No Crystal Stair (22 page)

January 1958

 

R
ob pulled the covers tight around him and buried his head in the pillow. He was chilled to the bone, sweating like crazy, nauseated, and his head ached. Maybe he was dying. No. He knew it was just the flu. But having the flu in a Pairs hotel was not exactly an ideal situation. Besides, he didn't have time to be sick.

He tried to think. How many places had they covered? He and Chuck had been sent on visits to all the countries that flew airplanes that were maintained at McClellan. A world-wide and very important trip. And it was still in the first stages. Rob muddled through his aching head and tried to review the agenda. F-86s and T-33s in Norway, Denmark, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Iran, Ethiopia and Japan. No, he didn't have time to be sick. He hoped those pills Chuck got from the embassy would do the trick. Chuck had doctored Rob as best he could and had now gone to the American Embassy to pick up their visas.

Rob fell into a deep sleep and was just awakening when Chuck returned.

“How're you doing?” Chuck asked.

“Better, I think... hope,” Rob murmured, shutting his eyes again.

“Well, I wish you'd get off your ass. You're getting to be a bit of a handicap. Here we are in gay Paree, all set to live it up and you—”

“Oh shut up! Go out and live it up and let me sleep.” Rob turned his back and buried his face in the pillow again.

“Yeah, quite a handicap. You get me kicked out of restaurants and now you're about to get me kicked out of a country.”

Rob turned to face him. “What's the matter? Didn't you get the visas?'

“Got mine.” Chuck held it up. “Not yours. No authorization for an American Negro second-class citizen, as they put it, to do state business with the Royal Ethiopian Air Force.”

Rob say up, wincing at the throb of pain in his head. “You're kidding.”

“No.”

Rob lay back down, too sick to care. “So you go to Ethiopia and I'll go on to—”

“No. I phoned the big boys back home and they're taking care of it. The American attache will handle the problem, and you're to pick up your visa in Athens, Greece. We have to go there first, anyway.”

A week later Rob was feeling much better and they proceeded to Greece. They concluded their business with the Royal Hellenic Air Force and stopped at the MAG, the Military Advisory Group, to puck up Rob's visa. No visa.

In the meantime a TWX was received, ordering Chuck to return to the States. Rob was to continue the tour alone. Sit tight, he was told. Your visa will be issued forthwith.

Three days later, the visa was issued and he boarded an Ethiopian airliner for the flight to Addis Ababa.

From the moment he got off the plane, he was astounded at the sea of black faces that surrounded him. The first country he'd visited where all the people looked like him. And, he thought ironically, the first country outside the United States where he'd almost been banned because of his race. Banned from doing government business!

However, he was billeted at the plush Ghion Hotel and utensils were not removed from his place setting when he went down to dinner. Maybe because, in this country, there was no
way he could be recognized as second-class. He couldn't help grinning at the observation. The dining room was large and elegant, but the clientele was sparse. He saw only the members of the crew who'd flown him in, and two other groups of four seated in the grand ballroom. The menu was in English, the food excellent, and they were elegantly entertained by a string quartet.

Later the American Advisory Commander called on him. A quiet affable man, he told Rob a pickup had been ordered at eight in the morning and they were to meet with General Asifa at nine.

The next morning, as he was driven to the meeting site, Rob felt somewhat frustrated and a little disgusted. According to General Arnold, everyone had heard of the second-class-citizen fiasco, and though Rob had at first casually dismissed it, he suddenly found himself burning at the implication. Possibly, he thought with brutal honesty, because it held more than a grain of truth. And possibly because to be considered a second-class citizen in such a dismal country was too much to bear.

Like being in another world—a poor and primitive world. He took in the sights from the window of the moving car—a few blocks crowded with small structures of cinderblock or brick, houses or places of business. He noted the obvious poverty of the people who moved about on foot... the narrow stretch of road threading through a barren countryside... vultures feeding on animal carcasses that littered the roadside. Christ! He was second-class compared to
this?

What the hell was he doing here, anyway?

The answer saddened him. He was bringing weapons, the gift of American taxpayers to a country that was far more in need of housing, hospitals, sanitation and food. This was a crazy mixed-up world.

However, as was always the case, the minute he entered the conference room, Rob was all business. The United States was
replacing the Swedish propeller-driven Spads with their jet engine-propelled F-86s. Ethiopian pilots who were to fly them were being trained in the United States. Some had completed training and were awaiting delivery of the aircraft.

Rob's task was to make sure the host country had the infrastructure and facilities to maintain the plane and its equipment.

The discussion was long and heated, the Swedes declaring that the Americans wanted too much too soon. The Ethiopian general, growing impatient and confused, turned to Rob. The critical point was the Americans' demand for a special environment and careful maintenance of the F-86s fire-control system. “Tell us, Mr. Metcalf,” the general insisted. “Why we must have this clean room you speak of.”

Rob explained in detail that the system had to be maintained in a dust-free environment to accommodate the tolerances of the circuitry that assured a hit. “Otherwise,” he concluded, “we're taking a six-hundred-thousand-dollar weapons system up for a joyride.” Even as he said it, he winced. He'd wanted to design planes for travel and pleasure, not carnage and destruction.

From then on, the Ethiopian general questioned Rob on every detail, regarding him with respect.

Rob appreciated his new first-class status, but couldn't shake off the depression—because it was his expertise in the weapons of war that had earned him the status.

 

 

In April 1958 Rob had received a job offer from Colonel Marks—who was now a General and stationed at Langley Field in Hampton Virginia.

“Marks is in deep trouble on some project and thinks you can bail him out,” Chuck said. “But hell, I need you here. You're not going to take it, are you?” Rob knew what he meant—jim crow territory. But he was acquainted with most of the leadership
at the base, so it wasn't particularly a concern. Moreover, Joe Tillman, his old buddy at Stalag 109—now a full colonel—was stationed there, too.

“Well...”Rob had hesitated. He'd liked working with Chuck and hated to desert him, but there were other considerations. Jobs above the GS-13 level had a political dimension. Someone higher up had to want and sponsor you if you were to advance. You didn't turn down such an opportunity. “I'll check with Ann Elizabeth,” he'd said. If she objected to a move to Virginia, he wouldn't take the job.

Much as she loved her life in California, Ann Elizabeth had been delighted. They'd be on the East Coast, much nearer her parents. And Hampton was familiar to her. She remembered going there with her parents once for an NMA meeting—a national association of Negro doctors—and once for a bridge tournament. They'd stayed at the home of friends and been royally entertained.

The children would be all right, with Bobby in high school and Maggie just out of kindergarten and ready for first grade. No, she had not opposed the move.

But now ... Ann Elizabeth's thoughts were in a disconsolate scramble as she stood in the kitchen of their house in Hampton arranging gladioli in a low bowl.

She wished they'd never moved here. Wished they'd never bought this house.

At first it hadn't been too bad. Julia Belle had put her in touch with some of her friends, and Ann Elizabeth's old classmate Jennie Lou, now lived here with her husband, Dr. Allen Slater, whom she'd managed to capture after giving up on Dan. Jennie Lou wasn't one of Ann Elizabeth's favorites, but she'd renewed the acquaintance.

She'd expected living in Hampton to be fun, and yes, it could have been

But it wasn't.

Rob was so stubborn. They hadn't needed to buy this place. She could have managed a little longer in the apartment they'd found to rent. At least until they could build. There was that big lot right next to the Slaters. And houses for sale in a fairly decent section that was going colored. But, she thought ruefully, Rob had changed. He wasn't going to buy and remodel an old house someone else had dumped. And he wasn't going to wait to build. Not when there were good solid brand-new ready-made houses for sale. Besides, he didn't want to commute from the colored section.

He was so stubborn! Somewhere he'd picked up a bug about “going first-class.”

Ann Elizabeth stared out her kitchen window, remembering how, Sunday after Sunday, Rob had dragged her here. To Lansberg, a development of new custom-built homes located near the base. “Open for Inspection,” declared the signs posted every few blocks.

For three Sundays they'd walked through every three- and four-bedroom model, staring enviously at the large family rooms with fireplaces, the beautiful tiled kitchens with built-in appliances. “Exactly what we need,” Rob had said. But he knew as well as she that their tour was meaningless. Ann Elizabeth could still feel the humiliation. They were pointedly ignored by the salesmen, who eagerly approached white customers. She was embarrassed every time Rob cornered a salesman who smoothly lied through his teeth, “All our present models are spoken for. Try again in six months.”

Then her mother had come for a visit.

“I don't see how you can stand being cooped up in this apartment,” Julia Belle had said. “Haven't you found a house yet? You've got the money from selling the place in Sacramento, and with what Rob makes, surely you can find something suitable.”

Ann Elizabeth mentioned the lot near the Slaters'. Rob talked about Lansberg, particularly the number 168 four-bedroom
model, which had appealed to him. “But one look at us and they turn the other way.”

“I think I'll go out there,”Julia Belle said with a conspiratorial smile. “Rob, find a chauffeur's cap and drive me.”

“Oh, Mother! This isn't just a trip on a train,” Ann Elizabeth said. Her mother and Aunt Sophie always sat in the section reserved for whites whenever they traveled by train.

“But it will do the trick,”Julia Belle replied calmly. “I just bet they'll sell to me.”

“But
we'll
have to live there!”

“In a house that's perfect for you. You deserve it, the same way I deserve the best accommodations on a train.”

Ann Elizabeth thought of the beautiful homes owned by her white friends in Sacramento. Thought of how hard she and Rob had worked to make their Sacramento house livable. Thought of the bright new houses in Lansberg, and protested no more. Now, all these months later, she wished she had.

Surprise. Number 168 was available, explained the charming salesman. Julia Belle made out a check for the down payment, saying that her husband would be joining her later. Amazing how quickly business was transacted with Julia Belle's white face and the absent Dr. Carter's excellent credit rating. When the deed was signed, sealed and delivered, Rob reimbursed her for the down payment and Julia Belle transferred ownership to the Metcalfs and returned to Atlanta.

Ann Elizabeth sighed, for the first time in her life resenting her mother's fair skin. If they hadn't bought the house...

She stuck the last blossom into the bowl, brushed the leftover stems into the garbage disposal and put the clippers away. She leaned against the sink and surveyed her spotless kitchen—the gleaming beige tile counter, smooth birch cabinets, the bronze double oven, the matching bronze refrigerator and dishwasher. Things. Just things. Her feet sank into the plush carpet as she entered the formal dining room. She placed the flowers in the
center of her mother's old Chippendale table, which looked as if it had been made for this room. The house had been so easy to decorate, requiring only a few extra pieces of furniture and a few pictures here and there. It was spacious, modern, new and clean. And she would exchange it in a minute for that old house in Sacramento with its crumbling plaster and leaky faucets.

She so longed for the sound of Bertha's husky voice that she called her long distance one day.

“The children trying to reform me.”Bertha told her. “Roberta and Racine got this big bottle and they want me to put in a nickel every time I cuss. Shit! I had to cut that out. I'd be plumb broke. How you all doing out there in that place with all them peckerwoods?

“Fine, just fine.”No need to tell Bertha how it really was. No overt violence, though they'd expected it and had come prepared. Her fears had increased that first night when she caught Rob hiding a gun under the mattress. She hated guns and was more concerned about accidental injury to or by the kids than anything else.

“Just a precaution,” Rob reassured her. “And just for a few weeks until we settle in. Then I'll get rid of it.”

They hadn't needed the gun. A neighborhood of decent law abiding upper-middle-class citizens had taken a decent law-abiding approach. A committee had come from the housing developers, offering to buy back their house at a considerable profit for them. “We don't think you'll be happy here. We're prepared to assist you in finding a place somewhere else.”

Rob insisted that they liked the house, it was near his work and they were quite happy.