Flygirl (20 page)

My head spins. Could it work? What would I say? I can't call him my brother. A family friend? The son of my maid? Would they see our shared last name and know I am passing? Tears of shame sit heavily beneath my eyelashes. I feel like Judas to my own family.

She steps back. “Look at you. You look every inch the lady. I can't claim to understand what you are doing, but the day this letter came, I felt so helpless. Grandy went into town to see what the local recruitment office could do. All they offered was help with funeral arrangements, like he was already declared dead.

“Every day I collect bacon grease for the war, but it's useless, isn't it? We can't fight the war with rationing stamps and canned vegetables. We can't save our sons by planting gardens. No matter what they say, we can't. It's not enough. My boy could be dying overseas, and I will not sit in the kitchen waiting for them to send his body home.”

She reaches into her purse again and pulls out a handkerchief. She wipes her eyes. “You do this one thing for me, baby. You help bring Thomas home.”

“I will, Mama.” This time, I don't care if the guard is watching. I throw my arms around my mother and hold on to her like I'll never let her go home. Tears flow down my cheeks, into her hair, onto her collar. She shushes me, like when I was little.

“It's gonna be all right, Ida Mae. Thomas is alive. I'd know otherwise. It's all right.”

And I pray to God that it's true. I pray for my brother to find his way to safety. I pray for the strength to make it through this war, through this year, through this night. Hour by hour. I repeat the words.

“What's that, honey?” Mama asks.

“Hour by hour, Mama. That's how we'll win this war.”

Mama smiles at me. Slowly, we let go of each other until we are standing there again, staring like it's the very first time.

“What was it, that song you and Thomas used to sing?”

I laugh, but it turns into a sob. “Shoo, fly.”

Mama nods. “That's right. How's it go?”

I shake my head, smiling sadly. She knows exactly how it goes. “You're not gonna make me sing it.”

Mama gives me a look, and I know better than to argue. She's trying to make me feel better. I take a deep, shuddering breath.

“Shoo, fly, don't bother me. Shoo, fly, don't bother me. Shoo, fly, don't bother me. For I belong to somebody.”

Mama joins me. “I feel, I feel, I feel like a morning star. I feel, I feel, I feel like a morning star . . .”

I turn around. The guard has come back out of the guardhouse. I smile and wave, but we stop singing. He shakes his head and goes back inside.

“I'd better go,” Mama says.

Suddenly, I have so much to say. She can't leave me. “Where are you staying? Are you in town?” I think of how hard it must be to find a hotel for coloreds out here.

“Oh, no,” Mama says. “Don't worry. I've got my train schedule right here. I'll be heading back home in a few hours. I just needed to see you. And tell you about Thomas. This is the first Christmas we've all been apart.”

“I know.” I pause, feeling like anything else I say will be useless. “Did you get the hat I sent you?”

“I did. I won't wear it until you both come home again.”

“Oh, Mama, I meant for you to enjoy it now. Wear it and think of me.”

Mama huffs. “Girl, I don't need a hat to think of you. I never stop thinking about you or any of my babies. Now, finish up your work here and come home as soon as you can.”

“Yes, ma'am.” I salute her.

“Merry Christmas, Miss Ida Mae,” she says.

“Merry Christmas.”

I think we might stand here for hours, just to be together again, but the guard sticks his head out of the box, and Mama looks at her watch.

“I've got a train to catch.”

She leaves the gate and climbs into a truck that I've only just now noticed has been waiting. Before I can even ask her who it is, I see the driver. An older, colored gentleman in overalls. It's MacIntyre, the farmer from the hardware store. The man who saw right through me and made sure I knew it. I shiver at the memory of his warning.

Mama turns and nods at me. “Grandy knows folks all over,” she says. And they drive away into the night.

I stand there, bewildered, as they disappear into the deep black-blue of the nighttime grassland. It feels like a dream. And then I think of Thomas, and it becomes more of a nightmare. It's several long minutes before I willingly leave the cold air of the gate to find my bed.

 

“Is everything all right, Jonesy?” Patsy asks in a quiet voice when I reenter the barracks. I've missed lights-out. Everyone's in bed except for Patsy and Nancy Howard, who is trying to read a book by flashlight three cots away.

Patsy sits up when I come in. The light from the bathroom casts a dim glow across the bunkroom floor.

“No,” I whisper, and sit on the edge of her bed.

“Well, who was it?”

“My mother . . .”

I say it without thinking. Patsy looks at me, but I can't read her face. Across the room, I can hear Nancy Howard sit up on her cot.

“I thought that girl said there was a nigger out there,” Nancy hisses. She folds away the book she was reading and starts to stand up. My skin goes cold.

“Sit down, Howard,” Patsy says. Her voice is low, but still sharp enough to make Nancy hesitate. “Can't you see she's upset?” Patsy puts her hand on my arm.

“What happened, Ida?”

“My mother's maid came to tell me some bad news.” I take a deep breath and hate myself more than I ever thought possible. I shrug nervously. “She wanted my help.”

“I thought you were a farm girl,” Nancy snipes. “Must be some farm if your mother's got her own maid.”

I press my hands to my cheeks as if I can hold back my blush. I'm too rattled to lie well.

“I said leave her alone,” Patsy snaps at Nancy. “So what if they have a maid?”

I don't know if Patsy really believes me, but if she doesn't, she never lets on. Nancy Howard sits back down on her cot, but I can feel her eyes boring into me.

“What did she come to tell you, sugar?”

I close my eyes and try to find the words. I will go to hell for this, I think. I should go to hell. My mother's face looks back at me in the dark, my own mother who let me treat her like a servant just so she could talk to me. When the first tear rolls down my face, I can't tell if it's for Thomas or for pure shame.

“To tell me her son is missing in the South Pacific. He . . . we grew up together.”

Patsy says nothing. She looks past me at Nancy Howard. I'm glad I'm not on the receiving end of that look. Nancy sniffs and lies back down on her bed. “Didn't take you for a nigger lover. Tough luck, Jones,” is all she says.

My face burns and I stifle a sob. Yeah. Tough luck.

Patsy takes my hand. Her fingers are still as cool as that first day we shook hands on the bus.

“Don't you mind her. You were raised with your mammy's son. She was raised with snakes. What kind of help did she need?”

“Finding him . . . Do you suppose I can put a request in with Mrs. Deaton tomorrow?”

“Sure, honey. If not, she'll know what to do. Now, where's that kerchief I gave you?”

“What?” I blink up at her. “Oh . . . here.” I reach into my footlocker for the embroidered cloth and start to wipe my eyes.

“No, give it here. I'm gonna teach you something.” Patsy takes the handkerchief and ties one of the corners into a knot. “This is a worry knot. You're a WASP now, and that's a lot like being a carney. We've got to travel light, light bags, light worries. Tie up all your cares into this knot, Ida. It'll be there for you when the war is done. You'll untie it when that boy comes home. No point in carrying it on your shoulders.”

She hands me back the handkerchief and I finger the little knot. It's hard and tight, not likely to come undone anytime soon. That feels just about right.

“Thank you, Patsy.” I want to say more, but Nancy Howard is listening. All I can do is squeeze Patsy's hand and hope she understands.

“Sure, kid. Good night.” She kisses me on the forehead and goes back to her bed.

After a long moment, I get up again and brush my teeth, wash my face, change into my pajamas, and crawl into bed.

Thomas has to come home. And so do I. Becoming a WASP was selfish. Selfish, stupid, and dangerous. God, Nancy Howard almost had me tonight, and in Texas, that could cost me my life.

All I could think of was wanting to fly. The war was just an opportunity. It wasn't real. But it's real now. It means my brother is missing. It means my mother has lost her husband and now maybe her son. And she came all this way, letting me treat her worse than a dog, just to tell me. To tell me what? That my world will never be the same again.

I tuck my knotted handkerchief under my pillow and try to let it take away my cares. I think of Abel, lying in his little bed hundreds of miles away, without even his mother to tuck him in on Christmas night. I make a promise to him. By next Christmas, I'll be home to stay.

Walt Jenkins and Deatie Deaton helped me find Thomas's commanding officer. I wrote letters to the army and to the Department of War, but no one had answers for me. Russia has pushed into Poland and the U.S. is too busy organizing bombing raids over Berlin to look for one colored boy. Despite the organization I see every day, finding one missing soldier is like looking for a drop of water in the ocean. Weeks turn into months and, while the Allies are slowly making progress in Europe, there's less news from the Pacific and we still have no word. I write my third letter home telling my mother, for all of her faith in me, I've failed her. The only thing I can still do right is fly. And training doesn't wait. Before it seems possible, Lily, Patsy, and I are assigned our first cross-country flight. Pull this off, and we graduate when we return to Sweetwater. Then we'll be WASP for real.

The cargo plane takes off into the cold February air with a chugging sound that reminds me of a train as it transports us back east to Philadelphia, where we'll pick up a shipment of brand-new BT-13 Valiants bound for California. Patsy gives me a mock look of alarm. Despite my personal worries, we're all excited about today. This is the real thing. The twelve of us sit facing each other, strapped in to low benches, all painted that wonderful army green. I'd swear the military has something against beauty. Sergeant Middleton would say the olive drab color is for camouflage, but this is an airplane, not a jeep. Who ever heard of an olive green sky? As we pull off the runway, I grip my seat. Those butterflies I came into training with are back, but now the worry is all for my big brother. I feel the knot in my handkerchief inside my zoot suit pocket and sigh. The sky doesn't quite feel like home, knowing Thomas is missing.

I look at my friends. Patsy is all grins. Her baby blues twinkle as she nods toward Lily. “Jonesy, look.”

Lily sits across the plane from us, a dreamy look on her freckled face.

“Penny for your thoughts,” I say, glad for a distraction. Lily startles.

“Oh. I was just thinking, when this war is over, Harry and I will finally be married.” She leans forward excitedly, wisps of auburn hair escaping her turban. “You'll both come to the wedding, won't you? Mother's planning a gorgeous affair at the Waldorf-Astoria. The ballroom there is as big as a football field. I won't know most of the people she's inviting, I'm sure. But if you two are there, it'll be just fine.”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” Patsy says. I don't say anything. After the war, Jonesy would be welcome in any joint in America. But not Ida Mae Jones. My stomach sinks just thinking about it. Mama told me more than once—color is not a line you can cross back and forth over just as you please. I think about my dance with Walt Jenkins. When this war is over, where will I stand?

If Patsy notices my silence, she keeps her own counsel. We haven't spoken about the night my mother came to the base since it happened. Telling her the whole truth would only make her an accomplice. She deserves better than that. Besides, if she suspects at all, you wouldn't know it. If anything, we're closer than we were before.

Lily claps, caught up in her own daydreams. “Oh, good. Patsy, I can't wait to see you cut the rug in front of all those stuffy old society people my mother knows. Harry will just love you. And maybe we could go to the Palladium one night, too, and show you where we like to swing.”

“Sounds swell,” Patsy tells her. “Doesn't it, Jonesy?”