On Wings Of The Morning (7 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
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7
Morgan
Dillon, Oklahoma—Christmas, 1941
 
C
hristmas didn't start off quite the way I'd hoped it would. “So you see, Mama,” I explained, “I've only got a few days before I have to leave. I know you'd counted on me being here until the fourth, but my bus leaves right after Christmas.” Her face clouded over with an expression that might have been anger, disappointment, shock, or all three. Maybe it hadn't been a good idea to tell her I'd enlisted just as soon as I landed. Maybe I should have waited until we'd gotten home, or even on the drive from the airfield, but it was too late now. I just kept talking, hoping that if I did she'd collect herself and realize that I was only doing what I had to do, the same as thousands of other mothers' sons across the country.
“I know it only gives me about a week, but don't worry, Mama. I'm going to use every minute. Make me a list of chores. Tell me whatever needs fixing, and I'll get it done before my train leaves. I'm going to give the tractor a tune-up, too. That way it'll be all ready for the spring planting.”
Mama was quiet a moment, and then she spoke, in a voice choked with anger. “Is that what you think I'm worried about? About how smooth the tractor will run come spring? You think I'm worried about
me
?” She opened her eyes wide, staring at me, and set her mouth in a straight line, waiting for an answer.
“Mama,” I sighed and kicked the ground with the toe of my boot, “why do you have to be like that? Just this once, couldn't you make it easy for me?” I wasn't being fair and I knew it. Mama had always tried to make things easy for me, or as easy as she knew how, but I was angry with her. On the flight over, I'd rehearsed this conversation in my mind several times, and though in my imagination Mama had shed a few tears when she heard the news, she always ended up saying that she was proud of me. Clearly, the reality of a man leaving for war wasn't anything like they made it look in the movies.
“I didn't ask for this war,” I continued, “but, after what happened at Pearl Harbor, you know we've got to get into it. Even before I left for school you were saying there was no way we were going to be able to stay out of the war and that somebody had to stop Hitler. I heard you say exactly that to Aunt Ruby.”
“I know what I said!” she snapped.
“I'm a pilot, Mama. They need trained pilots. There are thousands of guys signing up who will be learning to fly from scratch, but it'll take months and months before they are ready to take up a plane. With a little combat training I'll be ready to go. They need me! The sergeant at the recruiting office said one trained pilot like me was worth a hundred untrained recruits.”
“I'll bet he did.” Her eyes flashed for a moment, but then she sighed and it seemed like all the air went out of her.
“I just thought ... I just ... You might have talked to me before you went and joined up. That's all.” She pulled her coat tighter around herself. She was so small. I felt bad for standing there and arguing with her in the cold. “I just thought maybe you could wait a little while—at least until after Christmas. It would have been nice to have Christmas without all this hanging over us.”
“I'm sorry, Mama. Maybe I should have talked to you first, but I guess I didn't want to risk you trying to talk me out of it. All my friends joined up, too. Almost everybody I know. Probably half the guys from my dorm are catching hell from their mothers right this second for joining up without asking permission,” I smiled, trying to move past the moment by making a joke of it, but Mama wasn't buying.
“Watch your language,” she responded automatically.
“Sorry.” I waited for her to say it was all right, but she just stood there, looking at me with an expression I couldn't read.
“Mama, I'm a good pilot. Mr. Wicker, my instructor, said I fly like I was born to it. I'm going to be all right. I promise.”
Mama bit her lower lip and nodded. She blinked a couple of times, and I told myself it was just the cold prairie wind that was making her eyes tear up, but I reached out and wrapped my arms around her anyway and hugged her tight as I could. When I let go she sniffed and gave me a smile that didn't quite make it to her eyes.
“Let's go home. There's a good fire in the stove, and Ruby baked you a pie. Grandma can't wait to see you. Is the plane tied down?” I nodded. “Good.”
She reached down as if to pick up my grip, but I grabbed it. “I'll carry my own bag, thanks. Do you want me to drive?”
“Are you sure? Aren't you tired after such a long trip?”
“Naw. Besides, I'm starving. You drive so slow, Mama, it'll be morning before I get a piece of Ruby's pie,” I teased. “Give me the wheel and I'll have you home in no time. I am a highly motivated individual.” Mama smiled, but just a little.
“Not too fast,” she cautioned as she handed me the car keys. “I finally had Mr. Cheevers hammer out that dent you put in the bumper two summers ago. No point in putting another one in its place.”
“Don't worry, Mama. I told you, I'm a good pilot. Make that a great one!” I threw my bag in the trunk and then ran around the car to open Mama's door. She got in, and I was about to shut the door when she reached out, closing her hand over mine.
“Morgan,” she said softly. “You're doing the right thing. I'm proud of you.”
 
We didn't talk about my leaving again. Everyone seemed determined to enjoy the holiday and refused to acknowledge the elephant in the room, my imminent departure. But every now and then when I would look up quickly, I'd catch a glimpse of Mama's face before she had a chance to replace her mask of composure, and I'd read worry in her eyes. Just a few days before, I'd felt invincible, heroic, and absolutely certain of my victorious and rapid return from the field of battle, but the look in Mama's eyes started to rub against my bravado, making it just a little thinner and more brittle. I started to worry a little, too, not about myself so much, but about what would happen to Mama, Grandma, and Ruby if something happened to me. Since Papaw had died, I'd always considered myself the man of the family, responsible for the well-being of these three women who had raised me and cared for me since before I could remember. The weight of responsibility hung on me, and the look on Mama's face in unguarded moments drove me to activity.
I worked as fast as I could to make sure everything on the farm was in perfect repair. I tuned up the tractor, then mucked out the barn, replaced the rotted floorboards on the front porch, put a new blade on the windmill in place of the old one that had split, cleaned out the root cellar, put a new door on the storm cellar and made sure the latches were secure, and split a mountain of logs. Late on Christmas afternoon, the day before I was to leave, I went up on the roof to replace a bunch of shingles that had been pulled loose by the relentless prairie winds. The weather had turned cold and bitter, but I was running out of time and determined to finish the job, especially since I felt so guilty about not getting it done the day before when the weather had been good.
Grandma came outside when I was up on the roof and stood at the bottom of the ladder, shaking her head and scolding.
“You're working yourself to a frazzle! Come down from there and eat something. I just pulled a pecan pie out of the oven, loaded with nuts, just the way you like it.”
“Be down in a minute, Grandma,” I said through a mouthful of roofing nails.
“It's Christmas, Morgan. And it's too cold to be working out here. There's no point in fussing over those shingles. The wind'll just blow them off again tomorrow.”
“Maybe, but at least I'll know they were all nailed down tight today. Besides,” I said, laying down the hammer and flexing my right arm so my biceps strained against my sleeve, “it's good exercise. Just think how many push-ups I'll be able to do if I keep this up.”
Grandma shook her head and went back inside. I went back to work. I couldn't help myself. I was like a squirrel getting ready for winter who knows there is nothing he can do to stop the bad weather from coming but is driven by instinct to prepare as best he can.
One thing I hadn't had a chance to do was take Mama flying, even though I'd promised I would as soon as I got my license. The weather was unusually nice on Christmas Eve, and I'd said we should go then, but Mama insisted I go into Dillon and see some of my old friends instead. She said we could go flying when I came home on leave. Even so, I wouldn't have agreed to go into town if I hadn't needed to buy roofing nails and tar paper, but I knew I had to get the job done. That roof wouldn't last the winter otherwise.
As I was coming out of the hardware store, there she was, Virginia Pratt, wearing a dark green sweater that outlined her shape and a matching hat that made her eyes bluer than I remembered.
She seemed genuinely happy to see me and didn't even fuss at me when I explained why I hadn't been over to visit.
Instead she just squeezed my arm and said, “Morgan, that is so sweet! Taking care of your mother like that before you leave. I bet you'll look so handsome in your uniform. And I think you're just so brave to volunteer! I heard that you're a real pilot now. Mr. Dwyer said that you fixed up that old plane so it looks brand-new. I sure wish I could see it before you go, but it sounds like you've got too much to do. Would it be all right if I wrote to you while you're gone?”
Virginia was different than she'd been when I left. She talked more, and her hands kept fluttering like butterflies and then lighting on my arm ever so briefly, but I was acutely aware of every spot she'd touched. Wearing that close-fitting sweater she looked ... well, let's say she looked a lot more mature than she had just a few months ago. She was flirting with me. I knew that. And I knew there was a mountain of work waiting for me at home, but Virginia was beautiful and the weather was fine and before I knew it I'd asked her if she wanted to go for an airplane ride. She squealed with delight and scrambled into the passenger's seat of the Ford when I held the door open.
For a moment I thought about Mama and Aunt Ruby, who were home baking cookies and trimming the tree. They were expecting me home, but I told myself I'd only be gone a little while.
I ran around to the driver's side and got in the car. Virginia scooted across the seat and sat near me, talking and laughing and lighting on my arm with butterfly hands as I steered the car toward the airfield.
 
The Jenny set back down on the runway with barely a bump, a textbook-perfect landing. I taxied her toward the hangar, parked near it, and hopped out of the cockpit.
The old invincible feeling had returned as soon as we were airborne. The flight had left me feeling reenergized—that, and the wide smile and compliments Virginia was throwing my way. I stood next to the wing, held up my arms, and she leaned into them, her body sliding close along mine as I lowered her down. Even after she had both feet on the ground, she stayed near me, her arms draped over my shoulders and her eyes looking into mine. She reached up with one hand and pulled off the helmet and goggles I'd lent her. Red-gold hair cascaded down her back in a beautiful tangle.
She let the goggles drop from her hand onto the ground, then reached up and buried her hand deep into her curls and shook her head a little. “I must look a mess,” she said, laughing, meaning the opposite.
“No. You're beautiful. You look perfect.” And she did.
My head moved lower. She rose up on her toes, and our lips met. I had kissed Virginia a couple of times before when I'd dropped her off at home after our high school dates, but those kisses had been quick and tentative, nothing like this. She opened her mouth and I let my tongue outline the rim of her lips, then pass beyond to explore the perfect ridges of her teeth and the depths of her mouth. Her body was pressed close to mine, but I pulled her even closer, every inch of her feeling every inch of me. Her heart was beating as fast as and frantically as my own. I lowered my hand to the curve of her hip where her sweater met her skirt and she covered it with her own, guiding my hand under the soft fabric of her sweater.
Her head fell back, and her mouth opened in a soft sigh. I felt her hips rock toward me, and, without thinking, I pushed forward to meet her. For a long moment we moved together in an instinctive, ancient rhythm. Virginia reached her hand low and a sound came from me that was part moan, part gasp.
“Where can we go?” she asked and leaned her head into my chest. The airfield was empty. The field was so small and removed that we didn't even have a tower, and the few people who might have been around were home getting ready for their Christmas celebrations. Whitey Henderson had an office at the back of the hangar. He kept an old army cot there so he could catch a few winks when business was slow. I knew where he kept the key.
There was no doubt in my mind what she was asking or exactly what would happen if I took her by the hand, took the key to Whitey's office, brought her inside, and laid her down on top of the rough woolen blanket that covered the cot. I could see it in my mind, the image so clear it made me forget everything else—the roof that was bare of shingles, the bus ticket to boot camp that lay on the kitchen counter at home, and the look in Mama's eyes that made me wonder if my courage would hold out. All I saw, all I wanted, was Virginia, and I knew she wanted me.

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