On Wings Of The Morning

by Marie Bostwick

  Yes, I remembered it all, and I thanked God that Paul had come into our family at the moment we most needed him.

  “That was the first day I met your mother,” Paul continued in response to my nod. “It was such a sad day. Your grandfather’s death was so sudden, so unexpected. You had this hollow, orphaned look in your eyes, and your grandmother was ... well, she wasn’t herself. Clare was the widow, and by rights I should have been talking to her, but your grandmother was in no condition to see to the funeral arrangements. Eva handled everything.

  “She was dressed in black and wore no powder or lipstick. She hadn’t bothered much with her hair, and her eyes were puffy from crying. She was still the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. There was something about her, soft-spoken and thoughtful, utterly feminine. In spite of her own loss, she was taking care of everyone else—her mother, you, even Ruby. It is her nature to give. I could see how much she loved her father, but her mourning went deeper than this one tragedy. There was a lifetime of loss in her eyes, but she refused to speak of it to me, or to anyone. She never allowed herself the option of self-pity and would tolerate none from others. I didn’t even notice her crippled leg at first. When I did, when I realized what determination the simple act of walking across the room required of her, I admired her more than ever.

  “Even before I saw her quilts, how she uses those little scraps of cast-off fabric to give voice to her dreams, I was amazed. I thought she was the loveliest, strongest woman I’d ever met—and the most alone. I could not help myself. From that moment on, I loved her utterly.”

  “Did you ever tell her?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t. Not then. I sought only her friendship because I sensed she would be slow to trust, that one word of love from me would send her running for cover. But I was willing to be patient. From that day forward, I knew there could be no other woman for me. In time, I felt she would reach the same conclusion. I was willing to wait a long time. I did wait a long time.” Paul closed his eyes and let his head loll back to rest on top of the tall, ladder-backed kitchen chair.

  “But not long enough?” I asked, certain I already knew the answer because I knew Mama.

  She was, as Paul had said, a loving and giving person, but she had a hard time believing anyone could love her back. Her crippled leg was part of it. Sometimes I would see her rubbing it when she thought no one was looking, but I wondered—was it bodily hurt that slowed her gait and made her foot drag along behind her like an anchor scraping along a lakebed, or was there more to it? Sometimes I thought Mama was like a wounded animal so severely marked by the memory of pain that it favors an injured limb long after the wound has healed.

  Sure, there were people in town that had been mean to her on account of her not being married when she had me, but not everyone felt that way. Still, when anyone got too close she backed away like a spooked horse. That must have been what happened with Paul.

  “You told her how you felt, and that scared her off? Paul, you shouldn’t let that keep you away forever. It’s been months since you’ve seen each other. In some ways, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. I know she misses you. After I leave for school you should go see her.” I was certain that when she saw him all would be forgiven and they would pick up where they left off. My departure would leave her feeling more alone than ever, and she was already lonely. I could tell. So was Paul. They needed each other, and I would feel better about leaving if I knew Paul was looking out for her. Oklahoma City was a long way away. Germany was even farther.

  “Maybe you could bring her some flowers or something,” I suggested. “You know, kind of soften her up a little.”

  Paul lifted his head and opened his eyes. “It isn’t quite as simple as that.

  “I love Eva, and I know that she is the only woman I ever have loved or ever will love, but her feelings are for someone else.”

  “Someone else?” I protested. “But there has never been anyone else... .”

  Then I stopped myself and remembered. It felt odd to be thinking about my own mother’s romantic life, but I thought to myself, why should it? She was my mother, but she was still a living, feeling person. I was the proof of that. Mama never spoke of him, not since that night in my bedroom when I was four, so I thought any feelings she’d had for him had been snuffed out long before, but there had been someone else once. My father. And if Paul was right, she loved him as much as ever.

  I should have known. Mama would never love lightly. Other girls might have crushes or ill-considered flings, but Mama wasn’t like that. She was too cautious. Even as a girl, it would have been impossible for her to succumb to a teenage passion unless she’d really been in love. I should have known.

  “Eva cares for me in a way, of course,” Paul said. “We understand each other. If I was willing to settle for friendship then I’m sure we could be friends, but I can’t. I can’t pretend my feelings for her are merely platonic. It would be too painful a charade. I’d show up on her doorstep with a whole florist shop if there were a prayer of her changing her mind, but there isn’t. She loves him.” The faraway look returned to his eyes, and he shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “After all he’s put her through, she still loves him.”

  “My father?” I asked. Paul looked startled.

  “You know who he is, don’t you?”

  “Forgive me, Morgan. I’ve said too much.”

  “No! You got to tell me who he is, Paul. I have a right to know the name of my own father!”

  Paul was quiet, gazing at me steadily, considering. “Yes, I think you do, but it isn’t my place to tell you. It’s Eva’s. I promised her I’d never speak to anyone about it, and that promise extends to you. You’ll have to ask her yourself, Morgan. This is something between the two of you. I’ve no right to butt in. This is a family matter.”

  I wanted to tell him that he was family. That was what I’d come for in the first place, to thank him for all he’d done for me: for teaching me how to bait a fishhook, for listening to my complaints and questions about God without judging, for helping me with my calculus homework and teaching me how to change the oil in the Ford—for treating me like a son. I began to say just that but didn’t get far before Paul interrupted me.

  “There is no need, Morgan. Knowing you, seeing you grow from a boy to a man, and being allowed to play some small part in the process is thanks enough,” he said and smiled in a way that let me know he meant it.

  Breakfast was over. I helped Paul clear the table and stood at the sink drying dishes after he’d washed them. We talked of small things—sports, and airplanes, and what classes I would be taking as a freshman. Paul tried to convince me to take Ancient Greek for my foreign-language requirement, but I just laughed. “No way! I’ll be lucky to pass freshman Spanish!”

  “Ah, well.” Paul shrugged and let out the rubber stopper to drain the water from the sink. “At least I tried.”

  I looked at the wristwatch Mama had given me for graduation. It was time to go. Paul walked me to the front door to say good-bye. “I won’t wish you good luck because you won’t need it. You’re completely up to this. And don’t worry about your mother. She may not be speaking to me, but I’ll still keep an eye on her. I’ll make sure she’s all right while you’re at school.” He paused a moment and, without me saying anything, addressed the concern that was uppermost in my thoughts—the impending war and who would watch out for Mama when I joined up. “No matter what happens, no matter where you go, I’ll always look out for her. You can count on it.”

  “Thanks, Paul. That means a lot to me.” I put out my hand for him to shake, and he gripped it hard.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Later, I said my good-byes to Grandma and Aunt Ruby back at the house. Ruby cried and Grandma tried not to. Mama drove me out to the airfield herself. We didn’t say much during the drive—just talked about the weather and about how good the harvest was looking. “Mr. Thompson said he’s getting two bushels more per acre
than he did last year,” Mama said.

  Mr. Thompson was our closest neighbor. “Well, that’s good,” I said. “He must be happy about that.”

  Mama smiled and threw me a quick glance before training her eyes back on the road. “He said it would probably drive down the price. Said he’d be lucky if he broke even.”

  I grinned. Some things never changed. Thompson was a full-time farmer who moonlighted as a part-time curmudgeon. He never had a good word to say about anything, but I was going to miss him. I was going to miss everyone. I couldn’t think of what to say next, and Mama seemed to have run out of conversation, too, so I turned up the radio and we listened to music for the rest of the drive. Bing Crosby was singing “Only Forever.”

  Do I want to be with you,

  As the years come and go?

  Only forever,

  If you care to know.

  Whitey was waiting at the airfield, standing next to my plane. My plane. I was still amazed to think she was actually mine. Rough paint job or no, the sight of her made me smile.

  Whitey had already done a preflight check, so everything was ready. We loaded my gear into the plane. Watching my duffel bag and suitcase get stuffed into the cargo hold, Mama suddenly remembered all the good advice she’d ever forgotten to give me and started peppering me with reminders to eat right and get enough sleep, not to forget to wear my hat, and to remember that she’d put some horehound lozenges in my duffel in case I got a sore throat.

  “They’re in with your clean socks. Oh! And I put a roll of stamps in there, too. And some stationery and pre-addressed envelopes.”

  “Mama, you didn’t have to do that. I’m eighteen years old. I think I know my own address by now.”

  “I know. I just thought it would be easier for you that way.” Whitey gave the propeller a good crank. The plane stuttered a little before the engine caught hold, but when it did, it roared, and the whole fuselage started to hum and vibrate as if she couldn’t wait to get airborne. Mama was startled by the noise. Both her hands flew up to cover her ears.

  “Promise you’ll write!” She hollered to be heard over the engine.

  “Every Tuesday and Saturday,” I shouted. “I promise!”

  Whitey waved his arm, signaling it was time to go. I gave Mama one last squeeze, lifting her up off her feet, before hustling myself over the plane and climbing into the passenger seat. Mama backed away to stand by the car where she could watch us take off. She smiled and waved as if our parting brought her nothing but pride, but I could see her eyes shining with tears. She looked so small standing next to the battered old Ford. If she’d crooked a finger, or blinked an eye, given me the smallest indication she’d wanted me to stay, I would have. It just didn’t feel right leaving Mama all alone, but we’d talked it out a hundred times, and she was determined that I had to go out in the world and make something of myself. It felt wrong to leave her, but not as wrong as it would have felt to let her down.

  I threw Whitey a thumbs-up, indicating I was ready, and we started taxiing down the runway. As we picked up speed, the miracle that never would cease to amaze me happened again. Fighting headwinds and gravity, the nose of the plane lifted off the ground, and we were airborne. We took off toward the west, straight into the afternoon sun, and as we gained altitude, worries and contingencies fell away as surely as the earth fell away from our wings. I felt suddenly large and limitless.

  Whitey made a wide arc across the sky, looping back to find the southeasterly course that would take us to Oklahoma City, and we passed over the airfield again. Mama stood below, sweeping her arm wide above her head. Thinking that I wouldn’t be able to see them from the sky, she let the tears flow freely, but I could see she was smiling through her tears, and I knew that she’d meant what she said. She really was proud of me, and as much as she wanted me to stay, she wanted me to test my wings even more. It was all right to go.

  Looking across the horizon, a short mile from where Mama stood, I could see another car parked by the side of the road and another figure standing shadowed against the earth. Paul waved both arms above his head, bidding me farewell. For a moment, I could see Mama and Paul at the same time and somehow I knew that no matter what happened to me, Mama would be all right. In my mind, I thanked God for both of them and prayed that somehow the distance between them would be closed. Then, as quickly as the thought formed in my mind, Whitey pulled back the stick, we climbed higher, and I lost sight of them.

  4

  Georgia

  Chicago, Illinois—January 1940

  Thirty-three dollars and twenty-eight cents. That was all. In my heart of hearts I knew that the ten-cent-an-hour raise I’d been given in recognition of faithful service to the housewares department of Marshall Fields wasn’t going to make me rich, but as I tore open my pay envelope, I prayed for a miracle of loaves and fishes—a divine intervention that would mystically transform my little raise into a figure that would be enough to pay for flying lessons and my bill at the grocer’s. It didn’t happen.

  “So much for the power of positive thinking,” I mumbled as I folded the check in half and tucked it into my pocketbook. The truth was, it was a nice raise, but it wasn’t enough to finance my dream. I’d tried everything I could think of—working every overtime shift I could, baby-sitting on evenings and weekends, walking to work to save the fare it cost to ride the El, but it wasn’t enough. I’d even taken a couple of bookkeeping classes at a nighttime secretarial school, hoping that bookkeeping would pay better than sales did, but the jobs I’d been offered didn’t pay any more than what I was making at the department store.

  Compared to most girls my age, I was making good money—enough for food, rent, an occasional night on the town, and, thanks to my store discount, a nice wardrobe—if that was what I’d wanted to do with it. None of my old girlfriends from St. Margaret’s were making as much as I did, and they were all jealous that I had a generous discount at Chicago’s most fashionable department store.

  I’d met Frances Ruth Callaghan, Fran, my best friend from St. Margaret’s, for lunch in the store coffee shop just the week before, and she’d gone on and on about it. Eating out was a rare treat for me, but we were celebrating our birthdays—we were born in the same month. We went dutch, and with my employee discount, lunch in the café cost only a little more than my usual brown bag in the break room.

  “I can’t think why you’re wearing that same white blouse and the same black pumps you wore to graduation when you’ve got the latest styles at your feet, and all at a discount! You could have a nice apartment, but instead you live in a one-room garret and cook on a hot plate!”

  “True, but it’s my one-room garret, and that makes all the difference.” It would have been cheaper to keep living in Delia’s apartment, but that was where I’d drawn the line on frugality. My rented room was only three blocks from her place, and since we worked in the same store, albeit in different departments (thank heaven!) I saw her every day. Having my own place gave me a break from her endless conversations about what I should wear, who I should date, or how pretty I could look if only I’d fix myself up a little. It also meant I could avoid awkward meetings with the latest “uncle” who might be sitting at the kitchen table drinking his morning coffee in the same shirt he’d worn the night before. That alone was worth double the rent I paid for my garret.

  “Honestly, Georgia! You never spend a dime on yourself. If I was in your shoes I’d dress like a fashion plate,” Fran said through a mouthful of chicken salad. “And I’d have the cutest little place with everything new—a whole matching set of dinnerware, with the serving pieces and everything, and some of those sheets with the scalloped embroidery on the edges, and matching pillows with my monogram. Wouldn’t that be elegant? Do you get a discount on monogramming, too?” she asked hopefully.

  “No. Just on the things the store buys from vendors. They have to pay people in the store for monogramming and tailoring, so that’s full price.”

  Fran bit her lip
thoughtfully. “Well, that’s all right. I can live without the monogram,” she said before going on. “And a pile of big, fluffy cotton towels—in pink, to match the tile in our new bathroom. Did I tell you about the tile in the house?” I nodded and kept eating. She had, several times, but I knew she was going to tell me again anyway. I didn’t mind. Fran was just three weeks away from living her dream life. Soon she’d be married to Richard Morelli, the manager of the movie house where Fran was an usherette, and living in her own home—a new two-bedroom bungalow with a pink-tiled bathroom and an honest-to-heaven picket fence. She was happy, and I was happy for her.

  “It is just so darling! Even the toilet is pink! It matches the tile and looks so fresh against the white walls. I’m going to sew a shower curtain out of white eyelet lace and find a pink liner to go underneath so the color will peep out through the eyelet holes.” She took another bite of her salad and sighed. “Just darling!” she repeated. “But really, Georgia, I don’t understand why you don’t put that discount to good use and get yourself a new wardrobe.”

  “Because Marshall Fields doesn’t sell anything I want, that’s why.”

  Fran rolled her eyes. “I know. I know. You’re saving every penny for flying lessons. Georgia! If I didn’t know better I’d think you were nuts! When are you going to grow up and realize that this is just a crazy dream? I mean, honestly! How many female pilots do you know?”