It could have been the slanted angle at which she wore her flat-brimmed Sunday church hat with the netting pulled down. Or the white gloves that covered the hands clutching her portfolio tight to her chest. As the daughter of a seamstress, Grace was no stranger to a fine custom-made frock. It was clear as day to her that the clothes on Miss Young and Fancy’s back did not come off the rack. Grace knew this young woman just thought she was so cute in her custom-fitted suit jacket and skirt—look at the way that suit hugged every one of her curves perfectly—in a bright lilac fabric that just screamed, Look at me! Grace sure as hell didn’t earn enough of a living to afford the finely tailored suit the younger woman wore.
Even her perfume had caressed Grace’s nose in a way that reeked of privilege. She wouldn’t be surprised if the scent had been named “The Helped, Not the Help.”
Who did this girl think she was, coming up in here looking like she had become a mother of the church a few decades early?
Grace spied a few stray strands of hair that stuck out from the sides of the woman’s hat and sniffed. She would have never been seen outside her house looking a mess like this. Mama would have a total fit if she let herself be seen like this in public. She guessed when you had enough money in your pocket, you could leave the house looking any kind of way.
Must be nice.
Instantaneously, she felt bad for being so judgmental. That was her mama’s voice taking up space in her head again. This wasn’t the type of person Grace imagined herself to be. She fished out her application.
Grace extended her neck to give the illusion of looming over her. “Yes, I’m fine.” She began filling out the form.
“Oh.” What was left of this woman-child’s smile evaporated. Her expression morphed into one that was haughty and shielded. “I apologize for interrupting you. You looked like you were a million miles away when I asked you if this was the line for WAAC applications.”
“Yes, it is.” Grace flicked her mouth into a quick smile, then returned to face the front of the line. The line had moved forward. Grace gladly took the few steps needed to close the gap.
Miss Sunday Best’s frown deepened. “Thank goodness! It took me forever to find this place. More than one person just waved me off in this general direction with an ‘it’s over there’”—she pointed toward the gymnasium—“without specifying exactly where ‘over there’ I should go.”
She exhaled loudly. The woman’s eyes darted around as if she expected the boogeyman to jump out from around the corner at any second. The way she clutched her portfolio, you’d think she had her whole life within it. Grace loosened up her grip on the strap of her bag. Had she really looked like this just a few moments ago? Like she was scared of her own shadow with fear oozing out of every pore?
Grace lifted her chin, further extending her spine in the process. No, she was definitely better than that. She had to be better than that. But she also wouldn’t throw one of her own to the wolves. In that respect, she was definitely better than the rest of the useless people who had given her direction so far.
Who are you to judge her when you were ready to hightail it out of here yourself a few minutes ago? The Christian thing to do is make small talk at least.
Grace made herself smile. She hoped it looked real enough. “Uh, nice weather we’re having, huh?”
Her still-wet galoshes chose that moment to squeak against the floor. It would have been nice to have remembered getting splashed by that car earlier that morning before saying something as idiotic as that out loud. Grace spent so much of her energy lately erecting her mental defenses that employing the normal social graces with this stranger felt awkward.
“Oh, it’s been dreadful!” The woman’s demeanor transformed again. Her eyes widened along with her smile at Grace’s engagement. “I had to catch a cab from the subway station.”
Grace was about to take another step forward but stopped short. She cut a side glance at the girl.
“But the station is only a block away.” She wiggled her toes against the wet socks that had molded to them. She wished she could have afforded such a wasted expense as cab fare for a two-minute walk.
“Girl, please, I’m not even supposed to be here.” The girl smoothed a nonexistent crease down her side. “I can’t have my parents asking me a million questions about what happened to my clothes and where I’ve been all afternoon.”
“No, we can’t have that,” Grace agreed, just to be polite, while hoping to discourage further conversation. She looked down at her own rain-splashed coat. She would definitely have some explaining to do when she finally returned home. The state of her clothes would be the least of her worries when she got there. She gave the girl another awkward smile and then turned back to the line. They were almost to the office door.
Grace tapped her fingers on her side. She stared absentmindedly out a nearby window as she played around with a new melody in her head. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. The refrain would fit perfectly into a new composition she had started over the weekend. She opened her bag and looked for some scrap paper. She needed to write down the notes before she forgot them . . .
“Oh my, where are my manners? I’ve been blathering on about my parents and clothes and I don’t even know your name. I’m Eliza. Eliza Jones. And you are?”
The notes Grace had hoped to preserve dissolved into the air as this Eliza Jones person formally introduced herself. Grace would have given anything for this girl to have forgotten her manners for at least another thirty seconds longer.
“I’m Grace.”
Eliza Jones put out her white-gloved hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Grace . . . ?”
Grace dropped the recovered paper back into her bag. It was no use to her now. She shook Eliza’s hand. “Just Grace is fine.”
See, she could play nice, she thought as she faced forward again and continued to lead the way. She could be sociable. It felt like it had been ages since she’d spent any time with another woman—another Negro woman—around her own age.
“I almost lost my nerve to follow through with this until I saw you here. I hope we both make it into the WAAC. Girls like us have to stick together.”
“I imagine this place can be intimidating if you’ve never been here before,” Grace said as if she hadn’t just walked down this hall for the very first time herself not even a few minutes ago. She continued to look straight ahead and could feel Eliza gazing at her. Grace braced herself to be called out as a fraud.
“Don’t you think it’s exciting that they’re going to let women join the Army? And Negro ones, at that. Sorry if I seem so jumpy. When I hinted that I was thinking about joining up, Daddy all but locked me in my room.”
Too many words were now being thrown at Grace for her to process, as they finally arrived at the WAAC office door. Small talk really wasn’t Grace’s thing.
“Yeah, it’s great.” Those were the only three words she could squeeze in while this Eliza person continued to pepper her with questions. Grace hoped that she never wore her emotions so openly on her sleeve as this poor creature following her.
“Next!” a voice called from inside the office. Grace gestured toward the door. “Here we are. It’s been nice talking to you.”
“Oh, thank you! And good luck!” Eliza grabbed Grace’s outstretched hand and pumped it furiously. The motion caused Eliza to drop her portfolio. She immediately knelt to retrieve it. “Oh goodness. You must think I have butterfingers.”
That, and more. Grace willed her face to remain in a neutral expression. On the inside she wanted to scream, Shut up! She really needed to muster up a little sympathy for this poor girl. Her nerves might be shot, but she had a lot more courage than Grace was feeling right now.
Grace sighed, tugged at the hem of her skirt, and knelt down to pick up some papers that had slid out of Eliza’s portfolio. “It’s understandable. Joining the military is a big deal. And then for them to now allow women, Negro women, at that . . . It’s like they say, you have to be tw
ice as good, right?”
Grace tried to scan the other girl’s application. She felt pretty confident about her own chances of being accepted into the corps. But she had to know what kind of competition she was dealing with. Especially since Grace had no idea whom she would ask to write a recommendation for her. Her family pretty much kept to themselves. Maybe she could ask that elevator operator . . .
Eliza’s eyes went wide. “You’re right.” They stood as she accepted the papers from Grace. She looked Grace up and down. “I can tell by the looks of you that you’d be perfect for something like this.”
“Thanks.” Grace looked away. Yup, she was officially a horrible person for being so judgmental toward this woman. “Yeah, well. I doubt they take me. The only thing I know how to do well is play the piano.”
“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. You seem just as capable as anyone else in this line. You know what? I think we’ll both go in there and wow those women’s army people. And we’ll both get in. They’ll send us off to training together and we’ll become the best of friends.”
Grace stared at her in shock for a moment. Not because of how pure and naive Eliza’s wish had been, but because of how nice it all had sounded to Grace.
“Well, aren’t you quite the Pollyanna?” Grace winced as soon as the words came out. That was nasty even for her. She was always letting things fall out of her mouth without thinking about them first. This was why Grace didn’t have any friends her own age. She had a bad habit of alienating anyone who tried.
Eliza’s face fell. “I’ve been annoying this whole time, haven’t I?”
“I—what I meant to say was—”
“Hello, are you going to stand there all day?” The woman in the office was now sticking her head out the door.
Grace looked back and forth between her and Eliza. “Wait, I just wanted to—”
“No. You go.” Eliza urged her on with a graceful wave of her gloved hand. “All I wanted to do was wish you good luck. Or what is it they say before you go onstage? Break a leg.”
“Thanks. You too.” She opened her mouth to say more but hesitated. There was a question hovering on her lips that she had been meaning to ask. But no, it was stupid. What was the point in saying it?
Just ask! At this point, Grace had nothing to lose. She took a deep breath.
“Eliza, wait. Just wondering.” Grace attempted a nonchalant shrug. “Who did you get to do your recommendation?”
Eliza lifted her chin, personifying all the arrogance that Grace had pinned on her from the start.
“Dr. Mary McLeod Bethune.”
Grace’s face fell. “Of course you did.”
Yup, she was back to disliking this Eliza person. Intensely. Grace could tell that this girl had never achieved anything in her life that wasn’t handed to her by her parents or through their connections. Hell, the girl couldn’t even navigate an Army induction center without asking for help.
Then come to find out that she had been personally recommended by Dr. Bethune herself to join the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps? You couldn’t get much better help than that unless it came from the commander in chief, Mr. Franklin Delano Roosevelt himself.
The weight of Dr. Bethune’s name hung in the air between them as Eliza smiled up at her, chin raised. Grace willed her face into a neutral mask. She turned to the now irritated WAAC official. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting . . .”
Chapter 4
WHAT WAS HER problem?” Eliza muttered to herself as the office door slammed shut behind Grace.
Eliza squared up her shoulders and shook off the odd interaction. She returned all her focus to the office door in front of her. Whereas all the other doors she had seen in this building had the name of the office or department housed behind them stenciled neatly onto the glass, this one had a handwritten piece of paper that had been taped onto the door. It read “Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps. Come in!”
When Eliza was finally called inside, she saw maybe ten chairs set out for waiting next to what appeared to be several check-in stations. One by one, a seated woman got up to follow a female clerk into the next room. Each time, the next person in line took her seat.
She looked for Grace despite herself. Part of her dreaded the awkwardness that would come if she did find her. But part of her also yearned for a familiar face. Finally, she did spot Grace. But she was already seated with who Eliza guessed was one of the recruiters.
It took about ten minutes for Eliza to be seated in front of a recruiter of her own. After a brief check-in confirming her name, identification, and age, she finally was escorted into the next section.
“You’ll be getting your physical today,” the clerk there explained. Eliza gulped. The woman had been pleasant enough when she had stepped into the curtained-off area, but that wasn’t enough to make Eliza comfortable with the idea of taking her clothes off in front of a stranger.
Eliza looked around, unsure of what she should do. Whenever she had a physical with her family doctor, she had been escorted into a private examination room. One of the nurses would perform most of the checks, and then Dr. Anderson would come in at the end to proclaim another clean bill of health for the year.
“Take off your clothes except for your undergarments,” the clerk continued. She pointed at another door. “Then take all of your belongings and go in there.”
“Excuse me?” Eliza held a hand up to her chest.
The clerk, whose hair was dyed auburn and who spoke with a Queens accent, sighed. “There’s too many girls coming in to apply for the corps to give each one of yous all of the physical examinations in one room. So, you gotta take off your clothes, go in there, and stand in line. They’ll check your vitals, your teeth, make sure you don’t have lice or anything. Y’know, give you a looking over.”
The woman paused, her eyes darting up and down as she sized up Eliza from head to toe. “A very thorough looking over.”
“Fine.” Eliza felt her cheeks warm. She should probably find out who this woman’s supervisor was and report her behavior. No. What purpose would that serve? Other than momentarily soothing her bruised ego, nothing. Like she had said, there were too many applicants coming through.
Besides, she was still the only Negro woman in this applicant line. The last thing she needed was to cause a scene.
Eliza waited for the clerk to leave before starting to unbutton her blouse. Well, the clerk might be off the hook from getting a complaint. But that Negro woman, Grace, she had met in the hallway . . . now, she had definitely been rude for no reason. What a shame. Eliza had been so surprised, but still pleased, to see someone like her at the Army induction center. She had not expected to find another Negro woman there at all. Eliza wondered again what “Just Grace’s” problem was. Eliza had only been trying to be friendly.
Eliza stepped into the next room. Now she was in another line. But this one was a line of nervous-looking young women in a similar state of undress. There were various stations where the other applicants were getting their blood pressure taken, their ears and throats checked, and their fingers pricked and the resulting dot of blood collected in a small device and held up to the light. Then they disappeared behind a series of curtains. Eliza shivered. She had to assume back there was where the “very thorough” parts of the examination were occurring.
An hour later, a bewildered Eliza was putting her clothes back on. The last technician told her that all her physical examination results passed muster. Now all she had to do was ace the interview.
THREE HOURS LATER found Eliza striding out of her interview with a big smile across her face. She felt the session had gone well. Compared with the grillings she had experienced in college and around her father’s dining room table, the softball questions the committee had thrown at her had been a piece of cake.
“Do you consider yourself a well-read person?”
“Do you think you could lead a group of women overseas and find them accommodations and other resources to g
et them settled?”
“What is the most stressful situation you’ve experienced and how did you handle it?”
At that last question, Eliza had almost laughed and blurted out that this whole WAAC application process was the most stressful thing she had ever been through. From being blindsided by the telephone call from Dr. Bethune, to rushing to that church ladies’ luncheon, to that less-than-personal and definitely not private physical examination, it was a wonder that she hadn’t crumpled into a pile of nerves by now. Instead, she said something about a college professor who had tried to give her a failing grade on an exam and how she had talked herself into a better passing grade.
If the steps down into the subway station weren’t so steep, Eliza would have skipped. Instead, she danced all the way down while holding on to the railing. Oh yeah. She had totally knocked it out of the park.
AN HOUR LATER, Grace was putting on her shoes just outside the psychological exam area. Only a wooden door separated her from the four women who were about to grill her about her life, interests, and education. She was just about to pick up her bag to enter the interview area when she heard a burst of laughter come from within.
“I don’t know what some of these girls were thinking when they decided to come down here and apply. Most of them can barely spell their names, but they want us to take them at their words that they are college graduates.”
Grace hesitated. The recruiter who had first signed her in had said that these women had the final word on who got into the WAAC and whose application file got dropped into the trash bin.
Grace finished putting the strap of her bag over her shoulder as quietly as she could. But she made no move toward entering. Yet. Of course, she shouldn’t be eavesdropping. She’d have no way to explain herself if she got caught.
Time was growing short if she wanted to set herself up to get into that first training class. It would start in a week, and they were going to let only forty Negro women train as officers. That Eliza girl she had met in line was most definitely a shoo-in. Who knew how many other Negro women there were around the country who were just like her. Grace had to get into that class.
Sisters in Arms Page 3
