Flygirl (23 page)

Three months Thomas has been missing, lost somewhere in the Pacific. I say a little prayer over my lunch. Please help my brother stay alive. After a few minutes, I give up on my soup and return to my seat two cars away.

Through the window, Georgia gives way to Alabama in a haze of thick green trees. The air is heavy down here. Even with the windows open, I feel the humidity, like the sky is trying hard not to cry.

Or maybe that's just me.

The woman across from me glances at my uniform. She has green eyes set in a face so pink, she looks like a baby doll. She sees me looking back at her and smiles, a pinched smile. Maybe I remind her of someone. Or, more likely, she's thinking of the stories she's heard about the kind of girl that would join a man's army. I shrug. I'll change out of uniform tomorrow and go back to being Ida Mae Jones. In the meantime, I'm proud of what I am, a Women Airforce Service Pilot. A WASP.

I smile at the thought and stick my nose out the window. The wind rushes by and lifts my hair off my face. It feels good. Almost like flying. For a moment, I can forget the sore spot in my heart. I need every moment like this I can get.

I sleep sitting up through Alabama. In the morning, as the train leaves Mississippi, I take my duffel and walk the length of the cars until I come to the door marked COLOREDS at the back end of the train. I find the ladies' room between the two cars and slip inside. I'll leave the train as a colored girl—Grandy will be waiting for me.

The room is more of a broom closet, with a small sink, a short metal toilet, and a mirror on the wall. I straighten my blue uniform in the mirror, wipe away a bit of lint, and touch the cool silver metal of the wings on my lapel. It looks right on me, against my pale skin and soft brown hair. It makes me feel older than just twenty years. But only white women can wear them, and New Orleans is just an hour away. Time to turn back into a pumpkin.

With a sigh, I open my bag and pull out my civilian clothes, a travel suit of soft brown-and-cream-flecked summer wool. The next time I look in the mirror, I'm no longer a WASP, young and white, able to fly. Same pale skin, same soft hair. But now I can pass for colored, just another light-skinned girl.

Someone knocks at the door. I let them knock. I wait in the toilet until I feel the train come to a stop and the conductor announces we've arrived in New Orleans.

Only when I hear other people moving from both cars do I close my bag and unlock the bathroom door. I exit the train in a crowd of both coloreds and whites. If anyone recognizes me, they won't know me for the white woman I was when I boarded the train.

Grandy is waiting for me outside the train station, away from the segregated platform. The old yellow pickup truck with its deep, rusting bed and slumped seats is a welcome sight. But not as welcome as my grandfather's coffee brown face. I grin at him and walk over. He nods at me and grabs my bag.

“Didn't know what color you'd be when I saw you, so I thought it best to let you decide,” he says seriously.

“Grandy!” I scold him with a swat on the arm. “Where's Mama and Abel?” I ask. “I thought they'd be here.” I can't hide my disappointment. Maybe Mama hasn't made peace with my new life, the way I hoped she would.

Grandy shakes his head. “Your mother's back at the farm,” is all he says. It worries me.

“Any news about Thomas?”

Grandy shakes his head again and I can feel my heart sinking. It's not a real homecoming without all of us there.

The rest of the ride back to Slidell, Grandy tells me small news, stories of the folks about town, how the farm is doing, and the like. I tell him what fun training has been, what the graduation was like. I'm careful to say nothing about Patsy. As much as I want to talk about my friend, I know what happened to her will only scare Mama. And from the looks of it, that's the last thing I can afford to do.

We pull off the main highway, down our old dusty road, and my shoulders relax. It'll be harvesttime in a couple of months. The strawberry fields are getting thick with fruit, and the shutters on our old yellow house still need painting. The porch is empty, but the windows have been thrown wide open to catch the breeze. I put my hand on Grandy's arm as he shifts the truck into park.

“Lord, it's good to be home.”

Grandy smiles at me, that strong, white-toothed smile. After a minute, I follow him out of the truck.

“Leave it for later,” he tells me when I go to get my bag from the truck bed. It makes me hesitate.

“What's going on, Grandy?”

“What do you mean, baby girl?”

I stop, and my hands go to my hips, just like Mama's do. “I mean, I have never in all my livelong days heard you say ‘leave' anything for later. In fact, I've been switched for saying as much myself.”

Grandy frowns at me, and I think I've gone too far. “Young lady, I am still your grandfather. If you know what's good for you, you'll get inside.”

He shakes his calloused hand at me, a sweeping motion that gets my feet moving again, even though my luggage is left behind. Up the front steps that echo hollow as a good mush melon, through the screen and wooden front doors, and into the foyer I go.

“Mama? Abel? I'm home,” I call. I'm disappointed that they aren't waiting for me, but I'm so glad to be home, I try to be patient.

“I'm home,” I say again, more quietly.

“About time, too,” says a voice. A man's voice.

“Thomas?” I run into the parlor. Plain as day, there is my big brother, laid up in Abel's narrow little bed. It must've taken two men to bring it downstairs. Thomas grins at me, and his face, half Mama's, half Daddy's, is so beautiful, so perfect, I almost don't see the wince of pain when he waves or the bandages on his arm and chest.

“Tommy!” I run toward him to throw my arms around his neck and hug him tightly.

“Easy, girl. Your brother's got enough broken on him without you breaking anything else,” Mama says. The words are stern, but she's laughing.

Suddenly, I see the whole room clear as day. Mama is there, right next to the bed, and a gangly kid stands on the other side of him. A gangly kid, whom I recognize as my not-so-little brother Abel.

“Oh my God!” Instantly, I gasp. You don't take the Lord's name in vain in Mama's house. But this time, no one seems to notice.

“Thomas, Abel! Look at you!” Five months can change a little boy almost as much as two years can change a man.

I turn to Mama and laugh. “I must be Rip Van Winkle! How long have I been gone?”

Grandy comes in from the hallway, his hat in his hands. “Long enough for the military to do their dern jobs and find your brother.”

“And long enough for Abel to have a growth spurt or two,” Mama adds with a grin.

It's too much. I want to hug everyone, I want to laugh, and I want to hear everything. Instead, I burst into tears.

“It's all right, Clayfoot,” Thomas says, patting my arm with his good hand. “We're home now. Everybody's home.”

 

After dinner, when Abel's gone off to catch fireflies with the neighbor boys and Grandy's gone to bed, Thomas shows off his broken hip, the pin in his ankle, and tells me the story of his tour of duty.

“The Philippines are something else, Clayfoot. Hotter than a down-home July, most of the time. My first night, the mosquitoes were so thick, it was a wonder we all didn't come down with malaria. We were at the back of a platoon of colored soldiers, not really going anywhere, just holding our ground, keeping this particular island away from the Japanese. We were treating dysentery and fevers; jungle diseases, not war wounds. And then, one night, bang! Like a bolt of lightning hit the place. Next thing I know, I'm hearing Japanese.”

Thomas laughs and points to himself, lying on Abel's bed in the living room in his pale blue striped cotton pajamas, the buttons winking pearly and bright. “They caught me with my pants down, Ida. Too hot to sleep in pj's, I was in my boxers when the Nips came. And I was lucky. Of all the personnel at the hospital, only two of us survived.”

In the kitchen, I can hear Mama humming as she puts the dishes away.

“Tommy.” I put my hand on his leg. It's just like it used to be, me sitting on the foot of his bed, a big cup of warm milk in my hands, listening to stories when I couldn't sleep. Only now, I've got stories of my own to tell when the time comes.

“They tortured us, Ida, something fierce. Didn't even want information. Just wanted to listen to us scream, I think.” He looks at me with hooded eyes. “They'd never seen Negroes before. We were a novelty, like damn circus elephants. They didn't believe I was a doctor. Didn't believe I could be.” He looks off in the distance. The night is soft around us. “Who knows, Ida? Maybe it saved my life.

“Then one day, American planes started flying overhead. We were in the jungle pretty deep, but they found us. Some of the other boys I was with were killed in the rescue. But the guys who pulled us out didn't know they were rescuing anybody. They were just hunting Japanese. Said the Japs blew up our hospital when they took us. It was such a mess, they thought everybody was dead.”

Thomas rests his head back on the goose down pillows Mama's plumped up all around him.

“I came home just as soon as I knew the trip wouldn't kill me. Don't know if I'll ever run again . . .” He trails off and pats his hip. We're both thinking about him running to save Daddy.
Look at Thomas fly
. I put my hand over his and he sighs. “Looks like I've got about a month's worth of healing left.” He grins at me. “My own prognosis. But that'll probably be down to two weeks with Mama on duty.”

I grin back. “She was so worried about you. She'll fix you up right and then love you to death, but she'll take good care of you.”

Thomas shakes his head. “Don't I know it. Remember that time I fell off the barn trying to catch swallows?”

“Yeah. And you call
me
Clayfoot.”

Thomas laughs. It makes him suck in a little air. “Ribs are still bruised. And broken,” he explains. “Just like when I fell off that roof. Mama sat up with me around the clock until I could breathe without flinching. The only reason she's not in here right now is because you are.”

“Good,” I tell him. “She could use the break. And so could you.”

“Don't say ‘break.'” He groans.

We both laugh. I take a sip of my milk and am reminded of Lily trying to calm herself before our flight test.

Thomas reads something in my face. “Now, what's this about you joining the army?” he asks. “I thought you were going to stay here on the farm.”

Like I asked you to.
He doesn't say it, but I hear it just the same. The wind leaves my lungs. I denied Thomas was my brother so I could stay in the WASP. He's watching me, but I can't meet his eyes.

“Don't think I don't remember what you said,” I tell him.

“I tried to stay, I really did. But the news coming back from overseas was worse and worse, and it was just so hard, sitting on my hands, waiting for you to come home. So I joined the fight the only way I could.”

“By pretending to be white?”

My stomach aches. It sounds so outlandish to hear him say it.

“Abel showed me this article one day, about Uncle Sam looking for women who could fly. Suddenly, it was like everything Daddy taught me about flying was for a reason. A good reason, too.”

Thomas is quiet, but I've found my footing again. “I've flown from Philadelphia to California. I even learned to swim.”

“You? Swim?” Thomas looks impressed in spite of himself. Then he shakes his head. “That's great, Clayfoot. But Mama needed you on the farm.”

“No, she wanted me at home, but she didn't need me, Thomas. She doesn't need much of anything. Between her and Grandy, this place runs like a Swiss clock. And Abel's got more friends all the time. No, it was just me and Jolene cleaning the Wilson house, collecting cans and panty hose.” I twist my fingers together, as twisted as my tongue feels. “You just wouldn't understand.”

Thomas smiles. “Sure I would, Clayfoot. It's like standing in that field out there, too small to pick the tractor off Daddy and too slow to get help in time.”

My breath catches in my throat. I look at my brother, and old tears rise to the surface of my eyes. Thomas has always blamed himself for not being able to save our father. That's why he wants to become a doctor. Kind of like me becoming a WASP when I couldn't save Thomas. But I still couldn't save him.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Like that.”

“And you wish you could do more,” he says quietly.

“Yeah.”

Thomas sighs. “The only difference is, you
can.
And you are. But it's a dangerous thing you're doing, Ida Mae, playing white. I've been in this man's army. I hate to think what'll happen if they figure out you're colored.” He shakes his head, and I think of what I've already done in the name of passing.

“Tommy, I'm so sorry.” I grit my teeth to keep from crying. God help me, I've lied so many times over to join the WASP, and I know I'll keep doing it, as long as they let me fly.

Thomas shrugs. “Still, I'm proud of you, Clayfoot. I think about the sight of those planes flying over that prison camp, and I know that they were there because of girls like you. And I couldn't be prouder.”

I laugh, a choking sound, and feel like I can breathe again. “Stop messing with me, Thomas.”

“Oh, I know better than to mess with a WASP.”

I swat him, and he swats back. Maybe he understands. Maybe this is his forgiveness.