On Wings Of The Morning (32 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
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38
Morgan
Dillon, Oklahoma—November 1944
 
C
rossing the border from Kansas into Oklahoma, I glanced at Georgia for what must have been the tenth time since we'd left Liberal, but I couldn't help myself; I just had to make sure she really was there, sitting in the front seat of the Packard I'd borrowed from Paul, on the way to Thanksgiving dinner with my family.
Less than two weeks before, she'd hurled a model plane in my direction, along with a variety of names and accusations, and then stormed off. Well, I hadn't taken too kindly to that. I'd stormed off myself, to the watering hole nearest the base, ordered a beer, and waited for the desire to punch something to fade. Before long Anders, the base commander's toadying aide, showed up and parked himself on the bar stool next to me, getting drunk and giving his opinion on women, the WASP, and the world in general.
When I sat down, I'd felt bitter, twisted, and misunderstood, but after five minutes of listening to the obnoxious aide, my attitude had altered considerably. If this jerk's posture in any way reflected that of his boss (and I was pretty sure that was the case; Lieutenant Anders clearly didn't have the smarts to come out with an opinion that hadn't been issued to him by whatever superior he was currently fawning upon), then I didn't blame Georgia one bit for her outburst. If I'd been in her shoes, I'd have probably thrown a grenade, not just a toy airplane.
“Of course,” Anders remarked knowingly before taking another drink of his Lucky Stripe, “it was all a publicity stunt from the start.” He put down his glass, leaving a long streak of beer foam, like a child's milk mustache, on his upper lip.
“Uh,” I said, lowering my head and tapping my lip with my finger. Anders looked confused for a minute but then caught on, wiping the foam from his face with the back of his hand.
“A publicity stunt? How do you figure?”
“Well, sure it was! This whole idea of letting women fly airplanes was just publicity, something to make the folks at home feel good, a nice little human-interest story to distract people from the horrors of war. Keep up morale, don'tcha know. It's not like these little girls do any serious flying. I mean, ferrying planes is just a cakewalk.”
“Oh, yeah? Is that what you think?” I thought about Georgia and our flight from Arizona to San Diego, how she'd handled that big cargo plane like she'd been doing it all her life, and about the stories we'd shared of stalled engines, frozen wing flaps, and landing blind on runways so thick with fog you couldn't see five feet in front of you. A cakewalk. Right.
The drunken aide nodded. “I mean, you're a pilot, you know what I'm talking about. An airplane is no place for a woman. Am I right?”
“So, you're not a pilot yourself?”
He shook his head and belched. “I went to Langley, but after a couple of weeks the brass decided I was too valuable as an administrator to risk losing me in combat.”
Meaning you washed out
, I thought.
“That's when they made me Colonel Hemingway's aide. It's a plum assignment. The colonel's going places. Very well thought of in Washington,” he whispered conspiratorially. “And I'm going with him. Of course, I had a little advantage getting the job. My uncle George is at the Pentagon. He and Hemingway were at West Point, so Uncle George put in a good word for me.” Anders winked as he gripped the handle of his beer mug and took another drink.
“That's always the way. Am I right? And not just in the army. It's not what you know, it's who you know. I mean, you must have had somebody pulling for you, or you wouldn't be here, would you?” A flush of heat and anger rose on my flesh, knowing what he said was probably true but hating him for saying it.
“And that girl you're replacing,” he declared, holding up one finger and wagging it at me. “She must have pulled something or someone to get here, if you know what I mean.” He guffawed, pleased with himself. I felt my hand close into a fist. With a lascivious sneer, Anders cupped his two hands in front of his chest. “I mean, did you get a load of the personalities on her? I'd like to get me some of that, I can tell you. Half the guys on base have tried it on with her, but she gives 'em all the brush-off. Yeah”—he snorted—“like you can make me believe she's not putting it out for somebody. If she wasn't, she'd never have gotten within five hundred miles of this job. Am I right? She don't give the time of day to a lower rank, but you can't tell me she doesn't have round heels for the fella that's got enough bars on his shoulders. Am I—”
But before he could finish, I stood up, grabbed him by the scrawny collar that circled his scrawny neck, and answered his question with a single haymaker directly to the bridge of his nose. It broke with a dull but satisfying crack, and Anders flew backward and fell to the floor unconscious.
Hearing the noise, the bartender shouted and ran over to see what the ruckus was, but when he saw it was Anders laid out on the floor, he just grinned and said, “Somebody should have done that a long time ago.”
I dug a dollar out of my pocket, laid it on the bar, and walked out.
After I got outside I started to wonder if I'd just gotten myself fired, but I didn't care. I'd have done it again. It was the first time I'd purposely punched another human being since Johnny McCurdle, and the result was just as satisfying, maybe more so.
As it turned out, either Colonel Hemingway detested his aide as much as everyone else, or Anders had been right and my “connections” made me too dangerous to can, because the next day all Hemingway said was it better not happen again.
And I think Georgia might have heard what happened, because when I saw her next she was, if not exactly friendly, at least not as frosty as she had been. She let me sit in on her classes, gave me a tour of the base, and a thorough run-down of how to get past the bureaucratic snafus that were peculiar to this operation, and generally did a great job of preparing me to take over in December. I wanted very much to ask her about my letter and why she'd never answered it, but I figured it would be best to wait for her to speak first. Obviously, she didn't feel the same about me as I did about her, or she would have said something, but I was determined to change her mind.
It had to happen; it was meant to be. If not, why would we have been brought together in Liberal, Kansas, of all places? I viewed our reunion not as coincidence, but as appointment with destiny. Georgia Welles was meant to be my girl.
I asked her out to dinner every day, and every day she said no. On Tuesday I asked if she'd join me for Thanksgiving dinner with the family. I don't know if I'd worn her down, or won her over, or if she was simply overcome by an unexpected wave of holiday spirit, but she finally said yes. I was so surprised that I actually asked her to repeat herself.
“I'm sorry. What was that?”
Her eyes smiled. “I said, ‘Yes, I'd love to have dinner with you and your family.'”
After that I just grinned.
Seeing her sitting in the front seat of the Packard wearing a new dress and fussing nervously with her sleeve, I was grinning again.
39
Georgia
Dillon, Oklahoma—Thanksgiving Day, 1944
 
T
he land around Dillon is flat as a pancake, so I could see the Glennon farm a good mile before we turned into the driveway. It had a big barn flanked by a one-story frame house with a peaked roof and a good-sized porch that must have been a nice spot to spend an evening when the weather was fine. There were flower beds near the porch, filled with bare branches that looked like rosebush canes. And next to the house, surrounded by a swath of protective chicken-wire fencing, was an enormous dormant vegetable garden. It must have been something to see at the height of summer. As we got closer I noticed something else, something that was definitely not to be found on most other farms.
“Morgan, is that a train caboose next to your house?”
“Sure is. That's where Aunt Ruby lives. It's all fixed up inside. Has a little sitting room and a wood stove for heating and everything. And over there,” he said, pointing to a place just east of the barn, “is an old freight car that's been made into the biggest henhouse you've ever seen. The Glennon chicken and egg business is quite a going concern.”
I laughed.
“I'm serious,” he said, mocking offense. “My grandpa hauled home those train cars one day. We remodeled them together—the caboose so Ruby would have a place of her own and the freight car so I could start my own egg business. That was back in the Depression, and let me tell you, if it hadn't been for the chickens and Mama's quilts, I'm not sure we would have made it.”
“Your grandfather must have been a smart man.”
“He was,” Morgan said quietly. “And a good one. You'd have liked him.”
“And your mother's quilts, is she still making them?”
“Not like she did back then. During the Depression she turned out simple nine-patch designs on a sewing machine as fast and cheap as she could, just so we could scrape together enough to survive. Now she's gone back to what she really loves, making her special quilts, and all by hand. You've never seen anything like it. They look just like paintings and each one takes her months to finish.” Morgan took a right onto the drive that led to the farmhouse. “Here we are!”
I cleared my throat and reached up to smooth my hair, thinking I should have worn a hat after all. Morgan looked at me, smiled, and reached over to pat my shoulder.
“Don't worry,” he said, pulling up in front of the house and turning off the engine. “They're all going to love you.”
I started to ask him how he could be so sure of that, but before I could say anything, a waving, smiling stream of people started pouring out of the front door and onto the porch.
I was introduced to Morgan's grandmother, Clare, first. Her hair was gray, and her face, with high, prominent cheekbones that made me wonder if there wasn't some Indian blood in the family, was lined and weathered, but her eyes were bright and intelligent, and her grip was impressively strong. Later, over dinner, she declared she could still lift a bale of hay and carry it from field to farm. I believed her.
Ruby was next. Morgan had told me about her, how she'd been his mother's best friend since grade school, how she'd come to live with them when her husband, like so many Oklahomans during the starving dust-bowl years, went west to look for work and how, when he'd been killed in a logging accident, Ruby had just stayed on and become one of the family. It was a tragic history, but you wouldn't have known it by looking at Ruby. She smiled easily and laughed often. She had a sharp, quick wit and was well informed on matters of local gossip, but there was nothing malicious about her humor. I liked her right away.
Standing next to Ruby was a broad-faced, sandy-haired man of medium height who I mistakenly took for Morgan's father, but he turned out to be Pete Norman, Ruby's “friend.” Paul, I was informed, was still in the house, replacing a tube in the radio that had gone on the blink that morning. I shook Pete's hand and responded in kind to his shy, “Nice to meet you, ma'am.”
Then we moved on to the final member of the reception line, a petite, green-eyed woman of about forty whose auburn hair showed not a streak of gray, Morgan's mother. She took my hand in hers and welcomed me. There was something calm and deep about her gaze, something that told you she had known sadness and survived. Her neck was long and slender, and she held her shoulders square. Morgan had told me about his mother's crippled leg beforehand, but it was still surprising to see how she tightly clutched a cane of polished wood in her left hand, and the effort and determination that went into every step she took. No wonder Morgan was so strong.
“I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Glennon. Thank you for having me.”
“Actually,” Morgan interrupted, “Mama is Mrs. Van Dyver. I forgot to tell you.”
“Oh,” I said awkwardly, embarrassed by my error and distracted, wondering where I'd heard the name before. “I didn't realize. I'm sorry.”
“Everyone calls me Eva,” she said kindly just as a tall, lanky man strode purposefully onto the porch and declared proudly, with a foreign accent, “Eva Van Dyver.” Putting his arm around his wife's shoulders, he then leaned down to give her a quick peck on the lips and added. “Which makes me the luckiest man in Oklahoma. The radio's fixed. We can hear some music after dinner.” Looking at my surprised face, he said jovially, “Georgia! How nice to see you again. I knew Morgan was bringing a friend to dinner, but I had no idea it was you.”
“You've met before?” Ruby asked.
“Once, at the café in Liberal. Adjoining counter stools,” he explained, giving no further details of our conversation, for which I was grateful.
“It's nice to see you again, too.”
Paul clapped his hands together expectantly and said, “So, are we going to stand out here all day or go in and carve that delicious-smelling bird? I'm starving!”
 
Dinner was delicious, and Morgan's family couldn't have been nicer. It was the first time I'd ever sat down and shared a meal with a family, a real family.
Every head was still and bowed as Paul gave a simple, beautiful prayer of thanks. After he finished, everyone dug in, piling plates high with turkey, dressing, potatoes, green beans, and creamed onions, giving frequent and well-deserved compliments to the cooks, Ruby, Grandma Clare, and Eva, between bites.
“Well, it was Ruby did most of it,” Grandma Clare said. “Eva and I lent a hand, but Ruby is the real cook in the family. Best in the county. Ruby, remember back when you were a little girl? You didn't have any more business being in the kitchen than a pig has in the henhouse. Remember when you made that pie for your daddy and you added salt in place of the sugar?”
Eva came to her friend's defense, saying Clare ought not to bring up that story after all these years, though she smiled broadly as she spoke, obviously still amused by the memory. “Besides, Mama, everybody has heard that story a million times.”
“Georgia hasn't,” said Grandma Clare.
“True enough,” Ruby piped in good-naturedly. “So, just for the record, Georgia, I did make an apple pie with salt instead of sugar when I was eight years old. It took my daddy twenty minutes to make sure everybody in town heard the story and twenty years for me to live it down.” Ruby laughed, asked Pete if he wanted more potatoes, and passed him the bowl.
“Well, honey,” Pete said and patted Ruby's hand as she held out the bowl of potatoes, “it don't matter to me what kind of a cook you were when you were eight. All I know is I'd walk in from town through a tornado for one of your dinners now.” This one speech was at least twice as long as anything Pete had said all evening. He looked in Ruby's eyes after he finished, and she blushed.
“Here! Here!” Paul lifted his water glass in a toast to Ruby and then addressed himself to Pete. “I'd snap her up quick if I were you, Pete. If any of the other fellows in town get a taste of Ruby's fried chicken, she'll be off the market.”
Pete swallowed hard and reached up to loosen his necktie, which appeared to be bothering him. “Truth is,” he said, clearing his throat, “I already have. Proposed to Ruby last night, and she said yes. So, Pastor, if you'll say the service, we'd like to be married in the spring.” Pete was beaming as he spoke, but no one could really hear him because as soon as he uttered the word “proposed” the family was on their feet, hugging Ruby, slapping Pete on the back, and shouting congratulations to them both.
“That's great, Aunt Ruby!”
“Why didn't you tell us before?”
“Wonderful news!”
“Do you have a date in mind?”
Ruby, whose face and eyes were shining, took over where Pete left off, and Pete, who clearly wasn't much of a talker, seemed happy to let her do so. “I didn't want to say anything until we were all together. We don't really have a specific date in mind, just sometime in the spring, after Pete gets settled in his new business. Mr. Cheevers asked him to come in as a partner at the filling station,” Ruby reported with pride. “He and Pete are going to add on an extra garage with a lift so they can take in more repair work. Pete's a real good mechanic. Mr. Cheevers is going to let us live rent-free in that little two-bedroom house he owns just down the street from the station, the one with the red roof, and let us buy that and the station from him, gradual, once the business starts to make some money. Eventually, Pete will own the whole thing!”
Eva's eyes were glistening with joyful tears, clearly delighted for Ruby's happiness, but she seemed taken aback by this last announcement. “You mean, you're going to move out?”
Ruby bit her lip, searching for words, but Paul came to the rescue. “It's less than five miles from here to town. You and Ruby can see each other every day. The caboose would be a little small for the two of them, don't you think?” He patted his wife's arm encouragingly. Eva pressed her lip together in a tight smile and nodded.
“Yes, of course. You're right. It's not that far. The most important thing is that you and Pete are happy together,” Eva said and gave Ruby another squeeze, “and I know you will be.”
Ruby smiled at her friend gratefully. “Well, if we do half as well as you and Paul, we'll be happier than about ninety-nine percent of the population.”
“Good heavens!” Grandma Clare croaked. “Will you two stop that? We're supposed to be celebrating, and you're both about ready to burst into tears. Morgan,” she commanded, “run into my room, would you please? In the bottom drawer of my dresser, under my blue sweater, you'll find a bottle of sherry. Bring that in here, and let's have a toast to Pete and Ruby.”
Eva was shocked. “Mama, you've got a bottle of liquor hidden in your bedroom?”
“Oh, don't look at me like that, Eva. It's not like I've been drinking on the sly. You know I don't hold with that, but this is a special occasion. Pete's been coming around here for months, so I bought a little bottle just in case there was cause for celebration. I couldn't very well ask you or Paul to do it.”
Paul let out a single hearty bark of a laugh. “The minister or his wife being seen buying spirits? In Dillon? Goodness, no! The gossip-mongers would certainly have a field day with that.”
After the toast, everyone helped clear the table, then we took our desserts into the front room. Paul turned on the radio, looking for some music, but Grandma Clare said she wanted to listen to Abbott and Costello, so he put that on instead. Grandma Clare pulled her chair close so she could hear and then promptly dozed off. Ruby sat close to Pete on the sofa as they flipped through a copy of
Life
magazine. When Morgan went outside to get some more wood for the fire, Eva asked if I'd like to see her quilting room.
One whole wall was lined with shelves. Each shelf held yards and yards of different fabrics, grouped by color and shades, graduating from lights to darks, an eye-pleasing rainbow of cloth. Several of Eva's creations were mounted on the remaining walls: scenes of prairies, woodlands, seascapes, and mountaintops, with literally hundreds of tiny blocks of fabric, joined like myriads of tile fragments in a fantastic mosaic, creating the shapes and shadows that formed the images. Near the window, where it could catch the morning light, sat a long wooden quilting frame. The quilt stretched between the bars showed a large, stately oak tree blooming a glory of leaves, each slightly different in color and shape, with the lighter colored leaves dominating one area, giving the impression of afternoon sunlight filtering through the branches. Only half of the leaves had been quilted, outlined in hundreds of tiny, perfectly even stitches. That, I could see, was the final touch that made all the difference, turning the carefully sewn bits of fabric from a pretty picture into something much more, a reality you could step into, wrap yourself up in, full of life and depth and textures, a vision that invited your touch.
“Oh! They're beautiful!” I breathed. “Morgan told me about your quilts and how wonderful they are! But I never imagined anything so lovely. And they are all so different. Have you been to all these places?”

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