Sentimental Journey

by Jill Barnett

  “Me? Why?”

  “You could look him in the eye. Granddaddy would have liked a woman who could look him in the eye.”

  “Well, that’s not much. I could have looked him in the eye at thirteen. I was almost six feet tall then.”

  “I bet you were something else.”

  “Oh, I was something else, all right, something big and gawky.” There it was. She’d said it. She wasn’t comfortable with her size; she’d learned to accept her height years ago. She knew she couldn’t change it unless she wanted to cut off her legs, and somehow, even at thirteen, that seemed a bit drastic.

  But accepting it didn’t stop her from longing for things smaller women took for granted: looking up into a man’s face instead of at the crooked part in his hair, having a man swing you into his arms and carry you laughing into a room, dancing something fast and swinging. Accepting that she was bigger than man-sized didn’t mean she felt good when she walked into a room and towered over every woman and most of the men there.

  “You know, Charley. Here in Texas we like big things. Big ranches. Big cattle with big horns. Hell, look up at that big ol’ Texas sky. Granddaddy always said that everything’s big in Texas.” Then Red flipped over and swam alongside her, stroke for stroke. He was a beautiful swimmer, each stroke of his arm a precise motion. He didn’t swim through the water like she did—splashing this way and that— he glided over the pond’s surface the way a sharpened knife slices through butter.

  “Look at this. Out here in the water, it doesn’t matter how tall you are. All that shows is your head.” He treaded water next to her. “See? Neither of us can touch the bottom. That makes us equal.”

  She treaded water next to him.

  “Admit it. Here and now. Does it matter if you’re five foot two or six foot two?”

  She looked from him to her position in the water with their heads just bobbing above the surface. “No, I guess it doesn’t matter here.”

  “Well, then, every time you walk into a room and feel taller than everyone else, you got to pretend you’re out here treading water. Now, come on, girl, I’ll race you to the rocks.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. I need a handicap.”

  “I’ll give you ten strokes. Go.”

  They cut across the center of the pond in a race that she lost even with a head start. She snuck up on him and dunked him under. When she was in shallow water, standing there and trying to find him in the darkness, he swam under her and stood up, catching her on his shoulders and vaulting her into the water, arms and legs flailing. And when she came up sputtering, he told her half the pond was gone. They played like children, free and easy. Then she rested against the rocks, letting her feet float up to the surface, wiggling her toes and staring at the way they were getting water-wrinkled, while he swam laps with all the energy of a retriever.

  She closed her eyes and let the world fall away until she almost fell asleep, propped there with her head back and her eyes closed. When she opened them, she was looking up at the moon, moving across the sky, passing time and making it later and later. After a few minutes of the luxury of doing absolutely nothing, including sweating, she pushed off from the rocks and moved toward the water’s edge and their forgotten clothes.

  Red cut across the pond and caught up with her. Without a question, he waded out when she did, water dripping from their thin cotton underwear that stuck to the skin and didn’t hide much if you looked where you shouldn’t.

  She picked up her clothes, holding them in front of her. “I hate to end this, Red, but I need to be back to the house before midnight. We have a curfew.”

  “Sure.” He turned away and put his pants on.

  She shrugged into her flight suit, then struggled with the sticky zipper.

  “Here.” He brushed her hands away and zipped it up almost too easily, as if the stubborn thing worked for Red because it liked him better.

  Her gaze followed the zipper up, and when it stopped at the vee in her lapels, neither of them was looking at it. She saw his feelings there in his light eyes as surely as if he wore them on his sleeve. But she didn’t look away or laugh them off or even step away this time.

  She leaned a little closer.

  His hand slipped behind her neck and he pulled her to his mouth. “Charley.”

  Then Red kissed her.

  She had invited this and wanted it without thinking why. It was a sweet kiss, a soft touch of the lips, guileless, innocent, then youthfully eager as he slid his hands down over her back and stroked her lips with his tongue. He hadn’t put his shirt on yet, and the water from his chest hair soaked through her suit and made her spine weak and her skin break out in goose bumps.

  The kiss grew deeper and he pulled her closer against him, hip to hip, and stroked her jaw with his fingers. He tasted her for the longest time, never moving his hands to other, more private places like most men. This was just kissing. Just holding.

  She liked it, too much, and finally had to step back and away, surprised that she felt something more elemental than she wanted to. She licked her lips and took a deep breath. “You make me late, and all we went through today would be for nothing.”

  He waited a second, then gave her a reluctant grin. “The carriage turns into a pumpkin.” He bent down and picked up his shirt, slid into it, and sat down on the ground by their shoes. He picked hers up and held them out to her. “Here, Cinderella. Put on your glass slippers so I can take you home.”

  She sat down next to him, and they put their shoes back on together, sitting hip by hip, shoulder by shoulder; then he finished and helped her up.

  He didn’t let go of her hand.

  They faced each other in the sultry night, standing at the edge of the pond and teetering on the edge of something that felt half-lit and shadowy, like the moon slipping behind another soft cloud, out of human reach and control.

  Neither of them said anything. Perhaps they knew that words could too easily spoil moments of the heart, moments that hung between two people in the infancy of a relationship with no clear definition—not lovers, not friends, but something in between the two that only time and emotion would ever define.

  Yet twenty minutes later, they were standing the same way, facing each other at the front door of the old Sears building. From the upper floors, a few lights cast long, boxes of dim light onto the dry lawn.

  He took off his hat and stood there, turning it in his hands before he said, “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

  “I’d love to have dinner with you.”

  “Seven o’clock?”

  “Seven o’clock.”

  “Barbecue?”

  “Barbecue.”

  His smile could have lit the front yard.

  She leaned over and kissed him gently. “Good night, Texaco Red.”

  He put his hat back on his head, giving it a tug. “Good night, Cinderella.”

  Laughing softly, she closed the door and ran up the stairs to her room. An hour later, when the fan was blowing the hot air around that stuffy room with its cracked walls, lopsided pictures, and old cork floors, she lay her head down on the pillow, but as she closed her eyes, she realized she was still smiling.

  “A RENDEZVOUS WITH A DREAM”

  “I’m sorry, but he hasn’t been back since you called an hour ago. All of your messages are still in his box, Miss Morrison.”

  “Can you see if you can find him? This is really important.”

  “I’m sorry, but the YMCA is filled with military men. I’ll make certain Sergeant Pilot Walker gets the messages when he checks back in with us. I will personally hand him all five of them, miss.”

  “You did check his room?”

  “Yes.” The man’s voice was clipped.

  “Oh . . . well, thank you.” Charley hung up the telephone’s bell-shaped earpiece and sagged back against the downstairs wall in frustration. “Oh, Red, where are you?” she whispered up at the veined ceiling.

  On the floor overhead, women were rus
hing to get packed, running around the halls like a bunch of loose marbles.

  “Connie? Have you seen my coat?”

  “Hell’s bells, Rosalie. Who needs a coat in Texas in July?”

  “It’s cold in London.”

  “Look under your bed . . . next to your mink mittens.”

  The ATA orders had come through late that morning, the way things with the government always did: with little warning and no time to spare. They were leaving today. The women were to pack up and report at the airfield at two o’clock. It was already one-thirty.

  “Charley?”

  She pushed away from the wall and walked to the base of the stairs.

  Dolores was standing at the top landing, leaning over the iron railing. “I can’t get my suitcase closed. Would you come sit on it for me.

  “Sure.” Charley went up the stairs.

  “You still couldn’t reach him?” Dolores walked with her down the long narrow hallway to the room they shared.

  “No. No one knows where he is.”

  “Well, if he shows up and we’re all gone, he’ll figure it out. Do you know where he’s stationed?”

  “Randolph Field.”

  “You can always write to him there.”

  “I suppose. It’s probably for the best anyway. We’re leaving and who knows how long we’ll be in England.”

  “You know, Charley, this is a time that tests friendships. Most of the women I know are writing to their sweethearts because they’re apart. We’re all scattered all over the country. If we enter the war like they’re predicting, we’ll be scattered all over the world. The days of dating the boy next door are gone.”

  Dolores was probably right.

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  “He’s a nice guy.” Charley hesitated to say much more; then she looked at her friend. “Do you think our ages are a problem?”

  Dolores laughed. “Oh, my, yes. You are so old. I’m certain people will look at the two of you and think, how shameful! Look at that gray-haired old hag with the little soldier boy. She ought to be ashamed of herself.”

  Dolores ducked quickly as a feather pillow flew past her.

  Charley had to laugh then. “Okay, so it’s only a few years.”

  “How old is he?”

  She gave a small groan. “I haven’t asked. I don’t want to know.” She bounced a little on the suitcase. “Is it closing now?”

  “Almost. Bounce again like you just did.” She laughed then. “You should have eaten that piece of chocolate cake the other night.”

  “Very funny. I have plenty of backside.” She bounced a little harder. “Have you ever dated anyone younger?”

  “Me?” Dolores looked up and shrugged. “Only my little brother’s crib playmate.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I think you are serious.” Dolores finally snapped the last closure on her suitcase. “There. You can get up now. It’s closed.”

  Charley stood, then reached down and straightened out her white slip and snug tweed skirt. Styles of clothing had become so formfitting. Less fabric for skirts, more fabric for planes and trucks and uniforms. The new styles were pretty unforgiving. One dessert could make your skirt bunch up.

  Dolores leaned into the mirror and freshened her lipstick, then licked her finger and twisted the loose hair above her eyes around her finger and held it there as she turned back around. “I think you like Red Walker, and there’s no doubt about how he feels about you. What I’ve done, what anyone else has done, doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “No.”

  Dolores unwrapped the curl, eyed it a second, then spun around. “Besides, I would love to have a man look at me like he looks at you. I don’t know a girl who wouldn’t.” She grabbed the leather handles on her suitcase with two hands and dragged it off the bed, then moved toward the door. “Come on. We need to get our stuff downstairs. Are you all packed?”

  Charley nodded. “I learned at a young age to travel pretty light.”

  “Not like Connie, huh?”

  “Four bags?”

  “Six.”

  “Good God . . . ” Charley picked up her flight bag, then put her crocodile purse inside and zipped it closed. She paused and looked around the room, not because she felt like it was home, but because this room was where she’d spent her last night in the States.

  “Charley? You coming? The truck’s out front and waiting.”

  “Be right there!” She picked up her suitcase and flight bag, then left the room and went downstairs with the rest of the women flyers. As she walked past the black boxy wall phone, she paused, and felt an ache for something that almost was; then she shook her head and walked outside.

  Half an hour later she was inside the transport plane, buckled in her seat and waiting for takeoff. The seats were more comfortable than most. The plane had been a Pan Am commercial liner before becoming a private charter that Maggie had Coop contract to fly the women into Canada, where they would sign the final ATA papers and then fly on to London to meet Maggie Caldwell Cooper and become the first American women to fly for the war effort. History. In a few days Charley was going to be a part of history.

  The noise level in the plane was something else. The women were all talking at once, excited and happy and scared, laughing and giggling, because this was finally it—all they had worked for.

  “Charley!” Dolores was hanging over her seat. “Look outside. Quick!”

  Charley leaned forward and looked out the oval window.

  A dusty black truck sped through the gates of the airfield and raced down the maintenance road heading toward the north runway. The plane’s engines were running, but the door was still open, the metal stairs still wedged against it.

  She unbuckled and moved to the aisle.

  “Run, Charley, or you’ll miss him!”

  Charley went out the door and ran down the stairs. She glanced over a shoulder. They were still loading the luggage into the belly of the plane. She ran forward, across the asphalt toward Red, but a ten-foot-tall chicken-wire fence was between the maintenance road and the runway.

  Red braked the truck and was out the door as she reached the gate.

  “You made it!” she said, out of breath.

  “I didn’t even try to call. I just read the first message and drove like hell to get here.”

  “I’m sorry about dinner.”

  “I’ll take a rain check.”

  She gripped the fence tightly with her hands.

  He reached out and covered her white knuckles with his long freckled fingers. “Take care of yourself.”

  “You, too.”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll write you and let you know where we end up.” Sure.

  “When you’re up in those B-17s, think of me drinking tea and eating crumpets.”

  “And ferrying airplanes. Don’t forget the best part. But I hear those RAF boys are all spit and polish, full of boast and bull crap. You watch out for them.”

  She laughed. “I will.”

  “You’re a damn fine looking woman, Charley Morrison.”

  “Red . . . ” She couldn’t seem to find the right words. His name hung in the air between them before she finally said, “I have to go.” “I know.”

  “Bye, Red. Take care.”

  “Bye, Cinderella. Be sure to duck.”

  “I will.” She turned and ran for the plane and up the stairs. At the doorway, she paused and looked back, one hand on the edge of the doorway. A breeze from the starboard engine whipped her hair into her face, and she brushed it aside.

  Red was still standing at the fence, looking tall and slim and handsome in his OD uniform.

  She waved.

  He waved back, then stuck his hands in the pockets of his loose slacks and didn’t budge from that same spot. She wondered what he was thinking and when she would see him again. If she would ever see him again.

  She ducked down and went inside, walked along the rows, and sat down in her
seat, then strapped in. They closed the door. As the plane began to taxi, she leaned forward, peering out the window.

  She waved her fingers at him again, that tall red-haired man with a heart as big as Texas, a man who was good and fun and who kissed her like she was a real woman instead of a strange and foreign land to be conquered.

  He had moved and was standing at the open door of his truck, watching the plane take off. He slipped his hat off his head and waved it high in the air.

  The plane sped past and took off.

  She kept looking out the plane window for the longest time. Her breath fogged the window and she swiped it clear with her fingers, still looking back, looking back, until Red and his truck were nothing but small, dark spots on the long, flat miles of clay-colored ground.

  PART EIGHT

  GREAT BRITAIN, 1942

  “I GET ALONG WITHOUT YOU VERY WELL”

  A reporter for the London Times wanted to interview him. When he balked, his commander suggested it was good for the RAF and for the country’s morale. The number of kills credited to a flying ace was newsworthy. Let his countrymen cheer No. 77 Squadron’s victories the same way the men in the squadron cheered his rise and continued success as top ace for more than a year.

  But Skip suspected this interview wasn’t about morale but a search for altruism. He didn’t care to discuss his duty. There was no glory in it for him, and he didn’t want some stranger asking him his motive or digging into his private life so the prime details could be plastered all over the newspapers. What “inspired” him was no one’s bloody business but his own.

  There were, however, some distinct advantages to being your country’s top pilot, other than a quick rise through the official ranks. He’d received another commission a few days before. Thank God and country there were no more promotion exams.

  He was now Lieutenant Commander and would be taking over the squad when Henderson, his flight commander, moved on to Biggin Hill. Along with Skip’s exalted position of hero came some modicum of power. There was something about British nature that made them cater to those with an elitist attitude, whether deserved or not.