On Wings Of The Morning (21 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
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“That doesn't matter! Sign it anyway.” The waitress, who wore a name tag reading JUDY pinned to her blue and white uniform, chattered on enthusiastically while I did as she asked. “When you walked in wearing that outfit I told Harry—he's the manager—” She jerked her head over toward the front counter where Harry was standing. He raised his hand in a sheepish introduction. “Anyway,” Judy said, “I told Harry that you must be one of those WASPs, but he didn't believe me. He said there was no way the government would let girls fly their airplanes.”
Morgan jumped into the conversation. “Not only that, they fly all kinds of different planes and deliver them from factories to bases all over the country. They do other jobs, too, dangerous ones, like towing targets for artillery practice and even testing planes that have undergone repairs to make sure they're combat-ready. These girls are heroes.”
It was kind of sweet to see the starry-eyed excitement of the young waitress. I thought this must be a little like how it feels to be a movie star, but I was starting to feel a little embarrassed, too, by all the adulation. I gave Morgan a look that meant “enough already,” but he didn't take the hint.
“Georgia here has flown more different kinds of aircraft in the last month than I have in my entire military career. Just this morning she flew a big cargo plane in from Arizona. No man could have flown it better. I just sat back and enjoyed the ride.”
“There! You hear that? You owe me a dollar, Harry!” Judy slapped her hand against her thigh triumphantly and shot the hapless Harry a victorious glance.
Harry sidled apologetically to our table. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “No offense intended. I just couldn't quite believe it was true, Miss ... Miss ...”
“Just call me Georgia,” I said, and gripped his outstretched hand. “And this is Morgan. He's a combat pilot. He's shipping out to a new post in just a couple of days.”
“Is that right?” Harry asked. He beamed and extended his hand to Morgan. “It's nice to meet you, Lieutenant. It's nice to meet both of you.
“So you're shipping out in a couple of days? Listen, there's no check for you two this evening. Your dinner is on the house. In fact”—he turned to the waitress—“Judy, why don't you run into the kitchen and see if we've got any of the apple pie left. Bring them a couple of pieces, will you? And make sure you have Charlie melt some cheddar on top.”
“Will do!” Judy answered eagerly and scurried to the kitchen.
“You don't have to do that,” Morgan assured him, and I agreed, but Harry wouldn't be dissuaded.
“Don't mention it,” he said, waving off our protests with a magnanimous gesture. A sudden clatter of noise from the kitchen interrupted his train of thought.
He sighed wearily and started off toward the kitchen. “Sounds like I'd better get in there. You two just have a good time and don't give another thought to the bill. It's the least I can do. It's terrible, the way this war is splitting up so many nice young couples like you.” He shook his head regretfully and, as a second clatter of dropped dishes rang out, he trotted off.
“Thank you!” Morgan called to the manager's retreating figure and then chuckled as he turned to me. “Can you beat that? He thinks we're engaged!”
I started gathering up my things. “Morgan, I've got to go.”
The smile faded from his face. “Why? Just because of that? It was just an honest mistake, Georgia.”
“No, no. It's just that ...” I glanced at my watch. “I didn't realize how late it was. I've got to fly in the morning, and I need some sleep. That wine went right to my head.” I slid across the seat of the booth and started to get up, but Morgan grabbed my arm.
“Georgia, don't run off. Sit down. At least stay and have dessert. Think how disappointed Judy and Harry will be if you don't—espe-cially after they made Charlie go to all the trouble of melting cheese on your pie.” Morgan smiled.
I told him again that I really had to leave. Morgan dropped his lighthearted tone and said seriously, “Georgia, you don't need to be so nervous. I'm not going to try anything, really. It's just nice spending time together. I like you. Why can't you just stay for ten more minutes?”
I couldn't answer that question because I wasn't really sure myself. I just knew I had to go. I stood up. “Morgan, I had a great time. I hope everything goes great with your mom and all. Make sure you take her to the zoo. They say it's one of the best in the world. Maybe you can write me when you get settled in at your new base.”
Seeing that I wasn't going to be dissuaded from leaving, Morgan got up to say good-bye. He leaned forward, as if to kiss me on the cheek, but I stuck out my hand before he could get closer.
“Yeah. Sure. I'll write you,” he said in a disappointed voice. We shook hands a little awkwardly. “It was nice to see you again, Georgia. Thanks again for the lift. Maybe I can see you again before I ship out?”
“Probably not. I'm flying all week, but I won't be coming back to San Diego for a while,” I said. It wasn't true, but the lie popped out of my mouth anyway. I was scheduled to return to San Diego on Saturday, the day before he left. Seeing the look of disappointment and confusion etched on Morgan's face made me feel guilty. “But if I'm around,” I backtracked, not wanting to leave him feeling utterly rejected, “then, sure. Yes. Maybe we could have a cup of coffee or something.”
Morgan looked at me, and I knew he knew I was lying. I said good-bye. Walking across the dining room toward the door, I could feel the heat of his gaze on my back, but I didn't turn around. I couldn't.
 
The telephone rang and rang.
Pick up!
I commanded silently.
There was a woman outside the phone booth, impatiently waiting her turn. She was a big, matronly lady. She wore scuffed tie-up shoes and a shapeless gray overcoat that seemed strangely at odds with her headgear, a black felt confection that dripped with clusters of cherries and red ribbon. I stood facing the telephone so I could pretend I didn't see the woman, who tapped her foot impatiently as she waited, making the clusters of cherries bounce with every tap.
“I'm sorry, miss,” the operator said in a bored voice, “no one is answering. You can try again later.”
“Please, Operator! Just let it ring a few more times. It's an emergency !”
The operator started to protest just as the receiver clicked and a tired, somewhat confused voice on the other end said, “Hello?”
“Long distance calling,” the operator twanged. “I have a collect call for Miss Cordelia Carter Boudreaux from Mrs. Georgia Welles. Will you accept the charges?”
“Yes,” Delia said, and even as the operator informed us that we could go ahead, Delia interrupted her with a worried, “Georgia? Is that you? Is everything all right? Where are you?”
“I'm in a phone booth.” I answered. “Everything is fine. I just ... I just wanted to call you. I wanted to hear your voice.”
Not unkindly, Delia said, “Georgia, it's two in the morning here. Are you sure you're all right?”
“I'm sorry, Delia. I was out walking, and I just wanted to talk to you. I didn't think about what time it was in Chicago,” I apologized. Then, without quite understanding why, I started to cry. “I'm sorry, Delia. I'm sorry I woke you. I just ...” but I couldn't finish the sentence. The tears caught in my throat and mind and washed away everything I'd thought I wanted to say.
“Georgia!” Delia said, the alarm in her voice trumping the usual studied calm of her drawl. “Georgia? What's the matter? What is it?”
I couldn't answer. I couldn't do anything but sob. My head dropped and rested against the wall of the phone booth, the rough grain of the wood scratching the skin of my forehead. My knees were weak, it was all I could do to keep them under me. Delia's voice, insistent and anxious, radiated worry through the phone line, repeating the question, pleading for an answer. “What is it, Georgia? Tell me what's wrong.”
“Delia!” I sobbed desperately, incoherently. “Delia! Mama! I ... I want.” But that was as far as I could go. That was all I knew.
Outside, the woman who had been waiting for the phone booth, started tapping on the glass panels of the door, asking if I was all right in there. I didn't answer. I couldn't do anything but cry.
“I want! Mama, I want!” I said again and again, helpless and despairing, begging her for an explanation, pleading for a word that would define and fill the emptiness that enveloped me. “I want ...”
“Hush, Georgia. Hush,” Delia's voice, soothing and deep, breathed comfort long-distance. “I know you do, baby girl. I know. Believe me, I know.”
23
Morgan
San Diego, California—May 1943
 
 
T
he train arrived on time. San Diego was the last stop, and there were so many people getting off that I didn't see Mama and Paul at first. I kept scanning the faces of the passengers as the conductors helped them descend the steps and file onto the platform, where a gaggle of anxious Red Caps stood by with ready smiles and well-oiled dollies, ready to help cart away the luggage of anyone who looked like they could tip. One after another, smartly dressed travelers streamed out of the carriages. As the minutes passed, I started to get a little worried. Had they missed a connection?
The platform was noisy with shouted greetings between friends, the calls of passengers summoning Red Caps, the hissing of the engine as it exhaled an exhausted breath of steam, and the unintelligible garble of train departures announced over the public address system, echoing over the heads of the disinterested crowd.
Finally, down at the far end of the platform, I spotted a petite woman with hair the exact shade of Mama's. A conductor helped her disembark from the last car, but the woman was wearing a stylish, navy blue traveling suit and hat—not the sort of thing people wore in Dillon. My heart sank, and I started anxiously looking around again. But then the stylish woman turned her head. She looked just like Mama, except younger.
No,
I thought,
not younger. Mama
is
young, only thirty-eight years old. Happy. She's happy. This is how Mama looks in love.
We recognized each other in the same instant, and I started to run toward her, waving and shouting. Paul, looking as renewed as Mama, stepped off the car right behind her. Grinning, I pushed through the crowd and scooped Mama up into my arms, lifting her off her feet and swinging her around in a big joyous circle. And when I finally put her down, Paul came over, and I wrapped my arms around both of them. I just couldn't help myself. I was so happy.
“Look,” I heard a woman say to the Red Cap who was loading her luggage onto his cart. “Isn't that sweet? They're all together again.”
“Yes, ma'am,” the Red Cap agreed. “That's one happy family.”
 
We took a cab over to the motel I'd booked for Mama and Paul. Mama was animated. I'd never heard her talk so much. She was excited about everything she saw outside the taxi window, from her first glimpse of the ocean to the size of the buildings, to the trees that lined the streets. Her nose was practically glued to the window of the car. Paul and I just smiled and listened to her talk. She finally turned, and when she saw us grinning, she blushed.
“Oh, you must think I'm so silly going on like this. I'm sorry. I just never thought it would be so beautiful!”
“That's all right,” I said, laughing. The truth was, it made me feel good to see her enjoying herself, and a little proud. Mama's wonder at the world outside Dillon reminded me of how far I'd come. When I was a little boy I'd poured over atlases of the world, dreaming of the places I'd go and the things I'd see when I grew up to be a pilot. Now here I was, all grown up, and my dreams had come true. I'd gone to places and seen things that most folks in Dillon could never even have imagined. Virginia told me that her mother and father had taken a trip to see relatives in New Orleans once, and when they got back, all they did was complain about the heat and the people's strange accents and the even stranger food. I was proud that Mama was so enthusiastic and open-minded enough to appreciate new experiences.
“Don't apologize,” I said. “This must all seem pretty strange after spending your whole life in Dillon. I did exactly the same thing the first time I went to a big city.”
“Well, goodness, Morgan! I'm not a complete hick. I've been to big cities before. I've been to Oklahoma City and to Des Moines.”
This was news to me. “Des Moines? When did you go there?”
For just a moment, Mama's eyes flashed surprise. “Oh,” she said. “Didn't I tell you about that? I went there for a few days after you went off to college.”
“You did? Why?”
“Well, I just decided to take a trip, I guess,” Mama said. “There's nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“No.” I shrugged. “But why Des Moines? Why not Dallas or Chicago?”
Paul interrupted. “Morgan, tell me more about this new airplane you're flying. It has twin engines? That must be something. How fast can it go?”
Paul was really interested in the P-38. He kept asking questions all the way to the motel while Mama just kept looking out the cab window at the sights of San Diego, lost in her own thoughts.
Over the next two days, I took Mama and Paul to visit every attraction San Diego had to offer. When I laid out the itinerary I had planned, Mama said that we didn't need to go running all over San Diego, that getting to spend time with me, talking and catching up, was treat enough for her, and Paul agreed. But I insisted there was no reason we couldn't do both, and I'm glad I did. We had a great time.
Mama loved everything, but I think the zoo was her favorite. We spent almost an entire day there. When the other tourists approached the cages, they hung around for a couple of minutes, laughing and gawking, before growing restless and moving on, but not Mama. She stood in front of each animal and, fascinated, watched until Paul or I suggested we take a look at the next exhibit.
When we got to the lions' exhibit, which was set up like it would have been in the wild with the lions all living together as a family in a grassy enclosure with trees, instead of separately in cages, Mama's hand flew to her mouth. “Oh! Look at them!” She breathed, more to herself than me. “I never imagined they would be so beautiful!”
Mama walked slowly forward toward the glass wall that separated people from animals. Paul and I hung back a bit. Paul was clearly having as much fun watching Mama as she was having watching the lions.
“She's really enjoying herself,” I said. “If we let her, I bet she'd still be standing there come morning.”
Paul nodded and smiled. “She sees things that the rest of us miss. If she had been born in another time and place, I think she might have been a poet, or a great painter.”
“Well, in a way she is a great painter. Her quilts are her canvases. Did you see the quilt she gave me for Christmas before I left for boot camp?” Paul shook his head.
“It's incredible. The background is an aerial view of the landscape right over the farm. It's perfect—the scale, the sense of space, the angle of the sun setting on the horizon—perfect!” I said wonderingly. “She's never been off the ground, but in her mind she can fly! It's the most beautiful quilt I've ever seen.
“On the ground there are two figures in silhouette, Mama and me, looking up to the sky. Then, at the bottom corner of the quilt, an airplane wing cuts across the fabric field. It's an old biplane wing, complete with wing supports and cables strung between, like the pilot is looking out over the edge of the cockpit to see the little boy and the woman standing on the ground looking up at him. You can't see the pilot, just the wing and a flutter of fringe from the edge of the pilot's scarf, just like they wore back in the old barnstorming days, but you know he's there. And somehow you just feel what that pilot is feeling, how he is sending down a blessing on the little boy who is standing below, dreaming of flying, remembering what it was like when he was that little boy, looking up and dreaming, and how that's who he still is. Every time he lands his plane and sets his foot on the ground, he is still looking upward, dreaming of flying again.”
Paul's eyes were solemn as he listened. With anyone but Paul, I would have been embarrassed at going on and on like that, but I knew he understood. Paul listened the way Mama saw—patiently and completely, taking in more than what lay on the surface. I smiled to myself, thinking how perfect they were for each other.
“I wish I had seen it. It sounds remarkable.”
“It is,” I said.
His gaze returned to Mama. He bit his lower lip, thinking. “It's never been easy for your mother to talk about her feelings. It still isn't.”
It was true, but that was all changing for Mama, and Paul was the reason.
Though it seemed like a lifetime ago, only two years had passed since I'd sat across from Paul at the table of his orderly and solitary bachelor kitchen, looking into his face and seeing hopelessness. He couldn't give up on loving, but had given up all hope that his love would ever be returned. I wanted to ask him what had happened, what he had said to change Mama's mind, what prayers he had uttered to surmount circumstances that had seemed insurmountable. I wanted to tell him about Georgia, but I couldn't find the words; and, besides, what was the point? I was leaving soon, and, even if I hadn't been, she had made it clear she wasn't interested. It was best to forget all about her.
But I couldn't.
During dinner, Georgia had taken a sip of wine, and, without her knowing it, a tiny droplet of wine beaded and clung to the soft curve of her lower lip. It had been everything I could do not to reach across the table and touch her lip with my finger, taking that delicate ruby bead from her lip and placing it between my own. Now, whenever I closed my eyes, I was there again, but in my dreams I didn't restrain my hand, I couldn't. I reached out and took the wine off her lips, tasted her on my tongue. Then I reached out again, pulling her toward me, wrapping myself in her, closing my ears to reason, eclipsing her protests with my desire.
I wanted her. I wanted her body joined with mine, and for her to want me the same way. I wanted to hear the sound of her voice, to know what she was thinking when she pulled her brows together and that little fold of concentration appeared between them. I wanted to know all about her past and tell her all about mine, the things I'd never told anyone else. I wanted to walk with her, fly with her, lie heart to heart, to talk to her, and to sit silent next to her.
You've got to stop this,
I told myself.
By this time tomorrow you'll be sailing to Australia. It'll be easier then. You'll be able to forget. You just have to get through this day.
Though I didn't speak, Paul must have sensed something was bothering me. “Morgan, are you all right?”
I assured him that I was fine, just hungry. Just then, a security guard came up and reminded us it was five minutes to closing time.
Paul looked at Mama and smiled. “Morgan, would you tell her? I don't have the heart.”
I came behind her and leaning down, rested my chin on her shoulder. “Mama, the zookeepers say we have to go or they'll lock us in here for the night.”
Mama reached her hand up, cool and soft as always, and laid it flat on my cheek. “Hmmm,” she sighed. “That wouldn't be so bad, would it? I could watch them for hours. Just look at them, Morgan. They are just so alive! Everything about them is vital and honest. They are what they are and make no apologies for it. Beautiful.”
I stepped to her side and put my arm around her. “They really are something, especially that big guy over there,” I said, pointing to a large, powerful-looking male lion with an enormous mane wreathing his regal face. “I wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley.”
Mama nodded, “He's a big, handsome fellow,” she agreed. “But did you know that it's really the female that takes care of the family? Look at her.” Mama gestured toward the much smaller, less muscular female sitting a few feet apart from the male. “She's half his size, but it's the mother who does the hunting. She has the babies, and protects them from predators, and makes sure they all have enough to eat. Without her, the family couldn't survive. She is smaller than her partner, maybe weaker in some ways, but inside, at the core, she is driven by a powerful instinct, some fierce resolution that gives her twice his strength. She knows what she has to do,” Mama said in a voice hushed with respect.
I started to say something about Mama being part lioness but instead I just leaned down and kissed her on top of the head. Mama looked up at me and smiled.
“What was that for?”
“It's a coded message. It means ‘thanks for being you.'”
“Come on.” I took her hand. “Let's get some dinner.”

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