The platform was noisy with shouted greetings between friends, the calls of passengers summoning Red Caps, the hissing of the engine as it exhaled an exhausted breath of steam, and the unintelligible garble of train departures announced over the public address system, echoing over the heads of the disinterested crowd.
Finally, down at the far end of the platform, I spotted a petite woman with hair the exact shade of Mama’s. A conductor helped her disembark from the last car, but the woman was wearing a stylish, navy blue traveling suit and hat—not the sort of thing people wore in Dillon. My heart sank, and I started anxiously looking around again. But then the stylish woman turned her head. She looked just like Mama, except younger.
No, I thought, not younger. Mama is young, only thirty-eight years old. Happy. She’s happy. This is how Mama looks in love.
We recognized each other in the same instant, and I started to run toward her, waving and shouting. Paul, looking as renewed as Mama, stepped off the car right behind her. Grinning, I pushed through the crowd and scooped Mama up into my arms, lifting her off her feet and swinging her around in a big joyous circle. And when I finally put her down, Paul came over, and I wrapped my arms around both of them. I just couldn’t help myself. I was so happy.
“Look,” I heard a woman say to the Red Cap who was loading her luggage onto his cart. “Isn’t that sweet? They’re all together again.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the Red Cap agreed. “That’s one happy family.”
We took a cab over to the motel I’d booked for Mama and Paul. Mama was animated. I’d never heard her talk so much. She was excited about everything she saw outside the taxi window, from her first glimpse of the ocean to the size of the buildings, to the trees that lined the streets. Her nose was practically glued to the window of the car. Paul and I just smiled and listened to her talk. She finally turned, and when she saw us grinning, she blushed.
“Oh, you must think I’m so silly going on like this. I’m sorry. I just never thought it would be so beautiful!”
“That’s all right,” I said, laughing. The truth was, it made me feel good to see her enjoying herself, and a little proud. Mama’s wonder at the world outside Dillon reminded me of how far I’d come. When I was a little boy I’d poured over atlases of the world, dreaming of the places I’d go and the things I’d see when I grew up to be a pilot. Now here I was, all grown up, and my dreams had come true. I’d gone to places and seen things that most folks in Dillon could never even have imagined. Virginia told me that her mother and father had taken a trip to see relatives in New Orleans once, and when they got back, all they did was complain about the heat and the people’s strange accents and the even stranger food. I was proud that Mama was so enthusiastic and open-minded enough to appreciate new experiences.
“Don’t apologize,” I said. “This must all seem pretty strange after spending your whole life in Dillon. I did exactly the same thing the first time I went to a big city.”
“Well, goodness, Morgan! I’m not a complete hick. I’ve been to big cities before. I’ve been to Oklahoma City and to Des Moines.”
This was news to me. “Des Moines? When did you go there?”
For just a moment, Mama’s eyes flashed surprise. “Oh,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you about that? I went there for a few days after you went off to college.”
“You did? Why?”
“Well, I just decided to take a trip, I guess,” Mama said. “There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“No.” I shrugged. “But why Des Moines? Why not Dallas or Chicago?”
Paul interrupted. “Morgan, tell me more about this new airplane you’re flying. It has twin engines? That must be something. How fast can it go?”
Paul was really interested in the P-38. He kept asking questions all the way to the motel while Mama just kept looking out the cab window at the sights of San Diego, lost in her own thoughts.
Over the next two days, I took Mama and Paul to visit every attraction San Diego had to offer. When I laid out the itinerary I had planned, Mama said that we didn’t need to go running all over San Diego, that getting to spend time with me, talking and catching up, was treat enough for her, and Paul agreed. But I insisted there was no reason we couldn’t do both, and I’m glad I did. We had a great time.
Mama loved everything, but I think the zoo was her favorite. We spent almost an entire day there. When the other tourists approached the cages, they hung around for a couple of minutes, laughing and gawking, before growing restless and moving on, but not Mama. She stood in front of each animal and, fascinated, watched until Paul or I suggested we take a look at the next exhibit.
When we got to the lions’ exhibit, which was set up like it would have been in the wild with the lions all living together as a family in a grassy enclosure with trees, instead of separately in cages, Mama’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh! Look at them!” She breathed, more to herself than me. “I never imagined they would be so beautiful!”
Mama walked slowly forward toward the glass wall that separated people from animals. Paul and I hung back a bit. Paul was clearly having as much fun watching Mama as she was having watching the lions.
“She’s really enjoying herself,” I said. “If we let her, I bet she’d still be standing there come morning.”
Paul nodded and smiled. “She sees things that the rest of us miss. If she had been born in another time and place, I think she might have been a poet, or a great painter.”
“Well, in a way she is a great painter. Her quilts are her canvases. Did you see the quilt she gave me for Christmas before I left for boot camp?” Paul shook his head.
“It’s incredible. The background is an aerial view of the landscape right over the farm. It’s perfect—the scale, the sense of space, the angle of the sun setting on the horizon—perfect!” I said wonderingly. “She’s never been off the ground, but in her mind she can fly! It’s the most beautiful quilt I’ve ever seen.
“On the ground there are two figures in silhouette, Mama and me, looking up to the sky. Then, at the bottom corner of the quilt, an airplane wing cuts across the fabric field. It’s an old biplane wing, complete with wing supports and cables strung between, like the pilot is looking out over the edge of the cockpit to see the little boy and the woman standing on the ground looking up at him. You can’t see the pilot, just the wing and a flutter of fringe from the edge of the pilot’s scarf, just like they wore back in the old barnstorming days, but you know he’s there. And somehow you just feel what that pilot is feeling, how he is sending down a blessing on the little boy who is standing below, dreaming of flying, remembering what it was like when he was that little boy, looking up and dreaming, and how that’s who he still is. Every time he lands his plane and sets his foot on the ground, he is still looking upward, dreaming of flying again.”
Paul’s eyes were solemn as he listened. With anyone but Paul, I would have been embarrassed at going on and on like that, but I knew he understood. Paul listened the way Mama saw—patiently and completely, taking in more than what lay on the surface. I smiled to myself, thinking how perfect they were for each other.
“I wish I had seen it. It sounds remarkable.”
“It is,” I said.
His gaze returned to Mama. He bit his lower lip, thinking. “It’s never been easy for your mother to talk about her feelings. It still isn’t.”
It was true, but that was all changing for Mama, and Paul was the reason.
Though it seemed like a lifetime ago, only two years had passed since I’d sat across from Paul at the table of his orderly and solitary bachelor kitchen, looking into his face and seeing hopelessness. He couldn’t give up on loving, but had given up all hope that his love would ever be returned. I wanted to ask him what had happened, what he had said to change Mama’s mind, what prayers he had uttered to surmount circumstances that had seemed insurmountable. I wanted to tell him about Georgia, but I couldn’t find the words; and, besides, what was the point? I was l
eaving soon, and, even if I hadn’t been, she had made it clear she wasn’t interested. It was best to forget all about her.
But I couldn’t.
During dinner, Georgia had taken a sip of wine, and, without her knowing it, a tiny droplet of wine beaded and clung to the soft curve of her lower lip. It had been everything I could do not to reach across the table and touch her lip with my finger, taking that delicate ruby bead from her lip and placing it between my own. Now, whenever I closed my eyes, I was there again, but in my dreams I didn’t restrain my hand, I couldn’t. I reached out and took the wine off her lips, tasted her on my tongue. Then I reached out again, pulling her toward me, wrapping myself in her, closing my ears to reason, eclipsing her protests with my desire.
I wanted her. I wanted her body joined with mine, and for her to want me the same way. I wanted to hear the sound of her voice, to know what she was thinking when she pulled her brows together and that little fold of concentration appeared between them. I wanted to know all about her past and tell her all about mine, the things I’d never told anyone else. I wanted to walk with her, fly with her, lie heart to heart, to talk to her, and to sit silent next to her.
You’ve got to stop this, I told myself. By this time tomorrow you’ll be sailing to Australia. It’ll be easier then. You’ll be able to forget. You just have to get through this day.
Though I didn’t speak, Paul must have sensed something was bothering me. “Morgan, are you all right?”
I assured him that I was fine, just hungry. Just then, a security guard came up and reminded us it was five minutes to closing time.
Paul looked at Mama and smiled. “Morgan, would you tell her? I don’t have the heart.”
I came behind her and leaning down, rested my chin on her shoulder. “Mama, the zookeepers say we have to go or they’ll lock us in here for the night.”
Mama reached her hand up, cool and soft as always, and laid it flat on my cheek. “Hmmm,” she sighed. “That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? I could watch them for hours. Just look at them, Morgan. They are just so alive! Everything about them is vital and honest. They are what they are and make no apologies for it. Beautiful.”
I stepped to her side and put my arm around her. “They really are something, especially that big guy over there,” I said, pointing to a large, powerful-looking male lion with an enormous mane wreathing his regal face. “I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley.”
Mama nodded, “He’s a big, handsome fellow,” she agreed. “But did you know that it’s really the female that takes care of the family? Look at her.” Mama gestured toward the much smaller, less muscular female sitting a few feet apart from the male. “She’s half his size, but it’s the mother who does the hunting. She has the babies, and protects them from predators, and makes sure they all have enough to eat. Without her, the family couldn’t survive. She is smaller than her partner, maybe weaker in some ways, but inside, at the core, she is driven by a powerful instinct, some fierce resolution that gives her twice his strength. She knows what she has to do,” Mama said in a voice hushed with respect.
I started to say something about Mama being part lioness but instead I just leaned down and kissed her on top of the head. Mama looked up at me and smiled.
“What was that for?”
“It’s a coded message. It means ‘thanks for being you.’”
“Come on.” I took her hand. “Let’s get some dinner.”
24
Georgia
San Diego, California—May 1943
After I’d finally calmed down enough to say good night to Delia, promising her that I was going to be all right, I put down the receiver, dug a handkerchief from my pocket, blew my nose, then squeezed through the door of the phone booth, murmuring apologies to the cherry-hatted matron who was still waiting outside.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled, keeping my eyes from meeting hers. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right, honey,” she clucked and patted me awkwardly on the arm. “Is there anything I can do for you? Do you need a ride somewhere?”
Everyone in the restaurant was staring. I shrank back from her touch, embarrassed to find myself the object of pity and interest to so many strangers. “No. I’m fine. Thanks.” I pulled my jacket close and pushed my way quickly through the staring gauntlet of diners, singles on one side perched on counter stools like birds huddled on a telephone wire, and a sprinkling of couples on the other side, clustered together in booths, hunched over cups of coffee and half-eaten pieces of pie that they’d abandoned in favor of something more interesting—me, the central character in a drama they understood not at all but whose plot appeared satisfyingly sad and familiarly sentimental, like one of those B-grade war movies that Hollywood churned out as a means of touching the national heart and romanticizing the reality of war.
As I neared the exit I heard one of the pink-aproned waitresses stage-whisper a question to the woman. “What’s wrong with her? What happened?”
“She was calling her mother. Must have gotten bad news, the poor thing. Probably lost her sweetheart or her husband.”
“Poor thing,” the waitress echoed. “It’s terrible, this war. Ain’t it?”
“Terrible,” the other woman said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. She sniffed, and the cherry clusters bobbed up and down, nodding agreement.
I spent most of that night walking, crying, and thinking. When I finally went back to the boardinghouse near the base where I stayed whenever I was in San Diego, it was hard to sleep. I only dozed off for a couple of hours before the alarm jangled in my ear, and I jumped out of bed and splashed some water on my face before reporting for duty.
I had a passenger for my first hop, a captain who was heading out to a new post, but he must have been out celebrating the night before because he fell dead asleep about two minutes after we took off, breathing out beer fumes with each snore and not waking up until we touched down. For the next couple of days I did nothing but deliver single-seat fighters, so I had plenty of time by myself.
There is no better place to think than behind the controls of an airplane, where the constant hum of the engine blocks out all distraction and the beckoning lure of the horizon pulls the mind out of the trap of self-absorption and into the calm center of the universe, where it is easy to name the truth, easy to live with it. When I’m flying, my problems fall away, suddenly seeming as small and insignificant as the miniaturized landscape I’m flying over—tiny cars, tiny buildings, tiny problems with obvious solutions. At least that’s how it seems when I’m in the air.
When I returned to San Diego late on Saturday night, I had a plan.
After I landed, I ran over to the boardinghouse to clean up a little. It was nearly eleven o’clock by the time I got to the base. Twenty thousand feet above sea level, my plan had seemed foolproof, but the closer I got to the visitors’ barracks, the more nervous I felt. Half of me was afraid of finding him already asleep while the other half was afraid he wouldn’t be.
Morgan’s blinds were closed, but the door was open. It was a warm night. He’d left the screen closed to keep out the bugs. Lamplight shafted through the screen door, throwing a rectangle of light onto the sidewalk and scrubby brown grass that led to the door of his quarters.
For a moment, I thought about turning back. I stepped up to the door and looked through the screen. There was a half-packed duffel sitting on the dresser but no sign of Morgan. He was gone. Maybe it was just as well, I thought to myself, relieved and disappointed all at once. I turned to leave, but he must have heard me.
“Yeah?” he called, his voice muffled behind the closed bathroom door. “Who is it?”
I took a deep breath. “Morgan? It’s me. It’s Georgia.”
The bathroom door opened, and he stepped out. He wore only his shorts, undershirt, and a disbelieving expression. His hair was wet, and he held a damp towel in his hand. “Georgia?” He walked toward the screen, squinting as if peering at a mirage, trying to so
rt out what was real and what was false.
I had rehearsed a long introduction, something about going for a cup of coffee and a talk, about honesty and forthrightness, about being fair to him and myself. But standing on the front stoop, watching him come toward me, smelling of soap and shaving cream, his body backlit by lamplight, spilling over the chiseled muscles of his shoulders like a sun rising over a mountain landscape, I forgot how the speech began. All I could manage to say was hello.
He closed the distance between us in four long strides, opened the screen door, and pulled me into his embrace. Without releasing his hold on me, Morgan pushed the door closed with his foot.
I hadn’t planned on coming into his room. My only thought had been to go someplace quiet to talk and to tell him the truth about myself, that I was a bastard, a mistake of a child born to a woman whose entire life was consumed by wanting, who went from bed to bed pretending to be something she wasn’t, just so someone, anyone, would love her. It didn’t matter to Delia if it was true or not. She was willing to be whatever they wanted. It didn’t matter if she was loved for a lie. She expected it; she was that certain no one could love the truth of her.
I had planned on telling him how I’d rejected her and pushed her away, inventing a new life for myself and denying she was my mother as surely as she had denied I was her child. That night as I wailed my want through the phone line was the first time I understood how closely Delia and I were related. We were both searching for the love we had to have and didn’t know how to get, both hiding behind walls of secrets because we were so afraid of revealing our true selves and being cast out yet again. I was going to tell him it had to stop, that I had decided it would stop with me. Then I would tell him that I had married a man I didn’t deserve and didn’t love until it was too late, that I was still afraid I didn’t know how to love. That was why I’d lied and let him believe I was married.
On Wings Of The Morning Page 19
