I sit up there in the dust and the heat of the attic, Mama’s bedroom clock ticking away through the floorboards up to me, and I feel a hand on my shoulder. Daddy’s hand. He gives me just a little push, and though I don’t believe in ghosts, I believe my daddy is with me, and he’s telling me what to do next.
Iden Mahé. Ida Mae. There’s a typewriter at the Dupree house, and I know Jolene will help me. I’m down those stairs just as soon as I can close the flying box. “Mama, where’s the camera?”
“What, girl? Don’t you come running through here like some man, banging your feet down those stairs.”
“Sorry, Mama.” I round the corner to the kitchen, where she’s sitting at the table, balancing the books. “It’s just that . . . where’s the camera? The Brownie Daddy bought for your trip to the World’s Fair?”
“What you want with it?” Mama is way too good at reading when I’m up to something. I think fast.
“I thought I could take some pictures of home to send to Thomas.”
Mama’s face softens, and I feel terrible for lying. I promise myself that I will take some pictures for him.
Mama sniffs. “Baby girl, you do think of the sweetest things. All right, it’s in the closet in my room, on the top shelf. There’s some film in there, too, but it might be old. Take some change from the counter and buy some new film at the drugstore.”
“Yes, ma’am. And thanks, Mama.” I kiss her soft brown cheek. She’s the best a mother can be. When I run outside, I try not to slam the screen door, just for her.
Chapter 5
“Girl, that ain’t never gonna work,” Jolene says, but she takes the picture, anyway. I stand in front of a white sheet hanging on her mother’s clothesline, held taut at the bottom corners with clothespins clipped to strings on stakes, like a one-walled tent.
“Do two more, just to be sure.” The sun isn’t too high in the sky anymore, so the shadows should look all right. I’ve got my hair done in a little wave, nothing too fancy. This is a serious photograph, after all. “Should I be smiling?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It’s just a picture.
“Ida Mae, if you don’t stop fidgeting, we’ll waste the whole roll of film on this nonsense.”
“Sorry.” I’ve already used up half the roll on pictures of the farm for Thomas, for Mama’s sake. I don’t want to spend more money to buy more film just because I’m nervous.
“All right, then, one with a smile, one without.”
The next day, on our way home from cleaning houses, I drop the roll off at Katz and Besthoff’s and wait for the prints to arrive in the mail. And then I write a letter to the director of the WASP program, at the address printed in the paper, and tell them I’d like to apply.
The pictures are the first to come back, in a thick cardboard envelope in the mail. I send half of them to Thomas, like I told Mama I would, then I go back to my room and try to figure out which picture will work the best on Daddy’s license. You can see the grass in the corner of the first photograph, and Jolene’s shadow is covering half my face in the second. The third shot is good, but I’m smiling and I don’t know if I should be. Daddy’s not smiling in his picture, except for his eyes. The last photo will have to do. I look serious, but not too serious, and the sheet looks like a real photo backdrop.
I lick an eraser and use it to carefully remove the n and the hé in my father’s name and year of birth. It will be best to put the picture in and then run the whole thing through the Wilsons’ typewriter to make the changes. That way, the photo might curl a bit and look less new. With a jar of paste borrowed from Abel’s school supplies, I carefully paste my picture into the booklet, over the place Daddy’s picture used to be.
It looks good there, side by side with the official pilot’s license. I’ll bring it to the Wilsons’ day after tomorrow, when Jolene and I do our next cleaning. And then, well, we’ll just have to see.
The day I get the letter telling me to come to the Armory Building on Canal Street for an interview, I almost swallow my tongue to keep from letting Mama hear me squeal. Now my paste job on Daddy’s license gets put to the test and so do I. Jolene lets me borrow some of her best nylons—a rare treat since the war rationing began. I pack them in my cleaning bag, along with my best navy blue skirt suit, the one Mama bought me for high school graduation. It’s a fine Tuesday morning when we go to clean at the Wilsons’. But instead of cleaning, Jolene helps me get dressed for my interview. We put my hair back in a bun so it looks neat and out of the way. I pull on those nylons and put on a low pair of heels. I feel like an army girl already.
“Girl, that suit’s all you got? You’d best borrow something from Mrs. Wilson’s closet. No point in looking podunk if you can help it.”
I look at my suit in the Wilsons’ bedroom mirror. “There’s nothing wrong with this suit. Besides, Mrs. Wilson would fire us both if she caught us playing dress up in her closet.”
Before the last word is out of my mouth, Jolene’s dropping a stole around my shoulders. Silver gray fox fur. It makes the blue of my suit look richer somehow.
“Now, Jolene, listen to me. I’m not wearing a fur in the middle of this heat.”
“Girl, you’d better hush and let Jolene do her magic.”
I huff but bite my tongue. The fur does look good. The little hat Jolene puts on me next looks even better. Black felt with a blue grosgrain ribbon, a couple of dyed blue pheasant feathers, and a short blue birdcage veil. I look at my reflection in the mirror. I look like a movie star.
“That’s fine, fine,” Jolene says approvingly.
I hesitate, but my reflection makes the decision for me. I really do look like a different person, not a housemaid in her graduation suit, but a lady with confidence.
“I suppose . . . as long as I return it before she gets back into town.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Jolene agrees with a self-satisfied smile. “Now remember, walk tall, say ‘yes’ instead of ‘yeah,’ and for heaven’s sake, don’t talk to anybody you know. You’re white now. Act like it.”
I laugh, until I realize she’s not kidding. “Jolene,” I say, butterflies crowding my belly, “I wasn’t gonna try to pass. If they took an Oriental girl, I think they’ll accept me.”
Jolene scowls at me, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s angry at me or at what I’m doing. “Sugar, do you or don’t you want to fly?” she asks me.
“Of course I do.”
“Then you’d better be safe over sorry. The more you sound like a country cousin, the less they’ll want you, Negro or not. So, stop saying ‘gonna’ and get yourself downtown before you chicken out. And every time you think of turning back, remember this is your war effort. Do it for your brother. Just go.”
She sends me off with a kiss on the cheek and not another word. I look at her in the doorway of the Wilsons’ house and she doesn’t wave. Neither do I. I turn my back on Jolene and walk to the trolley car that will take me downtown. I’ll be able to do something more than collect bacon fat and iron scraps if they’ll let me fly. Light skin and good hair could put me in a military plane. Lord knows I don’t want to stand by the door waiting for Thomas to come home. I want to help him. And I guess if that means playing white, that’s what I’ll do.
When my trolley comes, I have to remind myself to take a seat in the front. My skin gets all prickly just walking up the aisle. I start to feel hot when I sit down and fan myself with my gloved hand. No one says anything, though, and before I know it, I’m downtown, walking through a doorway where nobody stops me. The man operating the elevator is colored, but he doesn’t look twice at me, avoiding my eyes. That same shyness we all learn down here might work in my favor today.
On the third floor, a secretary takes my name and asks me to sit in a small wooden chair outside of the representative’s office. Only one other woman is in the hallway, standing a few yards away. She’s colored, the same shade of mahogany as my mother. I smile at her. She smiles back, shyly, and looks a
way. I have never seen another colored female pilot before, but I know that is what I’m looking at the minute I see her. There’s something straight in the way she stands that says she’s seen what the world looks like from the clouds. I open my mouth to say something, anything, to her, when I remember my new place. Jolene was right. White women don’t ask colored women if they can fly.
It’s my turn to drop my eyes shyly. My stomach turns over and my skin prickles as a blush of shame spreads over me. I don’t feel white, but I do feel less like Ida Mae. I wait in the hall in the hard wooden chair and wonder if I’ve made a mistake. After all, if she’s here, maybe they would take me as I am, too. And then I could talk to this woman. My palms start to sweat. This is going to be harder than I thought.
A minute later, the office door opens and a girl with a milkmaid complexion and light brown hair comes out of her interview smiling in her Sunday best. She turns her broad smile on me. “Good luck!” she says, and she hurries toward the elevator.
“Janet Weakes,” the secretary calls. Janet Weakes is the colored woman. She nods and goes into the office, shutting the door behind her.
Her interview does not take long. Three minutes later she emerges, her head held high, but her face holds the opposite of the smile the milkmaid wore. She does not look at me or at the secretary, just shakes her head and waits for the elevator to arrive.
I watch her back, her shoulders, the chestnut brown legs beneath her charcoal gray dress suit. And I know that she’s been turned away because of that deep brown skin. I take a tissue from my purse and fiddle with it, trying to dry my palms and stop the feeling that ants are marching up and down my spine. I wish Jolene was here. But she’s not. I guess that’s what it means to pass for white—suddenly, you’re all alone.
“Ida Mae Jones,” the secretary calls out.
My knees go weak, but I stand. I clutch my purse, my makeshift pilot’s license a good luck charm in my hands. You do want to fly, don’t you? The voice is Jolene’s, or maybe it’s my father. I can’t tell. All I know is the answer is yes.
The interviewer has a real serious look on her face, like Mama when I’d bring home a not-so-good grade. I hesitate inside the doorway, drop a small curtsy, then bring it up short, realizing I’ll look like the help that way instead of a white lady pilot.
The woman sitting behind the desk is fair-skinned, with dark hair cut into an efficient if unfashionable bob and a sprinkling of freckles. She looks more like a flapper than a military officer. In fact, she’s not wearing a uniform, just a skirt suit of navy blue wool.
“You know,” she says abruptly, “I’ve met more than a few good women pilots out there . . . but good flying isn’t the only qualification. It’s a shame.” She looks past me into the hallway. I follow her gaze and let the door shut behind me. The colored woman has come and gone, but it looks like she’s on both of our minds.
“Ma’am,” I say, and tug my gloves off my hands.
She looks up at me. “Say, nice hat.” I feel myself blush and mutter a thank-you. So much for my newfound confidence.
“Elisabeth Murphy,” the interviewer introduces herself, standing up behind the desk. I come forward to take her outstretched hand and curse myself for taking off my gloves. What if her skin is fairer against mine? I smile and shake her hand, hoping to distract her.
“Ida Mae Jones.” I don’t know if it’s my smile or the fact that I’m a hundred shades lighter than the lady who just left, but Elisabeth Murphy doesn’t seem to realize she’s shaking hands with a colored housemaid.
“Pleasure, Miss Jones. It is ‘miss,’ I take it? Few husbands allow their wives the freedom to fly, let alone join the armed services.”
I laugh in nervous relief and take the offered chair. “Oh, it’s ‘miss,’ all right. Much to my mother’s dismay.”
Elisabeth Murphy laughs. “Ah, yes, the single woman’s burden, a lovingly over-involved mother. What does she say about you being here today?”
I take a deep breath. I don’t know what I expected Uncle Sam to ask me today, but this is not it.
“Actually, ma’am, she doesn’t know. I mean, she knows about the program. I couldn’t help but tell her, but I don’t want her to know about this until it’s for sure. She’s . . . well, it’d take some doing for her to see another child off to war as a good thing. So she doesn’t really know.”
I study my shoes, embarrassed by how young I must sound. I blush and my skin gets even darker when I think about the truth. How angry my mother would be at me for using Daddy’s license to be somebody I’m not. How she’d just die inside if she knew I was playing white.
“You know, maybe this was a mistake.” I start to rise, clutching at my purse, trying to pull back on my gloves. My face is hot, my skin prickling. Whatever confidence made me think I could do this is gone. That feeling of certainty I felt in the attic, holding Daddy’s pilot’s license, has left me, replaced with a cold, stinging sureness that I am about to get into more trouble than I can possibly handle.
“I can’t say I don’t understand, Miss Jones, but the type of pilots we need are getting hard to come by. Lots of eager girls, but not ones with the right attitude. You came in here and you curtsied, first thing. That’s something I don’t see every day, except on the base, where we salute our superiors. It shows a humility a lot of kids don’t have today. A humility our boys are learning every day we fight overseas. It’d be a shame if we didn’t at least finish the interview and see where it goes. Who knows, maybe your mother will come around if she knows that you are special enough to make it into the WASP.”
I can’t believe my ears. Here’s this white lady, smiling encouragingly at me. She’s come all the way from Washington, D.C. And she wants me. Ida Mae Jones.
Elisabeth Murphy nods at the chair.
I close my eyes. Mama, forgive me.
I follow Mrs. Murphy’s lead. She sits down. I slowly, slowly follow.
“Good. Now, that was the hard part. Being sure you want to be here. So, convince me. What makes this worthwhile to you? It’s a hard life; you might not make it through training. Most girls don’t. And people in your hometown will not understand. But I know you know that already. So why, Miss Ida Mae Jones? Why do you want to be a WASP?”
I swallow hard, but the answer is easy. “Because, Miss Murphy. I want to fly again. I want to fly.”
Elisabeth Murphy nods slowly. “That’s not good enough.”
I feel myself start to blush again. Stop it, Ida Mae, don’t show this woman who you are, don’t give it away now, now that you’ve decided to stay. And then I realize, that’s it, show her who I am, not what I am. I am Ida Mae Jones of Slidell, Louisiana. Even if I’m playing at being white, even if I paint myself blue, I am still the child of my parents, still that little girl who loves her brother and loves to fly.
“My daddy brought home a Curtiss JN-4 when I was eleven years old. He taught me how to fly her, and that plane was my first real friend, aside from my brother Thomas. Daddy used to say the only time we are free is when our feet are off the ground.”
“Well, a lot of people don’t think women can fly,” Elisabeth Murphy says. “Certainly not military planes. But that’s what the WASP are here to do—prove them wrong.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I smile self-consciously. Pay attention, Ida Mae. Don’t forget what line you’re walking. I take a deep breath and start again.
“So, when the war started, and the Japanese bombed our own ships and our own soil, my brother went off to fight to keep us free in his way. He’s doing his part, and I want to do mine. Now, I can stay at home stretching flour rations and collecting nylons, or I can do what God and my daddy taught me to do. I can fly. I can fly straight and far or however the army needs me to. I learn quick and well. And I just know, if you give me a chance, I can do as good a job or better than any—” I have to stop myself from saying “white woman.”
Elisabeth Murphy smiles. “Go ahead, finish your sentence. ‘Better than any man.’�
� She grins more broadly. “Good. You need that kind of spirit. The army is a hard place for a woman, Miss Jones. And the Women Airforce Service Pilot program is even harder. We have a lot to prove. The men don’t think we have it in us to fly, let alone fly for the government. We’ll show them otherwise, but it takes determination and skill. We can teach you the skills. But you have to bring the rest.”
She looks at me for a long moment, and I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. Slowly, my shoulders relax. What am I first, I wonder, a woman or colored?
“Don’t look so concerned, Miss Jones. Tell your mother there’s a good chance you’ll wash out in the first month, and you’ll be home with your tail between your legs ready to listen to all of her ‘told you so’s’ and settle down to make fat, happy babies.”
Elisabeth Murphy flips through the files on her desk. I resist the urge to mop my forehead with the handkerchief tucked into my handbag.
She eyes me. “But I don’t think so. Now, did you bring your license?”
My heart skips a beat. “Yes, ma’am.” I feel like I’m moving in molasses when I hand Daddy’s license over to her. I hope the glue stays stuck, I hope the typing looks official. I hope a lifetime’s worth of hoping. And then she’s nodding and handing it back to me.
“Congratulations. This is only the first step.” She thrusts out her hand. I take it, bewildered.
“Expect papers to arrive in about a week. If they give you the final go-ahead, training for the next class starts in one month. Texas. Ever been?”
I shake my head slowly, dazed. She shrugs and hands me her card. “Well, you’ll get enough of it soon. You can reach me at that address if you, or that mother of yours, have any questions.”
I rise to my feet for the second time, light-headed with disbelief. I forget myself and curtsy again. “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you very much.”
I want to whoop for joy. A grin slides across my face. Jolene will never believe this. Not until there is a letter in my hand signed by President Roosevelt himself. And even then, she’ll think I’m fooling.
Flygirl Page 4
