He’d timed his proposal carefully, asking me on the day of my first solo flight. Oh! It was so exhilarating! I’d never felt so free! And when I’d taxied back in from my landing I was so happy to see Roger waiting for me because I wanted to talk about it, share the experience with someone who would understand. He was grinning from ear to ear as he watched me hop down from the cockpit. I ran toward him, and he scooped me up in his arms. For once, I didn’t push myself away from his embrace. I was just so happy! But my happiness faded when he put me back down on the ground, got down on one knee, and pulled a small green velvet jewelry box from his pocket.
A lot of girls, I knew, would have been thrilled with a proposal like that. Why wasn’t I?
As Delia had pointed out, there were a lot of perfectly good reasons why I should love Roger. Could it be as simple as she made it sound? If I married Roger and let him love me physically as well as emotionally, would I start loving him back? Delia was right, there was nothing wrong with Roger, but was that reason enough to marry him? Didn’t Roger deserve a little more from life and love than that? Didn’t I?
The next day, I dropped by to see Fran on my way back to Waukegan. She was five months pregnant and glowing. I hadn’t seen her in months, but she was the same old Fran, bright and bubbling and full of energy, but she was different too, calmer and more serene. She didn’t ask me for my opinion every ten seconds as she had when we were younger. This more mature Fran was able to make choices on her own and seemed happy with the outcome.
Fran insisted I stay for lunch, so while she was making lemonade and tuna sandwiches, I took myself on a self-guided tour of the bungalow.
She had done a great job making the little house into a home. The whole place was neat as a pin and smelled faintly of lemon oil and candle wax. At the door of the nursery, freshly painted in rubber-duck yellow, I stood admiring the sweet little room that was big enough for the crib and rocker Fran had bought secondhand and lovingly refinished. I wondered how I would feel if this were my house, my nursery, awaiting the birth of my child.
Over lunch I told Fran about Roger’s proposal. She reacted just like Delia had—utterly thrilled by the news and utterly confused as to why I had not immediately accepted. I tried to explain but could see that she was confounded by my uncertainty.
We hugged and said good-bye. I ran to catch my bus and made it, but just barely, squeezing between the doors just as the driver was closing them.
I tossed my overnight bag onto the luggage rack, collapsed into an empty seat, and tried to catch my breath. My face turned toward the window that framed the receding Chicago skyline, but the picture of the sun streaming through the window of the nursery, warming the hand-rubbed finish of the wooden crib, stayed with me all during the long ride home.
9
Georgia
Waukegan, Illinois—October 1941
Roger poked his head in the office door and called, “Hey, hon! I’ve just got this last flight check with the Barnes kid and then we’ll go. You ready?”
I nodded and closed the cabinet drawers where I’d just finished filing the month’s billing and flight logs. Roger whistled as the drawers slid back to reveal my new black dress with the little white polka dots and wide red belt that made my waist look even more slender than it really was.
“Whew! You look good enough to eat in that!”
“Thank you.” I smiled. “But, Roger, you shouldn’t have. Real silk! It must have cost a fortune.”
“Business has been good, wouldn’t you say, Miss Bookeeper? The government keeps hiring me to teach these college kids to fly. And one thing I’ll say for the government, they pay well and on time. Our tax dollars at work, don’tcha know. Well, God bless Franklin D. Roosevelt and the Civilian Pilot Training Program. They are the reason I can afford to buy you a nice dress.”
“I know, but it’s still too expensive, Roger.”
“It’s the first time I bought an anniversary present. I didn’t know there was a spending limit.”
“The first year’s gift is supposed to be paper. That’s why I got you that subscription to Life magazine.”
“And I love it,” he insisted.
“But it makes me look like a cheapskate next to this beautiful dress,” I complained. “I should have gotten you something nicer.”
Roger stepped into the office and closed the door. “You can give me an extra present after our dinner date,” he said, shifting his eyebrows up and down in a playful, mockingly sensual expression. Gathering me in his arms and pressing me close, he kissed me hard on the mouth. After a long minute, he turned me loose. “Mrs. Welles, I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
“All right,” I said as he left. “See you in an hour.”
I walked to the office window and watched my husband as he greeted Barnes, the young pilot he was taking up for a flight check. Barnes was one of the scores of college students who had been coming to take lessons as part of the government’s Civilian Pilot Training Program, or CPTP. The students only had to pay forty dollars toward their training, even though it cost a lot more. The government hired private instructors like Roger and paid them the difference.
The demand for teachers was so great that Roger had urged me to study to become an instructor myself. It was exciting and demanding, but I loved it. Soon I’d be ready to take on my own students, and not a minute too soon. We had far more than Roger could handle alone.
All talk of neutrality aside, it was becoming more and more apparent that America was going to be drawn into the war in Europe. The CPTP was part of the government’s plan to make sure they had enough trained pilots on hand when that day came. It was good for business, that was for sure, but as I peered out the window at my husband and Barnes, who was in his early twenties but looked about fifteen, an involuntary shiver made my shoulders twitch.
Flying is so beautiful, I thought. What is it about men that can make them take something as magnificent and freeing as an airplane and turn it into a weapon?
Barnes and all the other students that came streaming through our doors were just as excited about learning to fly as I had been. Ten percent of the CPTP program spaces were reserved for women, so we even had a few girls taking lessons. Had I been in their shoes, I would have taken the government’s offer of cheap flight training as eagerly as they did, but I wondered if they ever thought about what would come next? I did.
Roger said his female students were every bit as capable as the men, but it was impossible to imagine they would be allowed to pilot military aircraft, so I wasn’t worried about them. But what about the boys? How many of these fresh-faced boys were going to be shot down and killed in combat over foreign soil? And what about Roger? He’d already told me that if the war came, he was going to join up. Now that I had the office running like clockwork and would soon be teaching, he said he knew he could count on me to run things until he got back. He said it was his patriotic duty to serve his country if we went to war and my duty to take care of everything while he was gone. In my heart, I agreed with him, but that didn’t mean I liked the idea.
I truly cared for Roger. After a year of marriage, I could say that and know it was true. The passion that Delia had assured me would come with marriage had never materialized, but I’d always suspected she was exaggerating the joys of romance. Although even Fran had shyly intimated that she often found the physical aspect of marriage pleasurable, even exciting. I had nodded at her admission, wanting her to think I understood. I didn’t want her to start asking any embarrassing questions and, besides, I was perfectly content with Roger. Our marriage was successful, even if it wasn’t romantic.
Romance. After our dinner celebration, Roger would want to go back to the little house we’d rented on Third Street for a romantic end to the evening. Well, why not? I asked myself. He’s your husband. It’s your anniversary. He has a right to expect a little affection.
I never resisted Roger’s advances, but I never made any myself, though he’d hinted vaguely that he
wouldn’t mind if I sometimes took the lead in lovemaking. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
For the first few months I found intimacy painful and awkward. When Roger approached me, I told myself to relax, just as my doctor had advised, but sometimes I inadvertently flinched at Roger’s touch. I knew that hurt his feelings, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. One night he poured me a glass of wine before we turned in, and though it left me feeling a little detached from what was going on in my own bed, it did help my body relax. After that, the cocktail hour was incorporated into our evening ritual. Gradually, I became accustomed to the intimate side of marriage. And though I never invited Roger’s advances, it made me happy to know that by my simple act of acquiescence, I could bring my husband such obvious pleasure. I owed him that, at least.
Roger was so good to me. We were really very happy and well suited to each other in so many ways. We loved flying together. Those were the best times, those hours in the air. For me, they were the most intimate, precious moments of our marriage.
Even grounded, we made a pretty good pair. We were two sides of the coin when it came to running the flight school; I had a good mind for administration, and Roger was the best flight instructor I’d ever seen or ever would see. If I’d amounted to anything as a pilot, the credit went entirely to Roger. And, with a little coaching from me, Roger got to be much better about keeping our affairs in order and making good decisions on the most efficient and profitable places to invest our time and money. We drew on each other’s strengths and helped shore up each other’s weaknesses. I found a great satisfaction in knowing that I was helping Roger with the business. He had such grand plans for the school. I loved listening to him as he spun out his dreams for the future.
“And thanks to you, Li’l Feller,” he’d say, using the nickname he’d given me after we married, “it’s all starting to happen. In a few years, we’ll have the biggest, best flight school in Illinois. Maybe in all the Midwest.”
Yes, even if I hadn’t learned to love Roger in the way Delia had promised I would, we were good together. We had almost everything we wanted, but the one thing we didn’t have was beginning to loom larger and larger in my mind.
In spite of Roger’s frequent and enthusiastic efforts, I still wasn’t pregnant.
Fran’s little girl, Bonnie, was ten months old. She was a darling baby, with a halo of reddish-blond curls. Whenever she gave me one of her single-toothed grins, I couldn’t help but laugh, but during the bus rides back home, I’d think of her sweet, smiling baby face and my heart would hurt. My arms ached to hold a baby of my own. I was beginning to think it might never happen. We never talked about it directly, but I knew Roger was starting to wonder too.
President Roosevelt had signed the Lend Lease Act in the spring, and already American aircraft were being sent to help the Allied war effort; could American pilots be far behind? It could be any day now. I wanted a baby so much. Roger did, too.
After lovemaking, he would lay his hand on the flat of my stomach and rub it gently, not saying anything. I was sure he was wondering if the seed had found its way home and a baby was beginning inside me. Sometimes I thought it had, but month after month I was disappointed. I went to the doctor again. He said I was young and healthy and to just give it time, but time was running short.
Maybe it was my fault. Maybe, because my heart hadn’t opened completely to my husband’s love, my body had followed suit. Or maybe the invisible possibility of a baby that was hidden inside me refused to plant itself and grow because it wasn’t sure it would be born into a family of love. Maybe, if I could find even a little bit of that passion that Fran had hinted at and Roger seemed to want to see in me, I would finally get my child.
Roger finished his flight check with Barnes and came into the office to fill out his flight log. We climbed into our truck, a dark green Ford with WELLES FLIGHT SCHOOL emblazoned in red letters on both doors, and Roger took the wheel.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” Roger said mysteriously. He turned right outside the airfield gate, drove about five hundred feet, and turned into the parking lot of the Soaring Wings Café.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I laughed. “We’re having our anniversary dinner here?”
“Yes, ma’am. This is where I wooed you, wore you down, and finally won you. I couldn’t think of a better place to celebrate our anniversary.” Roger set the parking brake with a decisive wrench, took the key out of the ignition, and jumped out of the truck.
“But the café is closed for dinner,” I protested as Roger opened my door and helped me down. “The only reason people eat here in the first place is so they can see the planes take off and land, and you can’t do that at night.”
“I heard that!” Thurman growled as he stepped through the front door of the café.
Roger raised his eyebrows in an “uh oh” expression. I wanted to laugh but covered my mouth with my hand, pretending to cough instead. “Sorry, Thurman. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I knew what you meant,” Thurman said. He held the door open wide as Roger and I passed through. An intoxicating aroma met us as we came inside.
“Smells great, Thurman,” Roger said, sniffing the air appreciatively. “What is it?”
“Just the best chicken you ever ate,” he said. “It’s my mother’s recipe. There’s forty garlic cloves stuffed under the skin. You cook it slow so the meat’s real juicy but the skin still comes out crispy. I’m serving it with mashed parsnips perked up with a little nutmeg and some just-picked sweet corn made into a relish with sweet peppers, green onion, and a little dill. I’ve got a nice fresh tomato and cucumber salad to start and a peach melba for dessert.”
“Thurman, it sounds delicious,” I said, more than a little surprised. “I can’t believe you went to all this trouble.”
Thurman barked out one quick, sharp laugh. “You mean you can’t believe I know how to cook such fancy grub! You think all these old hands can do is sling hash.” He’d absolutely read my mind and there was no denying it, so I just kept my mouth shut and smiled. “Well, I feed people what they want, and around here what people want is a big, greasy plate of hash. But I know how to cook right, if the occasion calls for it. I was an army cook for eighteen years. Started out making vats of oatmeal for enlisted boys and ended up making gourmet meals for generals in Paris. I learned a few things in France, but my mother’s forty-garlic chicken still beats them all,” he bragged. “Tonight, you’re eating at the best restaurant in town.”
“Thanks, Thurman,” Roger said. “I sure appreciate this.”
“Well, we’ll see if you still appreciate it when you get the bill. Cooking like this don’t come cheap.” He cleared his throat. “You’re paying for the dinner, but there’s a bottle of champagne on your table. That’s from me. Happy anniversary.”
“Oh, Thurman! That’s sweet of you. Thank you.” I moved to hug the old man, but he sidestepped me.
“Yeah,” he muttered gruffly, “I’d better be getting back to the kitchen. Don’t want the chicken to burn. You two can seat yourselves.” He jerked his head toward the dining room, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Roger escorted me to a table in the corner and held out my chair for me. The table was covered with a white cloth. In the center, a pair of pale blue candlesticks in glass holders flanked a small bouquet of blue violets. A bottle was chilling in a galvanized bucket that looked a lot like the one Thurman used to mop floors with. The table was set with two of the blue plates that lunch specials were served on and the diner’s usual silverware, but it had been polished and, in the glow of candlelight, the cheap flatware shone like sterling.
Roger sat down across from me. “The place looks a little different at night, doesn’t it?”
I nodded and then, without my quite knowing why, tears pooled in my eyes.
“What’s the matter, Li’l Feller?” Roger asked. “Are those happy tears or sad one
s?”
I sniffed and wiped my eyes with my paper napkin. “Happy. You’re just too good to me, Roger.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but I do my best. Why shouldn’t I? I love you.” He reached across the table to take my hand. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. You know that?”
I started crying again. “No, I’m not! It’s not true! You’ve been so sweet to me. And so patient and gentle and I ... I just can’t seem to ... I don’t ...” No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t conjure the words to say how sorry I was that I wasn’t the lover he deserved.
“Roger, I know you weren’t ever married before, but you’re ten years older than me and you’ve ... you’ve traveled and seen the world. I’m sure you must have known a lot of women before you met me. Did you ... ? I mean, did any of those women have trouble with ...”
Roger’s eyes smiled as he lifted my hand to his lips. “Is that what all these tears are about?” He paused a moment to give me a chance to answer, but I didn’t respond.
“Georgia, you’re just young and inexperienced, that’s all. When I met you, I thought you were a tough little thing—funny and bright, but tough. And determined,” he whistled low. “I’d never met a woman as determined as you—determined to become a pilot and determined to give me the gate. I knew from the first you were something special, but I was a little intimidated by you. You made it clear that you were doing just fine on your own, thank you.
“But then I got to know you, and I saw that was just a cover-up, a way to protect yourself—especially from men. From what you told me about Delia, I’m not really surprised. Seeing the way she’s been used and thrown away time and time again, I’d expect you to be nervous about men. You don’t think we’re trustworthy. Well, Li’l Feller, I’m determined, too. I’m going to change your mind—at least about me. When you know for certain that you can trust me, it’ll be easier. I promise. Give it some time.” He kissed my hand again as if sealing the bargain with his lips.
On Wings Of The Morning Page 8