm impressed. I can't boil water.”
“You could learn if you wanted to,” he answered. “You're a smart young man. Smart enough to be going to university. And smart enough to fly an airplane, I hear.” He reached for another stack of pancakes and smothered them with syrup. Paul always had an enormous appetite. Until a year ago he'd been a frequent dinner guest at our house and could always eat twice as much as I did. Once I saw him eat an entire rhubarb pie.
“I can't fly yet. I'm still learning. We bought a used Stearman trainer. Took delivery on it last week.”
“I heard,” said Paul. “You were the talk of the deacons' meeting. I could hardly get them to focus enough so we could take a vote on whether or not we should have Vacation Bible School in July or August. Everyone was much more interested in your plane, your imminent departure for college, and your future prospects than in the meeting agenda. Frankly, I felt the same way. We are all so proud of you.”
I smiled and shook my head. Of course he knew about my plane. This was Dillon. Up until now it had always bothered me how everyone in town put their nose into my business, but just now, hours away from leaving Dillon, it struck me that there was something nice about a place where people cared enough to gossip about me. And it was nice to know that Paul was keeping tabs on me.
“The word is that you got yourself quite a plane. Mr. Dwyer said that Bud Olinger said it could do two hundred and fifty miles an hour.” Paul whistled, pretending to be impressed. He knew enough about aviation to know that Mr. Dwyer's speed report was hugely exaggerated.
“Well,” I said, laughing, “that would be about double her maximum speed, but she cruises at about one hundred miles per hour. The paint job is rough, but she's got a sweet little engine. I can't solo yet, so Whitey Henderson will fly me to Oklahoma City and then take a bus back home. I found an airfield near school where I can park the plane and take lessons on weekends. Whitey's been teaching me, but I still have a way to go before I get my pilot's license. You know Whitey, don't you? He works over at the airfield in Liberal.”
“Certainly,” Paul answered. “Remember, I gave you a ride to the airfield that time your car broke down and I found you hitchhiking on the road. You weren't worried about the car, just about getting to work on time. You were washing planes for Whitey, weren't you?” Paul speared a couple of pancakes with his fork and held them out to me. I nodded and he dropped them onto my plate.
“Washing planes, pumping gas, sweeping floors. Anything to help pay for flight lessons. They sure are expensive.”
“And buying an actual airplane must be more so. Even a used Stearman with a rough paint job has to run into some real money.”
I nodded and took a gulp of milk from my glass. “Yeah. I feel bad about that. Mama sold off some land to do it. I argued with her about it—said I didn't need to go to college and that we could use the tuition money to buy the plane, but she wouldn't go for it. You know how she is.” I cut my pancakes, and the knife grated against the plate. The memory of that conversation still rankled. I still wasn't convinced I needed to go to the University of Oklahoma. I wanted to be a pilot, and all I needed for that was a license. I wanted to spend the rest of my life flying, and I wanted the rest of my life to begin as soon as possible. Spending four years taking a bunch of English and philosophy and who-knew-what-else classes just seemed like a big waste of time.
Paul grinned. “I do know how your mother is, but I'm not sure exactly what you're referring to. Do you mean that I know she's stubborn, or that I know she's smart, or that I know she's right?”
I groaned. Paul was a great guy, but I should have known he'd side with Mama, no matter how close we were. Paul was practically a second father to me, taking me fishing, playing catch with me in the yard, helping me build a radio for the school science fair—things a father would do.
For a time I'd thought Paul would become my father. He used to visit us at least two or three times a week. It was obvious that he cared for Mama, and it seemed she liked Paul pretty well, but then one day he just stopped coming. I wondered if he and Mama had a fight, but she never said anything. Probably she thought it was her own business and she didn't have to explain it to anyone. Well, maybe, but it affected me, too. Next to Papaw, Paul was the most important man in my life. That was why I'd come to see him. He and Mama might not be talking to each other, but that was their problem. I couldn't just leave town without saying good-bye.
I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Oh, brother. Are you on Mama's payroll or something?”
Paul threw back his head and barked out that single, joyous “Haw!” that distinguished his laugh from everyone else's. “Very funny. If I agree with her, it is only because she is right. It's a wonderful thing to be able to get a university degree. I know you want to take up a career as a pilot, but there is no reason you shouldn't be a pilot with an education. From what I've heard about your grandfather, he would have felt the same way.”
“Papaw wasn't educated, not that way. What he learned, he taught himself.”
“True, but your mother says he put a great store on education. If he'd had the opportunity to go to college he surely would have taken it.”
I gave up trying to argue the point. There would be no budging Paul on this position, and, besides, I didn't figure on being in college for long. The papers were full of war news and debates about whether the U.S. should send in troops or sit it out. As far as I was concerned, it was time that somebody went over there and taught Hitler a lesson, and the sooner the better. From what I'd read, it looked like President Roosevelt agreed with me. The war was bound to start any day, and when it did I was going to join up. I wasn't going to ask anyone about it; I was just going to do it. My only worry was in getting my pilot's license before the fighting started. Then I could enlist as a flyer. No way was I going to spend the war on the ground, but there was no need to tell that to Paul or anyone else. One thing I'd learned living in a small town: the best way to keep something secret was to keep it to yourself.
“Well, I still don't feel right about Mama selling off land to pay for college and my flying. I'm old enough that I should be helping her, not adding to her burdens.”
“I won't scold you for feeling a sense of duty to your mother, Morgan, but Eva knows what she is doing. She's a smart woman and a strong one,” he said and then added in a softer tone, almost to himself. “I admire her more than any woman I've ever known. I miss her terribly.”
He was quiet, looking straight ahead at some indistinct location beyond where I was sitting. It felt odd and a little awkward to see him sitting there, so completely absorbed in memories of my mother. He looked so vulnerable. There was nothing reverend-like about him just then. He was just a man, like other men, with no more remarkable insights or answers than other men, and in some way I sensed that allowing me to see him this way was a mark of trust. At that moment we were no longer teacher and student, parent and child, pastor and penitent. We were two men talking—friends. It gave me courage to speak.
“Paul, what happened between you and Mama?”
He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. His eyes were thoughtful and focused, as though he were reading my question off a printed page, an examination question he'd studied and memorized but whose answer was suddenly lost to him. “It's hard to explain.”
“But you love her.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes. I do. From the first moment I met her. It was right before your grandfather's funeral, you remember?” I nodded. I remembered everything about that terrible day.
Papaw worked himself to death trying to hold our family together during those starving dust-bowl years, taking a job plowing another man's dry fields to try to keep the topsoil from blowing away, swallowing so much choking dust that it eventually killed him. Dust-bowl pneumonia, they called it. I remembered how Grandma, always the stern and powerful center of our home, suddenly seemed to lose her sense of self and reality and how I spent hours hidden in my room so I could cry without being seen. I remembered how Mama stepped up and took over the reins of the family, how she kept us from falling apart. I remembered how, once he was gone, I realized that Papaw was the best, bravest man I'd ever met and how heartsick I felt because I'd never really told him that he was my hero.
Paul was Dutch. He had been in America for less than a year and had been appointed to the pulpit in Dillon only a few weeks before Papaw's death. Folks in Dillon weren't sure about him. I'd heard some of the men hanging around Dwyer's store say they thought he was too serious, that his sermons were too long, and that they could hardly understand him because of his accent. But it wasn't that bad. Some people just like to complain, and for a few residents of Dillon complaining was practically a profession.

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