Audrey rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes. There was no use trying to stop them. The memories boldly took their place, and Audrey tried to steel herself for the consequences. Her face was too clear, her blue eyes too compelling. Her smile, joyful and contagious, still pulled Audrey close, tempting her touch. Tender touches to delicate eyelids, soft cheeks, and warm lips. Even the thought brought back the promise in her murmurs, the sense of need in her kiss. They shared their need, shared a love hidden in stolen moments in an upstairs bedroom. Desire hushed into silent ecstasy. It was theirs alone. No one knew.
Audrey opened her eyes, trying not to see the change, not to see the love in Velma’s eyes change to fear. It was theirs—until then.
She retrieved the letter from her mother from the nightstand, her only diversion until she could laugh at the silliness of Fibber McGee and Molly, and opened it. As much as she dreaded reading what she knew would be the usual questions and expectations too obviously formed into concerns, she longed for the familiar loops of her mother’s longhand. Audrey held the stationery to her nose and breathed in the scent of her mother’s favorite perfume. Evening in Paris. So fitting her mother, fashion-wise and beautiful. She had never doubted why her father fell so completely in love with her. She was perfect for him, smart in a way that made him smile, gracious in ways that made him proud. A woman who read The New York Times, listened to Edward R. Murrow and had no problem discussing foreign affairs, made a perfect partner to a well-respected Professor of European History. Yet, despite passing on the beauty of her high cheekbones and deep, dark eyes, she was a woman so unlike Audrey.
Outwardly, as Audrey had grown into her teen years, she and her mother had often been mistaken for sisters. But the similarities ended with the physical. She did not share her mother’s love of fashion or fancy Betty Crocker recipes, or her dedication to reading long, dry books. And the biggest difference—unseen, unspoken, shared with only one other—was that Audrey could respect a man, but never desire one.
My Dearest Audrey,
Your father and I send our love and our hope that you are well. I must tell you that thinking of leaving your friend’s family to live alone is quite worrisome to us.
A woman alone chances being robbed or accosted. And working in a factory, Audrey, is just not acceptable. I can’t help but insist that you choose another way of giving to the war effort. If you had stayed at home you could have worked in the Victory Garden and helped me distribute the food to families.
I know a broken heart is not an easy thing to overcome, and although it is somewhat reassuring to know of Bradley, I wonder if you’ve given your heart away too quickly. You might better have waited and spent your time doing good for others.
Please stay where you are and as you write to Bradley, also select a name from the list I have included from your hometown and help make sure we are with our boys at every mail call.
I close with our love to you and a prayer that this war will be over soon so that we can all return to a good and normal life.
Your loving mother.
Chapter 4
It wasn’t a pretty church, no old brick and stained glass claiming its dignified space like in the big Catholic churches. The One Way Tabernacle building was cement block, plain and simple, introduced by a hand-painted sign and a metal door opening directly to the city sidewalk. But its heart was its beauty—filled to overflowing with compassion and love. “There are no strangers here,” Reverend Jennings was fond of saying. And in the time that Nona had spent there she had found that to be true, thankfully. They gave everything they had and asked for nothing in return.
The Reverend and the church elders had welcomed each of them off the buses, and when they ran out of homes for them to stay, they made the church basement as accommodating as they could. Rows of mattresses and blankets lined the floor on both sides of the clothesline draped with sheets to separate the women’s space from the men’s.
One bathroom for eleven women and virtually no privacy, but Nona was not complaining. There was nowhere near the amount of housing needed for the thousands of Southerners recruited to work in the war factories. To the Detroit and surrounding area factories, the Arsenal of Democracy, they were essential—but there weren’t enough places for them to live, or places for them to eat, or transportation to work, or tolerance. The resulting stress had found its limit.
Negroes protested unfair conditions with a “bumping campaign.” Dynamite, Life magazine called it, looking for a place to explode. Detonations had begun on Belle Isle and moved to Woodward Avenue, and soon hundreds were rioting.
The church was outside the most dangerous area, but Nona had blocks to walk to get to the bus to Willow Run. It was a small bus and whites boarded first. To be sure to get a seat, Nona needed to leave the church at 4:30 to be the first Negro there. She hurried along the sidewalk as the sun began inching back the shadows from the buildings lining her route. The Reverend’s warning not to walk alone was well-meant, but Nona decided that wearing trousers and work shoes and moving quickly would have to be protection enough. Waiting for others and taking a chance on not getting on the bus was not an option. Being late to work could cost her job, a chance she was not willing to take.
She arrived at the stop as she did every day before anyone else and stood near the curb. About fifteen minutes later a young man arrived. Nona nodded a cordial greeting as he took his place in line behind her, then returned her attention to the street. Soon the white riders began to arrive and form a line a good ten feet away. Conversations began, muted, sporadic, mingling with an increase of motor noise and traffic.
Nona continued her watch in silence while the conversation from the white line grew louder. “Looks like some niggers took bumpin’ up a notch,” someone said loud enough for all to hear.
“They paid the devil for that out on Belle Isle,” added another.
“Nah, it ain’t been paid yet. Fightin’s full-blown down Woodward. Still goin’ since last night.”
The young man waiting with Nona leaned forward and asked quietly, “What if the bus don’t show up today? If the fightin’s that bad . . .”
The thought hit sharply, turning Nona’s head toward Woodward Avenue. Still no sign of a bus.
“I’m not waiting any longer,” someone said, and left the white line.
Nona checked her watch. Already twenty minutes late. “Is there another bus that goes to Willow Run?” she asked the man behind her. He shrugged, and out of desperation Nona directed the same question to the woman at the head of the white line.
The woman started to answer, “I don’t—”
“Why don’t you niggers just go back to where you came from?” The man took a step from the line and added, “Nobody wants your kind here.”
Whether it was to avoid an escalating confrontation or if it was just too long to wait for a now very late bus, a number of whites left the line and walked away.
Nona and the young man stayed, averting their attention to the street, and the comments lowered in volume and stayed among the remaining whites. Another look at her watch and it was clear that even if she could get on a bus right now Nona was going to be late. Something resembling panic grabbed at her, threatening the control she counted on and the belief she had in herself to make her plan work. She had been so sure.
She took a deep breath to calm the thumping in her chest. What now? She turned to find that there was no one left waiting except the young man and herself.
“They were right,” he said, “ain’t gonna be no bus today.”
“I can’t lose this job,” Nona replied. “Maybe it’s just late, and had to take a different route around the fighting.”
“If they did that, they ain’t comin’ back for us,” he said. “The whites got an excuse ’cause the bus didn’t show. You and me can kiss that job good-bye.” He turned to leave, then offered, “I’m gonna see if I can get into a plant closer.”
There are things that, over time, don’t n
eed conscious thought. They are givens, like FDR’s Fireside Chats, and a card from her aunt arriving on the very day of Audrey’s birthday every year. Nona’s smile, greeting them in the morning had become a given, expected, taken for granted. So when Nona wasn’t there to greet them this morning, Audrey became concerned immediately.
“Something’s wrong,” she said to Jack. “I’m going to check the bathroom. Maybe she’s sick.”
She wasn’t in the bathroom, or in the tool room, or anywhere in sight. And when Audrey returned to their station Jack, was waiting with Mac.
“You find her?” Jack asked.
“No,” Audrey replied, “but something must have happened. She’s always the first one here.”
“Yeah,” Mac growled, “what happened is that she ain’t here. They quit when they find it ain’t like doin’ a little laundry and cookin’ dinner.”
“That’s not it,” Audrey insisted. “I’d bet my next paycheck on it.”
“Hey, Mac,” Jack interjected, “if she’s just late, we’ll work through break to make up time.”
“She’s got ’til I get someone from graveyard to work overtime. Should take me ten minutes, so plan on working through that break anyway.” He turned and bellowed over his shoulder, “We will make this run, goddammit.”
There was never a problem getting someone to work overtime hours or even double shifts; the money was good and the cause pressed into the fabric of American daily life. Short of the ten minutes, a man about Audrey’s father’s age nodded to Janice, took his place, and started riveting.
Audrey bucked for Jack like any other day, two taps to let him know the rivet seated and she had smoothed over the ends. But her thoughts were far from usual. Naivety. Her own very clear naivety. That’s where her thoughts were—about Nona, about herself, about women. What if it had been Jack and the car hadn’t started, or Bennie who hadn’t shown up? Would there have been questions—what happened, is he okay, should we call someone and check? What if it had been no fault of their own, would it have been overlooked and things gone on as normal? Could Nona expect the same?
Yes, it was becoming quite clear. Leaving the restrictions and expectations of parents, and even claiming those traditions were irrelevant for your own life, didn’t mean they wouldn’t still affect it. There was no running from them. She would always be standing nose to nose, challenging them, just like Nona.
Nona held her spot near the curb for a moment, undecided, trying to hang on to the hope that the young man was wrong. “They need us,” she said to herself. She wanted to believe that, to believe that being good at what you did, being on time every day, giving everything they asked for would protect her from something that wasn’t her fault. But, there was no way to get there now, even late. She turned to walk back to the church.
As she did, an older Ford rolled to a stop against the curb just ahead of her. The driver swung open his door and popped his head up over the roof.
“Hey,” he called, “were you waitin’ on the bus?”
“Yes, the Willow Run bus,” she replied. “Is it still coming? Did you see it?”
“Stopped up there in that mess on Woodward. They all left it, ’fraid it’ll get burned like the cars.”
“Thank you,” she said with a nod.
“Hey, now,” he said, “if you got some money for gas, I’ll give you a ride.” He pointed to the green B sticker, designating war worker on the windshield. “I’m workin’ night shift at Rouge.”
Nona hesitated.
“I help get people to work during my off time. Helps them out and gives me a little more spendin’ cash.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Oh, yes, thank you.” That he was using his rationed gas to help others out made her sure that she was making the right decision. And maybe, just maybe, getting to work, no matter how late, would save her job.
Nona settled into the front seat. She smiled at the man, and quickly realized that he was waiting for some money before starting out. She opened her purse as she did the math in her head. Thirty-five miles, fifteen cents a gallon. $5.25. Plus $3 for being so kind. She handed him the money and watched him count it.
His eyes went to her purse before she thought to close it. That’s when it hit her, the second that her thought went from relief to fear. Before she could make herself reach for the door handle he said, “Could you spare a bit more?” His voice was requesting, asking, not demanding, and the look in his eyes matched his voice. Nona gave him her last dollar and fifty cents.
“That’s all I have,” she said.
“Thank you,” he replied. He pulled away from the curb, and added, “Don’t mind at all gettin’ a ways away from Woodward.”
“So it’s really bad.”
He nodded. “Cops aren’t even tryin’ to stop it.”
“How’s that going to help anything?”
He just shook his head and kept his eyes on the road. As he made the turn toward M-112, he added, “All I know is that we gotta watch out for ourselves, ain’t nobody else gonna do it.”
The miles rolled along in a comfortable silence. Easy when you didn’t know someone. Fall into thought and let the landscape pass by without notice. He was right. Of course he was. It didn’t matter where you were from Delaware: Des Moines, or Detroit. People would see what they wanted to see, believe what they grew up believing. Who she was beyond that they wouldn’t know, or care to find out.
Nona looked at her watch. It was all she could do, watch out for herself and hope to save her job.
“Can’t do no more than the victory limit,” he said, noticing. “I go over thirty-five and get caught, they ain’t givin’ just a ticket now.”
“No,” Nona replied, “I don’t expect you to speed. I’m truly grateful for your help.” He was doing all he could, and without his help she wouldn’t even have this slim chance. And it was that slim chance making her heart pound harder by the second. She fought the impulse to keep checking the time. The urge was relentless despite her doubt that minutes here or there would have any bearing on her fate. She was late—the rule and the promise broken.
And now? The fear of “what next” was real. She felt it now, over her anxiousness, drowning that slip of unrealistic hope. Yet, the moment the car stopped at the first plant entrance, Nona’s only thought was to get to her post as fast as she could.
“Thank you,” she said in a rush. “Thank you.” She turned, clasped her purse tightly against the side of her breast, and broke into a full sprint. Across the parking lot, down nearly the length of the building, farther and faster than she had run since childhood games of tag.
“I’ll explain,” the words hard puffs from each pounding stride. “I’ll explain.” Her breathing heavy and heart thudding in her ears, Nona closed the remaining yards to the door. She rushed in, greeted by the deafening sound of all stations in full operation, dodged the cart in the aisle, and hurried on to the tool room. There she grabbed an apron filled with rivets and a rivet gun, and made her way to her station.
She stopped in the aisle short of the station. The crew was working at full capacity, a man she didn’t recognize filling her position for Janice. What had she expected? Or was it just an unrealistic hope? One her logic should have squashed when the bus didn’t show?
Mac was down the line hovering over another crew. Nona checked her watch. Her first chance to talk with someone would be the next ten-minute break. Anxious and trying to hang on to hope, she left to wait at the break table.
Audrey saw her first, waiting at the table, apron and headscarf on and ready for work, rivet gun on the table. “Nona,” she called, rushing to her, “what happened?”
“There are riots down Woodward,” Nona replied. “There was no bus this morning.”
Jack caught up, then immediately headed down the line to talk to Mac. Audrey could tell from his posture, pulled back and dismissive, that Mac was less than receptive. Jack’s face said it all before he reached the table.
“He doesn’t even want
to know why you were late, Nona,” he said.
“I lost my job then?”
Jack nodded.
“He won’t even let her explain?” Audrey asked. “That’s not right, Jack. The bus didn’t show, and she still did what she could to get here as fast as she could.”
“Maybe if I could talk to him,” Nona said, “and explain how much this job means to me. Maybe—”
“He won’t talk to you,” Jack said with a shake of his head. “I know that for sure.”
“But he’ll talk to you,” Audrey said. “Will you try, Jack? Please. You know how hard she works, how good a riveter she is.” She met his eyes, trusted what she saw there. “She’s like me, Jack, making our own way, no one watching after us.”
Jack looked from Audrey to Nona. He didn’t say anything, but motioned to Janice, coming back from the bathroom, to follow him. They stood a few yards away for a few minutes and then Jack headed back in Mac’s direction.
Janice came back full of questions—why are you late, how did you get here, are you back to work now—and Nona was busy answering them. But Audrey kept her eyes on Jack.
At first his body language was typical Jack, hands in his back pockets, looking off to the side as he spoke. Mac was Mac, stoic and stiff, arms folded across his chest. Nothing to indicate movement in attitude or decision.
But when Mac raised a dismissive hand and turned away, Jack made a perfect Leo Durocher move, circling in front of him, tilting his head under a hard stare, going to bat for his player like any good manager would. Just what Audrey’s gut would have her do if she could. She looked to see that both Nona and Janice, too, were fixed on watching Jack. Nona must feel the same thing in her gut—to plead her case, to talk to Mac herself. She would have pleaded it well. Who knew best what happened? Who best to explain, to promise, to convince of her intent, her loyalty? But she wasn’t allowed that chance.
The Liberators of Willow Run Page 3
