On Wings Of The Morning (5 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
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Looking across the horizon, a short mile from where Mama stood, I could see another car parked by the side of the road and another figure standing shadowed against the earth. Paul waved both arms above his head, bidding me farewell. For a moment, I could see Mama and Paul at the same time and somehow I knew that no matter what happened to me, Mama would be all right. In my mind, I thanked God for both of them and prayed that somehow the distance between them would be closed. Then, as quickly as the thought formed in my mind, Whitey pulled back the stick, we climbed higher, and I lost sight of them.
4
Georgia
Chicago, Illinois—January 1940
 
T
hirty-three dollars and twenty-eight cents. That was all. In my heart of hearts I knew that the ten-cent-an-hour raise I'd been given in recognition of faithful service to the housewares department of Marshall Fields wasn't going to make me rich, but as I tore open my pay envelope, I prayed for a miracle of loaves and fishes—a divine intervention that would mystically transform my little raise into a figure that would be enough to pay for flying lessons
and
my bill at the grocer's. It didn't happen.
“So much for the power of positive thinking,” I mumbled as I folded the check in half and tucked it into my pocketbook. The truth was, it was a nice raise, but it wasn't enough to finance my dream. I'd tried everything I could think of—working every overtime shift I could, baby-sitting on evenings and weekends, walking to work to save the fare it cost to ride the El, but it wasn't enough. I'd even taken a couple of bookkeeping classes at a nighttime secretarial school, hoping that bookkeeping would pay better than sales did, but the jobs I'd been offered didn't pay any more than what I was making at the department store.
Compared to most girls my age, I was making good money—enough for food, rent, an occasional night on the town, and, thanks to my store discount, a nice wardrobe—if that was what I'd wanted to do with it. None of my old girlfriends from St. Margaret's were making as much as I did, and they were all jealous that I had a generous discount at Chicago's most fashionable department store.
I'd met Frances Ruth Callaghan, Fran, my best friend from St. Margaret's, for lunch in the store coffee shop just the week before, and she'd gone on and on about it. Eating out was a rare treat for me, but we were celebrating our birthdays—we were born in the same month. We went dutch, and with my employee discount, lunch in the café cost only a little more than my usual brown bag in the break room.
“I can't think why you're wearing that same white blouse and the same black pumps you wore to graduation when you've got the latest styles at your feet, and all at a discount! You could have a nice apartment, but instead you live in a one-room garret and cook on a hot plate!”
“True, but it's
my
one-room garret, and that makes all the difference.” It would have been cheaper to keep living in Delia's apartment, but that was where I'd drawn the line on frugality. My rented room was only three blocks from her place, and since we worked in the same store, albeit in different departments (thank heaven!) I saw her every day. Having my own place gave me a break from her endless conversations about what I should wear, who I should date, or how pretty I could look if only I'd fix myself up a little. It also meant I could avoid awkward meetings with the latest “uncle” who might be sitting at the kitchen table drinking his morning coffee in the same shirt he'd worn the night before. That alone was worth double the rent I paid for my garret.
“Honestly, Georgia! You never spend a dime on yourself. If I was in your shoes I'd dress like a fashion plate,” Fran said through a mouthful of chicken salad. “And I'd have the cutest little place with everything new—a whole matching set of dinnerware, with the serving pieces and everything, and some of those sheets with the scalloped embroidery on the edges, and matching pillows with my monogram. Wouldn't that be elegant? Do you get a discount on monogramming, too?” she asked hopefully.
“No. Just on the things the store buys from vendors. They have to pay people in the store for monogramming and tailoring, so that's full price.”
Fran bit her lip thoughtfully. “Well, that's all right. I can live without the monogram,” she said before going on. “And a pile of big, fluffy cotton towels—in pink, to match the tile in our new bathroom. Did I tell you about the tile in the house?” I nodded and kept eating. She had, several times, but I knew she was going to tell me again anyway. I didn't mind. Fran was just three weeks away from living her dream life. Soon she'd be married to Richard Morelli, the manager of the movie house where Fran was an usherette, and living in her own home—a new two-bedroom bungalow with a pink-tiled bathroom and an honest-to-heaven picket fence. She was happy, and I was happy for her.
“It is just so darling! Even the toilet is pink! It matches the tile and looks so fresh against the white walls. I'm going to sew a shower curtain out of white eyelet lace and find a pink liner to go underneath so the color will peep out through the eyelet holes.” She took another bite of her salad and sighed. “Just darling!” she repeated. “But really, Georgia, I don't understand why you don't put that discount to good use and get yourself a new wardrobe.”
“Because Marshall Fields doesn't sell anything I want, that's why.”
Fran rolled her eyes. “I know. I know. You're saving every penny for flying lessons. Georgia! If I didn't know better I'd think you were nuts! When are you going to grow up and realize that this is just a crazy dream? I mean, honestly! How many female pilots do you know?”
“Amelia Earhart, Jackie Cochran, Bessie Coleman ...” I ticked them off on my fingers.
“I mean real people!” she interrupted.
“They are real people. I saw Amelia Earhart give a lecture at Northwestern one day. She talked, and breathed, and drank water, and everything.”
“I mean regular people. People like us. Ever since we were kids you've been talking about flying, and you're not any closer to being a pilot now than you were when we were ten.”
“That's not true,” I answered. “I've already finished my lessons for ground school—”
“Yes, and that took every dime you'd saved. Now you're broke again. Georgia,” she said sweetly, as though trying to explain something to a not-too-bright kindergartener, “I used to want to be a ballerina, but since my parents could never afford dance lessons, I realized it was never going to happen, and I moved on. You've spent all your money trying to become a pilot, and you've still never been up in a plane! How crazy is that? How do you even know that is what you want?”
“I just know,” I said. We'd had this argument before, and I was trying my best to keep my tone light and dismissive, but Fran's doubts were beginning to grate, mostly because I sometimes asked myself the same questions. And yet, and yet ... I did know. Without ever having flown, I knew.
“Don't you ever think about getting married and having a family?”
There it was. The exasperating question Delia asked me about three times a week, and now Fran was after me, too. My question was, were there women anywhere who thought about anything else? “Oh, for heaven's sake, Fran. Why should I?” Fran looked positively scandalized, so I reframed my question. “I mean, why now? What's the hurry? I'm only eighteen years old.”
“Just turned nineteen,” she retorted.
“So what? Frannie, why do I have to get married right away? For that matter, why do I ever have to get married?” I asked as I took a sip of iced tea.
She looked at me blankly. “I don't understand. Are you saying you want to become a nun?”
Involuntary laughter caused some of the tea to go up my nose. I pulled my napkin up to my face, coughing so hard my eyes started to water. “A nun?” I choked. “Me? The girl who had to stay after class to clap erasers every day for three months because she didn't know how to say the rosary? If you hadn't taken pity on me and helped me learn my prayers I'd probably have gotten some lung disease from inhaling so much chalk dust! Even if I wanted to, I'm pretty sure the Church wouldn't have me. But are those the only choices? You either get married or take the veil?”
“Of course not. I'm just trying to understand you,” Fran said sincerely. “Do you have something against marriage?”
Her eyes searched me, and I felt bad about having laughed. Fran was my best friend. She was just days away from her own wedding, and here I was casting doubt on the institution of marriage. I chose my words carefully. “It's not that. If I could ever find a man who really cared for and respected me as a person, not just as a potential wife and mother of his children, but really shared my interests and my dreams, then maybe I'd want to get married. Maybe.”
“Richard respects me,” Fran said a little defensively. “And we both have the same dream. We want a home and a family.”
“And that's great! Richard is a wonderful guy, and I know that you two will be happy together. It's just that my dreams are a little different than yours. It might take a long time for me to find someone to share them—if I ever do.” Fran furrowed her brow as I went on.
“Look. Delia has spent her whole life wanting one thing—to find a man, any man, and get him to marry her. She's turned herself inside out trying to be what they want her to be, and the more she does that, the quicker they turn and run. That won't do for me, Fran. I've got to be myself first and last. If someone can love me for that—great. If not, I can live with that. What I can't live with is the lie of trying to be something I'm not. Does that make sense to you?”
“No,” Fran said and smiled as she picked up her fork and speared a slice of tomato, “but there's nothing new in that. You've always been crazy, Georgia, but I guess that's what I like about you.”
“Ditto,” I said with a grin and took a bite of my sandwich.
“So this whole convoluted conversation was just to explain why you dress like the ragpicker's child and won't use your store discount?”
“I never said I wouldn't use the discount. I said I
don't
use it—not for me, anyway. But there's no reason I can't use it for you. Let me know how many of those towels you want. I'll order them for you today.”
“Really?” Fran's eyes grew wide with delight. “Are you sure? I'll pay for them and everything. Just let me know how much.”
“I'll total it up as soon as I get back on the floor.” Minus the monogramming fee that I'd decided to pay for myself—that would be my surprise gift. “Speaking of which,” I said, glancing at my watch, “I've got to get back to work.” I wolfed down a last bite of sandwich and pulled some money out of my purse so Fran could pay the bill.
“Say, Georgia.” Fran cleared her throat as I pushed back my chair. “Want to go to the movies with Richard and me on Saturday—and his brother, Martin? He just got a promotion at the factory. Shift supervisor. He's such a nice guy, and he thinks you're cute. C'mon,” she pleaded. “It'll be fun.”
“I'm sure it would, but I said I'd pull an extra shift this weekend. Thanks anyway. Besides, Martin's just not my type.”
Fran sighed. “That's what Richard said you'd say.”
“Well, Richard is a smart guy,” I said. “That's why he's marrying you. Now, I've got to run. I'm late. I'll call you this weekend.” I picked up my pocketbook and started to leave, but Fran tugged at my sleeve.
“Wait! Richard also said to give you this. I didn't want to, but he made me promise.” She stuffed a newspaper clipping into my hand. I wondered what in the world it could be, but another glance at my watch showed I was now five minutes late. I shoved it into my purse, waved good-bye, ran for the elevator, and didn't think about the clipping again until I came home from work that night.
Fumbling around in my pocketbook, looking for my keys so I could open the door to my apartment, I pulled out the newspaper clipping. It was a classified ad from the
Waukegan News Record.
HELP WANTED
: Experienced waitress for restaurant located next to busy municipal airport. Good pay. Good tips. Uniform provided. Start immediately. Contact Thurman at the Soaring Wings Café, Waukegan, Illinois
Good pay. Good tips. None of that registered in my mind. The words that kept repeating themselves in my mind were “next to busy municipal airport” and “start immediately.” I found my keys, opened the door, pulled the string to illuminate the one bare bulb that lit the room, and started frantically searching under the bed for my suitcase.
Start immediately. How long, I wondered, was the bus ride to Waukegan?
 
As it turned out, Waukegan was just about forty miles north of Chicago. It was bigger than I'd thought it would be, and pretty. Sitting on the shores of Lake Michigan about ten miles from the Wisconsin border, the town boasted houses in good repair with green lawns and green trees. A nice town, but even if it had been the armpit of the earth, nothing would have stopped me from packing my things, leaving a note for my landlady with what was owed on my rent, and taking a milk-run bus ride to Waukegan in the middle of the night, all in hopes of getting a job I didn't know anything about.
When I reached my destination, a few streaks of daylight were climbing up from the horizon. It was too early to think of finding a hotel room. I went into the bus depot bathroom to brush my teeth and hair and splash a little water on my face, then dropped a nickel into the slot of an empty metal locker so I'd have a safe place to keep my things until I got the job.
You mean
if
you get the job
, a voice of doubt spoke in my mind. I did my best to ignore it but wasn't entirely successful. Maybe Fran was right, I thought. Maybe I was crazy. Who picks up in the middle of the night and moves to take a job they aren't even sure they'll get, that probably pays less than what they were making before, in a town they never heard of just because the job is next to an airfield? I must be crazy.

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