On Wings Of The Morning (33 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
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Eva laughed. “Oh no! We did go to San Diego to see Morgan, so I saw the ocean then, but mostly I've just got a good imagination.”
“They are just amazing! I can't even begin to imagine how you do it.”
“Well, I've had years of practice,” she said, modestly. “It takes time and patience, of course, but it really isn't as hard as you'd think. Would you like to try it?”
And before I could answer, she had limped her way to the fabric-filled shelves, pulling out several shades of green and cream-colored cloth she thought would make a pretty nine-patch block. “You can make this one, and if you enjoy it, make more until you have enough for a quilt, or you can just do the one and make it into a pillow.
“You see how many I have.” She smiled as she pointed to a chair in the corner that was indeed piled with a small mountain of throw pillows. “Those are all projects I started that didn't turn out quite like I'd pictured. After all that work, I might as well get something out of it. Anyway, they make nice gifts.”
The next thing I knew, I was sitting at a scarred wooden worktable with Eva beside me, showing me how to hold a well-sharpened pencil at a sideways angle to trace a perfectly even line around a wooden template onto the green cloth. She was a patient teacher, kind and quick to praise, and motherly. How lucky Morgan had been to grow up in this wonderful family, at the knee of this caring, gentle woman, a mother so different from my own.
“My papa made these templates for me, years ago. I've got squares, triangles, diamonds; just about any shape you can think of in any size you'd ever need.” Just then, Morgan poked his head in the door.
“There you are! I wondered what happened to you two. Better watch out for her, Georgia, or next thing you know you'll be buying yards and yards of fabric without the first idea what you plan to do with it, and you'll have so many pillows on your bed there won't be room for you to get in.” He came up behind Eva's chair and leaned down to kiss the top of her head.
Eva reached her hand up and patted him affectionately on the cheek before shooing him off. “Now just go away for a little while, Morgan. I want Georgia to get started on this one block before you have to take her home. Don't worry. I'll give your girl back in a little while.”
 
Your girl.
While Morgan drove, I held on to the paper sack filled with leftover turkey, dressing, and pie that Ruby and Grandma Clare had pressed on me, along with the unsewn pieces of the quilt block Morgan's mother said I could finish later, and thought about Morgan and his family and about what his mother had said, turning it over and over in my mind.
They were such a lovely family, like the families I'd seen in magazine advertisements, Norman Rockwell illustrations of families, healthy and clean-living, happily joined around the dinner table exchanging stories of the day, glad to be in each other's company, pure and pious and wonderfully normal—nothing like my family, assuming the word even applied to what Delia and I made up. Yet, when Eva had shooed Morgan away, saying I was his girl, he'd laughed and left the room whistling.
Morgan was whistling still as he drove. Feeling my eyes on him, he turned to me and smiled again, beaming sunlight. And my heart ached inside me because now I knew for certain what, before, I had only suspected: I could never be Morgan Glennon's girl.
 
At my front door, I dodged his good-night kiss, turning my head quickly and thanking him for inviting me, my hand outstretched for a platonic farewell. He shook my hand, looking a bit confused, hurt even, but it was better this way. Better a small hurt now than to let things go on and risk the possibility of breaking his heart and the certainty of breaking my own. From now on, I resolved, our relationship would be strictly professional; it was for the best.
I shut the door, leaving Morgan to climb down the creaking wooden staircase to the waiting Packard as I snapped on the light switch and took a long look around my tiny apartment—rented room, rented furniture, not a picture on the walls, not a single object that spoke of permanence or intent, the room of someone who was running from something, a fugitive.
Well,
I thought,
maybe that's what I am. How did that happen?
For the first time, I actually welcomed the prospect of leaving this place. All I had to do was get through the next three weeks and then head ... ? I'd been on the verge of thinking
Head home
, but I didn't know where home was. I never really had. Come December 20
th
, where was I to go?
I sighed, took a step toward the kitchen table with the intent of unloading the bag of leftovers, but felt something under my foot. It was an envelope. The landlady must have left it. I bent down to pick it up and noticed Delia's familiar, curlicue script on the outside. On the inside, I found a printed invitation with an ink smear on “i” in the word
cordially
, as if the cards had been made up quickly and mailed before they were dry.
You are cordially invited to the wedding of
Cordelia Carter Boudreaux
And
Colonel Nathan Bedford Prescott III
December 24, 1944
St. Margaret's Chapel
Reception to follow at the bride's home
And a note quickly dashed in Delia's own hand.
Georgia Darling,
Be my Maid of Honor?
Love,
Delia
40
Morgan
Liberal, Kansas—December 20, 1944
 
I
n my mind, I had resolved that when we said good-bye that day, the last, formal step in the handoff of responsibilities from Georgia to myself, I would simply shake her hand, say it had been nice to work with her, and walk away, proving I could be “professional,” too.
Professional. It was a word I'd come to despise in the weeks since Thanksgiving, when, after what I'd thought had been a really great evening, Georgia resumed her distant, frosty demeanor just when I'd thought the ice had started to thaw. Every time I tried to ask her what had happened, or if I'd done something to offend her, she just looked at me and said in a flat voice, as though repeating a line she'd memorized from a play, “Nothing happened, Morgan. It was kind of you and your family to include me in your holiday celebrations, but I think it is best if we keep our relationship strictly professional.”
And that was it. She wouldn't budge. No matter how hard I pushed or what I said, that was her answer—aloof, rehearsed, and humiliating. My initial confusion and hurt turned quickly to frustration and anger. Eventually, I decided that if that's the way she wanted it, fine. It wasn't like she was the only woman on the face of the earth. I'd get over her. Of course, it'd be a lot easier to do that if I didn't have to see her every day. I was looking forward to December 20
th
even more than Christmas.
As I said, the handoff was really a formality. I'd been teaching all Georgia's former students on my own for the last week and she'd really just been an observer, but we'd decided to meet about thirty minutes after my last class of the day, so she could give me the key to the room and her final student evaluations. I hadn't slept well the night before, so after I dismissed class, I headed over to the office to grab myself a cup of coffee. When I walked in I saw Colonel Hemingway talking to Georgia, whose packed suitcase was sitting next to her feet. Hemingway, was smiling as he spoke, obviously giving Georgia a hard time and looking like he was thoroughly enjoying himself.
“Well, I'm sorry, Mrs. Welles, but as of today, you are no longer on the Army Air Corps payroll, therefore the Army Air Corps is under no obligation to provide transportation for you, not across town and most certainly not to Chicago.” Hemingway had a self-satisfied smirk on his face that he tried, unsuccessfully, to mask as he said, “I'm sorry for your troubles, but you should have planned ahead. There is simply nothing I can do for you.”
“Sir,” Georgia said, glaring daggers at Hemingway but keeping her voice low, “the army brought me to Liberal. Isn't it the army's responsibility to transport me back from Liberal? If I were a soldier who had finished his tour of duty, wouldn't the army send me home? You aren't going to tell me that Washington is planning on leaving all those boys stationed in Germany, or the Philippines, or Armpit, Alabama, stranded once the war is over, are you?”
Hemingway smiled indulgently. “Certainly not, but you've hit upon precisely my point. Those soldiers are
soldiers
. Something you, my dear, never were and never will be. So I'm afraid you'll have to arrange for your own ride home, Mrs. Welles. Now, if you'll excuse me.” Still smirking, he turned triumphantly on his heel and walked out.
Georgia's shoulders drooped. “Great,” she muttered to herself, sounding more tired and defeated than angry. “That's just great. Now what am I going to do?”
I was still sore at Georgia, but nobody deserved to be treated like that. “Georgia? Are you all right?” The sound of my voice startled her.
“Oh. Hi, Morgan. I'm fine. I'm just stuck, that's all. It seems that because the WASP was never militarized, the government feels no compunction to help get me home now that their need for my services has ended.” Her sarcastic tone bubbled into frustration, and she shouted, “It's an airfield, for gosh sakes! How hard could it be for them to put me on the next plane that's headed toward Chicago?” She shook her head and sighed. “Well, I'm sure I'm not alone in this. As we speak, there are probably hundreds of stranded WASP who just received the same lecture and are trying to figure out what they do now.”
“Can I give you a lift somewhere?”
“Yeah,” she said with a wry smile, “How about Chicago?” That was one of the things I loved about Georgia; she always kept her sense of humor.
“Well, I was thinking more along the lines of the nearest train station.”
She shook her head. “We're five days from Christmas; there aren't any seats available to Chicago, not on the train, not even on the bus. I checked. And my sister ...” She put her hand to her eyes, rubbing them like she had a headache coming on, “I mean, my mother is getting married on Christmas Eve, and I'm supposed to stand up for her. There's no way I'll make it now. I guess I'll have to telephone and say I won't be there in time.”
“Come on,” I said, grabbing her suitcase and heading toward the door.
Georgia's forehead furrowed in confusion. “Where are we going? Morgan, you're sweet to want to help me, but I'm not going to impose myself on your family for Christmas. I told you before, I appreciated their kindness, but I'd prefer if we kept our relationship—”
“Georgia, will you just shut up! For once!” Her eyes grew wide at my outburst, and she started to answer me, but then changed her mind. “I've heard that speech two dozen times already and it's getting stale! In fact, it makes me mad as hell, and you know why?” She shook her head, silent.
“Because I'm a really nice guy and I'm crazy about you. And I think if you had a lick of sense, you'd see that. But!” I said loudly, giving an exaggerated shrug, “If you don't like me, then there's nothing I can do about it. Fine. Your loss. Mine, too, but I've accepted that. Just don't go giving me that speech again, all right? Every time you do, it makes me want to punch something! In fact, the only thing that makes me madder is listening to the high-handed load of bull Hemingway was giving you. Especially after the swell job you've done here. Now, shut up and let's go. Before I change my mind.” I stomped off without looking to see if she was following, but the click of high heels on the linoleum told me she was right behind.
I walked as fast as I could. She was breathing heavy, trying to keep up and after a couple of minutes she shouted, “Morgan!”
“What!”
“Where the heck are you taking me?”
“Chicago!” I snarled and kept right on walking.
 
“Here,” I said, “take the controls for a while. I need a break.” Actually, I wasn't tired at all, but I knew this would be the last chance Georgia would have for a long time, maybe even forever, to handle a big craft.
“Thanks.” She smiled as she took over the wheel. I leaned back and opened a bottle of Coke I'd brought along. Georgia's eyes scanned the horizon, and she adjusted her grip on the controls. I knew what she was doing, looking for that sweet spot, that place where you can feel every shift and shudder of the plane, like holding on to the reins of a horse just so, feeling the life and intent of the animal coming through the lines like electricity through a wire.
Georgia laughed to herself. “I still can't believe you just took this plane. This is government property, Morgan. You'll be lucky if there aren't a couple of MPs waiting for you when you land.”
“Naw.” I took another swig of my drink. “I just told Lowell, the head mechanic, that I was taking her up for a little shakedown. She just came out of the shop yesterday. I thought it'd be a good idea to make sure everything's working tip-top before I let the students take her up, that's all. Who'd object to that? I think it's darned nice of me, watching out for the welfare of my students this way. Especially during my personal time.”
“Hemingway might have some objections if he hears I'm on board.”
I grinned. “That's why I offered Lowell twenty bucks not to mention that part to anybody.”
“Morgan, you're kidding! You paid him twenty—”
I held up my hand to stop her protest. “I said I offered him twenty, but after he heard about how Hemingway treated you, he wouldn't take it. Said you were a good pilot, never griped if you didn't get your pick of the planes, always had your repair sheets in order, and made your students do the same. He respects you. Lots of the guys do, you know. Not everybody's like Hemingway and that worm, Anders.”
“I know that,” Georgia said. “It took a while for some of the men to come around, but once they saw I could do my job as well as anybody, most of them treated me fairly. Don't get the idea that I'm leaving with hard feelings, Morgan, because I'm not. There are some things I think the military should have handled differently when it came to the WASP, but even so, this has been the best time of my life. It's been a privilege to serve, and I wouldn't have missed it for the world. I'm really going to miss it.”
She was quiet for a moment, thinking. I watched her eyes move back and forth across the horizon, a wistful look on her face, as if logging the moment in her memory. I couldn't help but think how beautiful she was.
After a minute, her expression changed, and she returned to the present moment. Her lips bowed into a little smile, and her eyes sparkled. “Did you really knock out that little creep, Anders, because he'd said something nasty about me, or was that just a rumor?”
I didn't say anything. Just took another long drink from the bottle of Coke, swallowed, and grinned.

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