My vision started to clear and I took a full, deep breath before looking for the runway. I still had to land, but that was the easy part, even with obscured vision. The Mustang was a darn good glider, and I had enough height to bank and come around to the runway. I passed over it once to get a sense of range, then pulled a 360 to make another approach, so I could come in to land. And to try to kill some speed. My flaps were useless from the bird damage, so it was going to be a really fast approach. I peered right and left, using the spots of clear windshield to gauge my position relative to the ground.
It rose up to meet me and I slapped the wheels down, bouncing harder than I liked from the speed. Braking the plane, I brought her to a rolling halt at the end of the runway. I’d need someone to tow her to the side until we could look at the engine.
Birds. God, I hated birds. Well. When flying, I hated them—although, to be fair, the bloody birds had come out of this a lot worse than I did.
A giggle came on me out of nowhere. Bloody birds.
I was a terrible person. But I was alive.
Sliding back the canopy, I hauled myself up as the remaining pilots flashed past overhead, back in formation. They’d given me clearance to get under control, but should be heading in to land now. I was clear of the runway, wasn’t I?
I turned to look over my shoulder.
The runway was clogged with people. Cameramen and reporters and audience members and everyone was running toward my plane. Everyone. I waved from the cockpit so they’d see I was okay. I didn’t need help.
They didn’t need to come running out here. Not all of them.
The flight helmet was pinching around my throat. I could barely draw breath. Fumbling with the strap, I couldn’t get my fingers to unbuckle the thing. My gloves—too bulky. I couldn’t even get them off.
“Mrs. York! Mrs. York! Are you all right? What happened up there? Was that part of the show? Or did you lose control of the plane? Over here! Mrs. York! Over here!”
Who was talking? There were so many people. If I hadn’t still been in the cockpit, they would have crushed me in their midst. All of them crowded around the plane, and I couldn’t tell where the voices were coming from. Just a mass of people, shouting my name over and over again.
A man climbed up onto the wing, talking into a microphone. “I’m standing on the wing of a Mustang flown by Mrs. Nathaniel York, who just survived a near fatal midair accident. Mrs. York, can you tell us what happened?”
On the other side of the plane, a man with a camera had set it on a tripod on the ground. Another man stood in front of him, gesturing back at me.
They hadn’t even let me get out of the cockpit. I ripped at my gloves, trying to yank them off my hands. “Let me down, please.”
“Poor thing! She’s shaking.” Around us, more people called my name.
The man on the wing shoved the microphone at me. “Can you tell us how you feel?”
I turned and scrambled over the opposite side of the cockpit, hopped down, and slid off the wing. Like an idiot, I landed next to the television reporter.
“Oh! And here she is now. Mrs. York, it must be quite a fright to have something like that happen. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Lucky?” He thought I was frightened because of the tailspin. They all thought I was shaking because of it. I pressed my hand against the wing and tried to steady myself. “I lived because of training that I received as one of the Women Airforce Service Pilots during the war.”
“Of course, but it still must be frightening.”
“Not really. The birds in the air startled me, of course, but surprises like that are why we were put through such rigorous training as WASPs.” I gestured to the air, where the other women in our group were still circling. If I could only turn the attention away from me as easily as they circled. “Any of the other women in our group could have overcome that spin the same way I did. In fact, we have it easier than men in those circumstances, because our bodies are not subject to the same degree of strain from the G-forces in a spin.”
“And how did it feel, to be in that spiral of death?”
“Well … the death spiral is a different type of spin.” I tried to do the society smile that Nicole used to such good effect. “But when you’re in the middle of a tailspin, if you’ve been trained, you only think about what to do next. I save the panicking for when I’m talking to reporters.”
That got a chuckle from the crowd. I kept my hand pressed against the warm wing of my plane. It had kept me alive, even after those damn birds. “One good thing about the moon and Mars missions: those pilots won’t have to worry about hitting birds.”
Another laugh. “I do hope that people will enjoy the rest of the air show, and think about what our lady pilots can do for the space missions. If we want colonies … we’ll need women in space.”
“That’s interesting that you say that. Can you tell me why?”
“Oh dear … I’m not sure if I should explain where babies come from on television.” Through the crowd, I saw Nathaniel. Or, I didn’t even really “see him,” because he was still fighting his way through; I felt him, his terror and the way he drove through the crowd to try to reach me. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go reassure my husband.”
The crowd laughed even louder. I didn’t intend that last bit of double-entendre when I said it, and I was fairly certain that no amount of “reassurance” would calm Nathaniel down anytime soon.
Wading into the crowd, I kept my head down, concentrating on the hard tarmac. Men’s shoes, ladies in heels, gray cuffs, stockings with crooked back seams, and hands—hands touching my shoulder, or arm, or back as people said my name. “Mrs. York!”
And then, finally, “Elma!”
Nathaniel’s arms went around me in a shield. I wanted to cower into them, but I used his strength to draw myself up. People were watching, and I could not disappear. People were watching. That thought did not help. I could barely breathe.
But my husband was here. I lifted my head to seek his eyes as a guide wire. Their crystal blue was covered by a sheen of tears, and their edges were rimmed with red. His hand shook where it pressed against my back.
I put a hand against his cheek. “I’m fine. Love, I’m fine. It was just a tailspin.”
“Thirty percent of aviation fatalities are from tailspins.” He clutched me close and pressed his cheek against mine. “Goddamn it. Don’t ‘just a tailspin’ me.”
I don’t know where the laughter came from. Because I wasn’t dead? Because panic and hysteria are two sides of the same coin? Because he loved me so much he’d just resorted to statistics to express it? “Well, now you’ll have to revise the numbers, won’t you? Because I didn’t die.”
He laughed at that, and picked me off the ground. The crowd stepped back as he swung me in his arms.
That’s the image they showed in the National Times. First there’s my plane, tumbling out of control. And beside it, a photo of me, laughing in the arms of my husband with a crowd of people standing around us.
Those are the only photos of me, because as soon as we got off the airfield, I locked myself in the bathroom. Every time I thought I was together enough to go back out, I could hear the voices of reporters in the hall and got queasy all over again. So I waited until the air show was over, and my stomach was empty, and Nathaniel’s worry when he knocked on the door was too much to ignore.
It would make more sense to be afraid of the crash, but I was afraid of the reporters.
And I was ashamed to be so weak.
FIFTEEN
LADY PILOTS THRILL AIR SHOW THRONG
By ELIZABETH RALLS
Special to The National Times.
KANSAS CITY, KS, May 27, 1956—Hundreds of aviation enthusiasts turned out at the municipal airport here yesterday to watch the first international show of women pilots. Of particular interest to the throng was Princess Shakhovaskaya, formerly of Russia, who flew loops in her vintage biplane.
&nb
sp; The smells of garlic and ginger wafting around Helen’s kitchen had my mouth watering. I was on cocktail duty, and was mixing another batch of martinis for the lot of us. Women pilots perched on every available seat, leaned in doorways, or—in Betty’s case—sat on the counter.
Betty held a newspaper clipping in one hand and the remnants of a martini in the other. “I quote: ‘The lady pilots acquitted themselves with admirable skill and thrilled the attending crowd. The pilots performed many astonishing feats, not least of which was the military precision of their formation flying, led by Miss Ida Peaks of Kansas City. ’”
Ida sat at the table in the corner, next to Imogene. Opposite them, Pearl, who had found a babysitter for her triplets, kept blinking around the group as if she were startled to be out of the house after dark. We’d even managed to get Sabiha G ök çen to join us before she headed back to Turkey, although the princess had “declined our kind invitation with regrets.”
“The most breathtaking moment of the air show came as Mrs. Nathaniel York—”
“Why they not use your name?” Helen glared at the large pot of vegetables she was stirring as if it were the newspaper.
“It’s standard convention.” I poured a measure of vermouth into the pitcher of gin. “And I like being married to Nathaniel.”
“Just wait until Dennis asks you to marry him.” Betty waved the newspaper at her. “And you’re Mrs. Dennis Chien.”
“Wait—what?” I turned from the martinis. “You have a beau?”
Helen stared at me, holding the spoon in one hand and shaping the word with her mouth.
“B. E. A. U. It’s French for boyfriend,” supplied Pearl. “And why don’t we know about him?”
Helen rolled her eyes and looked back to the pot of vegetables. “Just because he’s Chinese doesn’t mean we’re dating.”
I blinked. “Wait. Dennis Chien? From engineering? He’s a lamb.”
“We’re. Not. Dating.” She spun and pointed the dripping spoon at Betty. “You. Read article.”
“Aye aye, ma’am.” Betty took a healthy sip of her martini and lifted the paper again. “The most breathtaking moment of the air show came as Mrs. Nathaniel York hit a flock of wild geese and lost power to her engine.”
I winced and glanced over to Imogene. “I’m still so sorry about that.”
“Yes. I’m sure you control the flight pattern of geese.” She shook her head. “And you paid for it, so … hush.”
Helen snorted. “Good luck getting her to not feel guilty on something.”
Raising my hand, I said, “Jewish.” It was also why I’d insisted that Nathaniel and I cover the damages, even though it wiped out our savings, because I didn’t want anyone to think we were being cheap. “And Southern. It’s encoded in my DNA.”
“Try being Catholic.” Helen said from the stove.
“Agreed.” Pearl nodded. “I’m feeling guilty just sitting here.”
“The point—” Betty cut in and waved the newspaper clipping over her head. “Is that my article got picked up by the AP, which means it went out to all the major papers, and millions of people read it. So we need to start talking about our next move.”
Sabiha G ök çen raised her hand. “Another air show? Is popular. Yes?”
“Maybe we could do one in another city.” Ida said. “Like Chicago or Atlanta.”
Nodding, I added ice to the martini pitcher. “Or Seattle. Nathaniel’s been talking with Boeing about their KC-135 refueler. And, no, we can’t fly her, but still…” Even getting Boeing to loan us one of the first production models to be a static display on the field would draw a lot of attention. “There are probably local pilots there that might be good to pull in.”
Betty shook her head. “The decision makers are here in the capital. We need to do something here. Like getting an air show televised. Live.”
I nearly dropped the ice tray. Facing all of those reporters had been bad enough when it wasn’t live. But being broadcast to the nation? No thank you.
“Ooo!” Pearl clapped her hands together. “What about the Dinah Shore show? She has guests on sometimes.”
“And she’s Jewish.” Betty leaned across the counter toward me. “What about it, Mrs. Nathaniel York? Want me to see if I can get you on there?”
“Pretty sure I’d have to sing to do that.” I left alone the assumption that all Jews must know each other and stirred the martinis, focusing on the chilling pitcher as if my life depended on it. Condensation began to form on the outside as the gin cooled. “I think just flying in an air show will be enough for me. What about Ida?”
“This better not be an assumption that because I’m black, I can sing.”
“That article lists you as the leader of the formation segment.”
“Has Dinah Shore ever had a black guest?”
I pulled the spoon out of the pitcher. “A more immediate question is … who wants another martini?”
Everyone did. Me? I wanted a double.
* * *
Back at work, the goal of reaching the moon carried on. I had been working on a series of calculations for orbital rendezvous. In theory, the astronauts would be able to ask the computers on Earth to do their calculations, but there would be times when they would be out of radio range, so we needed a way for the astronauts to work it out on their own. If the IBM was smaller or more reliable, that might be an option, but even that would require them to do preliminary calculations.
A shadow fell across my desk. Mrs. Rogers, who ran the computing department, stood there with a frown. Her steel-gray hair was pulled back in a bun that made her look more severe than she really was. “Elma? You have a call in my office.”
A call at work? I ran through the list of people who would call me at work and came up with exactly two. Nathaniel, who was just down the hall. And Hershel. My heart dropped into my stomach. Swallowing, I pushed back my chair. “Thank you, Mrs. Rogers.”
Basira looked up at me from across our shared desk. “Everything okay?”
I shrugged to hide my concern. “Let you know in a minute.”
Was hurricane season about to get really bad? Had one of the kids been injured? Was it his wife? Or, God—what if Doris was calling because something had happened to Hershel? Polio could reoccur. What if he’d fallen and hurt himself?
Wiping my mouth, I followed Mrs. Rogers to her office. She gestured me inside, where the phone lay off its hook on the desk. She stopped at the door. “I’ll give you some privacy, but try not to take too long, hm?”
“Of course.” I went in and only belatedly remembered to say, “Thank you.”
Taking a breath, I wiped my palms on my skirt before I picked up the phone. “Elma York here.”
A masculine voice—someone I didn’t know—answered. “Sorry to bother you at work. This is Don Herbert.”
Don Herbert? The name was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. In the absence of any other clues, I fell back on my mother’s training. “How do you do?”
He chuckled, which I prayed meant it wasn’t something terrible. “Well, thank you. And yourself?”
“Fine, thank you.” I fiddled with the phone cord and waited.
“I don’t expect you to remember me, but we met during the war a couple of times. You ferried a couple of bomber planes to me when I was with the 767th Bomb Squadron in Italy.”
“Oh! Captain Herbert. Yes. Yes, I do remember you.” What he hadn’t mentioned in the “we met” statement was that he’d called down some fighter pilots who were making catcalls at me and my copilot. Whatever this was, it wasn’t about my brother, so I let myself sit down. “What can I do for you?”
“Well … funny thing. I had a bit of a career change after the war, and I saw the newspaper article about you and that spin you pulled out of and the whole thing about astronauts and … Have you heard of the show Watch Mr. Wizard?”
“I—” That was not at all where I thought this conversation was going. For a moment, I’d thought he was g
oing to invite me to be an astronaut, even though I knew that invitation would have to come from Director Clemons. “Yes. Yes, I have. My niece is very fond of it, although I have to admit I’ve not seen it myself.”
“That’s all right.”
“It’s just that we don’t have a television.”
He laughed. “It’s all right. Really. It’s just me doing the kind of science that you’re so far beyond it would bore you to tears.”
“Wait. You’re Mr. Wizard?”
“Told you I had a career change.” His laugh hadn’t changed, and I suddenly wished that I had watched the show so I knew what he looked like now. “The thing is, my producer’s daughter saw the clip on television of you pulling out of that spin and declared that she wanted to be a pilot like you.”
“That’s … that’s very flattering.”
“So we got to talking, and I was wondering if you’d like to be on the show.”
I hung up the phone and pushed back from the desk so fast I nearly knocked the chair over. Sweat coated my back and prickled under my arms. Was this a rational response? No. It wasn’t. But, be on television? Be on live national television? No. No. That was impossible. All of those people staring at me? And what would happen if I made a mistake, which I would? What would people think?
The phone rang and I jumped like a test launch had misfired. I think I squeaked. My hand pressed against my chest, and beneath my palm the beat of my heart pounded in double-time. The phone rang again.
I could be rational. I wasn’t, but I could act like it. Wetting my lips, I picked up the phone. “Mrs. Rogers’ desk. Elma York speaking.”
“Don Herbert here. Sorry about that. I think we got disconnected.”
“Yes. I … I was wondering what happened.” Liar. I covered my eyes and leaned forward to rest my elbows on the desk. “You were saying?”
“That we’d like to have you on the show. I thought we could talk about the physics of flight, maybe do a simple experiment about lift? The format is real simple.”
The Calculating Stars Page 13
