Myrtle nudged his foot. “Let her bowl. I want to see the fireworks.”
“We’ll get you out in time to enjoy the Fourth.” Eugene shook his head and pointed his beer toward the lane. “And I’ll wait till after Elma’s turn for my question.”
“I’ll be fascinated to see where this segue takes us.” The Fourth was what had made me suggest bowling. After the Meteor, I found fire raining from the sky considerably less appealing. I turned back to the lane, where the pinboy had cleared the last of the pins and was safely perched on his high stool. He had a comic out, and even from here I could recognize Superman’s distinctive red-and-blue costume.
But, back to bowling … To knock down both pins, I’d have to strike one at just the right angle to cause it to fly across and hit the other. I could see the trajectory. Give me a piece of paper and I could describe it for you with mathematical precision. I swung the ball back, its weight tugging on my arm like additional G-force, then brought the pendulum forward, aiming at the pin on the right. The ball released, and, for a brief instant, arced weightless through the air, before thudding against the smooth poplar floor. It rumbled down the lane and I stood there, arm outstretched, as if I could will it to hit the pins correctly.
It brushed the pin on the right, which wobbled, and then tipped to land spinning on the floor. The other pin stayed perfectly upright.
A commiserating groan rose from our little group. Laughing, I turned back and curtsied.
“Next time!” Nathaniel patted me on the shoulder as he took his place on the lane.
Myrtle laughed. “Next time … I keep waiting for them to throw us out this time.”
“My bowling isn’t that bad.”
Eugene and Myrtle exchanged a look like I had just said something adorable. And then, belatedly, my brain caught up with my mouth. The “us” Myrtle meant wasn’t our bowling party, but Eugene and her.
Before the Meteor, they wouldn’t have been allowed in at all. This place would have been filled with white people, and I wouldn’t have noticed. Now, with Kansas City being the capital, Myrtle and Eugene weren’t the only brown people in here. They were still outnumbered, but at least no one was glaring at us.
Embarrassed that I hadn’t noticed the imbalance until she pointed it out, I marked my score down on the sheet and dropped onto the bench next to Eugene. He handed me my beer and raised an eyebrow. “So, what’s this I hear about an air show?”
“I don’t know if it’s going to happen.” The beer was cold and had a bright acidity. “The idea was to prove that women pilots have the ability to be astronauts.”
“But…?”
Nathaniel’s bowling ball careened down the lane and slammed into the pins, throwing them clear in a beautiful strike.
“Yes!” I lifted my beer to my husband’s success. “But we only have leisure craft. The more I think about it, the more I realize that no matter how good the show is, it won’t look as flashy as a show with military planes.”
“That’s a pity. Pilots would know it was a feat, but the general public looks at the trappings.” Eugene shook his head as he stood for his turn. He clapped Nathaniel on the back. “Good job, York.”
Nathaniel picked up his beer and leaned against the back of the bench. “The air show?”
“Yeah.”
Myrtle peered over her glasses at him. “You make your wife follow through on that. It’s a fine idea.”
Nathaniel held up his hands, and laughed. “You have a very different idea of our marriage than I do. I don’t make Elma do anything.”
The pins cracked and bounced, but Eugene had left one standing. “I don’t know why she thinks any husband can make his wife do anything. Never worked with us.”
“You hush.” Myrtle threw a wadded-up napkin at his back.
Laughing, Eugene waited for the pinboy to clear the pins and roll his ball back to him. “So you need Mustangs.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” I sighed and took a deep sip of my beer. I hadn’t flown a Mustang since the war, but they had been, by far, my favorite of the planes we had to ferry. Swift, agile, and a beautifully responsive machine. It might not be the highest tech these days, but it had been glorious back then.
Eugene’s next bowl knocked that pesky pin down. He let out a hoot and pumped his fist. “Now who’s cooking with gas!”
Myrtle rolled her eyes and stood. “He loses his train of thought so easily.”
Giving her a peck on the cheek as they traded places, Eugene grinned. “Do not.” He leaned down to pick up his beer. “How does six Mustangs sound?”
I stopped with my beer in midair. “Six? Six Mustangs? Where—?”
Eugene grinned. “My airclub has six of them.”
My jaw literally dropped. “Are you serious? I’ve called all the—no. Wait.” I pinched my nose. “Someday, I swear to God, I will learn this. I called all the white airclubs.”
“ Ha! Take that!” Myrtle jumped in the air. All of her pins had scattered in a strike. She spun around. “And none of you saw that, did you?”
I shrugged. “Six Mustangs.”
Myrtle exchanged a look with Nathaniel and shook her head slowly. “Pilots.”
He sighed and raised his beer to her. “I don’t know how you do it.”
I let them have their laugh and just grinned at Eugene. Six Mustangs. We could do proper formations with that, and smoke tricks, and … “Are there any women pilots in your group?”
“Yeah. Come to the club and I’ll introduce you.” He gave me a wink. “We can go for a spin and leave these two on the ground.”
FOURTEEN
IAC LAUNCHES MANNED SPACE PORT MADE OF AN INFLATABLE FABRIC
By BILL BECKER
Special to The National Times.
KANSAS CITY, KS, April 21, 1956—The world’s first space station is a huge spinning wheel of four sausage-shaped links.
The Kansas City Negro Aeronautics Club had a nicer facility than our women’s club did. There was a little house next to the hangar, both of which had been painted blinding white, with red shutters and lettering.
As soon as we walked into the social room of the house, I became self-conscious and grateful for Eugene’s presence as a shield. I was the only white person in the room. The brown faces ranged from a magnolia tan to a deep blue-black, with no one who was even as light as Myrtle.
I stood out like a dirty handkerchief dropped on a clean table. Clutching my purse tighter, I planted myself in the door to keep from backing out. Everyone was staring at me. I tried to smile. And then I realized that the way I was hanging on to my purse, they probably thought I was worried someone was going to steal it. I let go, and that probably looked just as bad.
Eugene turned back, smiling, and beckoned at me to follow him to a table with three black ladies sitting at it. Conversation started up again in the social room, but I kept hearing snatches of “what’s she doing here” and “white” and “no business.” Some of them, I think, weren’t trying to keep their voices down.
Two of the women stood as we came up to the table. The third stayed seated and stared at me with a neutral expression, with only a pinching of the nose to indicate disdain.
“This is Miss Ida Peaks.” Eugene gestured to the younger of the two standing women. She was short, with generous curves and ruddy brown cheeks. The other standing woman wore her hair in an elegant French twist, pinned with green Bakelite combs. “… Miss Imogene Braggs, and…” He gestured to the seated woman. Her orange dress with a narrow white collar gave her a warmth that her expression countered. “… Miss Sarah Coleman. Some of the finest pilots you’ll ever meet.”
“Thank you for meeting with me.” I took off my gloves and, at Miss Braggs’s gesture, sat down. “I believe Major Lindholm has explained our aims to you?”
Miss Coleman nodded. “You want to be an astronaut.”
“I—well, yes. But my main goal is to get the IAC to consider women as pilots. The current group is entirely composed of men.�
�� I turned to smile at the two friendlier women. “I was hoping that you would consider flying with us.”
Miss Peaks tilted her head to consider me. “So you can use our planes?”
Something about this conversation was off. I glanced at Eugene, but he had stepped back. “That … that is a separate discussion, I think.”
“And if we turn you down—about using the Mustangs—would you still want black women to fly with you?” Miss Braggs’s tone was gentle, with mild curiosity, but the words held a challenge.
“It depends upon the reasons for turning us down, I suppose.” That answer caused Miss Coleman to sniff. “If it was because you doubted me as a pilot, then that doesn’t seem like it would be a good collaboration. But, otherwise, yes, I should still like you to fly with us. Major Lindholm has spoken very highly of your performance in the shows your airclub has put on, and I need experienced pilots.”
“Good! I’m game, then.” Miss Peaks grinned at me. “Any chance to do some more formation flying is fine by me. You … you are okay with formation, right?”
“Absolutely. I was definitely planning that.” It would take a liquid ton of rehearsal, but precision flying was mission critical if we were going to convince people that women pilots were as good as men.
Miss Coleman shook her head. “There’s no point in it.”
“Sarah—”
“No. Don’t hush me. You know good and well that even though we’re qualified—even if this air show scheme were to work—we wouldn’t be allowed in the astronaut corps.” She glared up at Eugene. “Would we, Major?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, now … they only took seven men, and had to take those from different countries, and—”
“And none of those countries selected anything but a white man.”
“The makeup of the list bothers me as well. That’s why we’re trying to change things with the air show. Once they see how qualified you are—”
Miss Coleman leaned across the table, face intense. “I was accepted into the WASPs during the second war. Until they realized I was black, and then they asked me to withdraw my application. What makes you think that the IAC is going to be any different?”
“I—well … well, because we’re talking about a colony, and … and…” And I remembered what had happened in the days after the Meteor hit, when the people in the black neighborhoods were left for dead until Eugene and Myrtle had used their leaflets. “And we’ll make them. But to do that, we have to show them we can fly first.”
Miss Peaks shrugged. “I already said I’m in. Y’all can keep arguing, but nothing’s going to change if we just sit here.”
Slowly, Miss Braggs nodded. “If nothing else, it’ll be fun.”
Miss Coleman stood. “I’ve got better things to do with my time than help yet another white lady exploit us.”
“Exploit?” I stood too. “Now, see here. I’m inviting you to fly, not to mop floors or serve dinner.”
She smirked. “See? That’s the only way she can picture us. I’m a mathematician and a chemist, working in pharmacy, but all you could think of were servant roles for me. So, no thank you, ma’am. You can just go on and convince yourself that you’re trying to save us. It’ll be without me.”
She strode off, leaving me gaping and with my skin too hot. I’d probably gone bright red with anger and embarrassment. I should have known better. I’d made the same mistake with Myrtle when we first moved in and I assumed she was just a housewife. She’d been a computer for a black business that had manufactured hair-straightening chemicals. I hadn’t even known such things existed.
“I’m a fool … Would you please convey my apologies? She’s absolutely right.” I gathered up my purse and started to pull my gloves back on. “Thank you for your time.”
“Did you say there was formation flying?” Miss Peaks stared after Miss Coleman.
I stopped with one glove half-on. “Yes.” I didn’t say If we can get the planes, but I thought it.
“And when’s the first practice?”
“I—does this mean you’re still willing to fly with us?”
She turned her gaze back to me, and a corner of her mouth curved up. “I already said yes.” Then she winked. “Besides … that went better than I thought it would.”
I laughed, relief making it too loud. “I can’t see how.”
She cocked her head, and her smile didn’t change, but the meaning of it did. “You apologized.”
* * *
Have you ever gotten exactly what you wanted, and then realized that it had unintended consequences? That was me and the air show. In addition to Nicole Wargin, we also had commitments from Anne Spencer Lindbergh (yes, that Anne Lindbergh); Sabiha G ök çen, a Turkish fighter pilot in the Second World War; and Princess Shakhovaskaya, who had fought in the First World War before having to flee Russia.
I hoped the fact that she was an actual fighter pilot, and a princess, would draw some attention. Betty had been ecstatic, because the princess was a publicity gold mine.
And Nicole, bless her, had worked her political contacts and come up with a list of guests that staggered the mind. Or, at least, my mind: Vice President Eglin’s wife. Charlie Chaplin. Eleanor Roosevelt.
Which is how I came to be sitting in a borrowed Mustang on an airfield surrounded by bleachers and camera crews. More than one crew. All I have to say is “Thank God for princesses”—even aging ones who no longer had a country. It turns out that given a choice between interviewing a physicist housewife and a princess who flies with a tiara, they opted for the tiara.
I was fine with that.
I was even happier when it was my turn to fly. Nicole, Betty, and I were set to do some formation flying with Miss Peaks and Miss Braggs of the Kansas City Negro Aeronautics Club. They’d supplied us with the Mustangs, and, as Eugene had promised, they were damn good pilots. And … they’d convinced Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. to attend.
Have I mentioned that the crowd was immense?
We queued for takeoff, following Miss Peaks with military discipline. The first part of the routine was simply a tight V formation, buzzing the airfield. I say “simple,” but during our second pass over the field, we rolled into a vertical bank of 180 degrees while keeping the V tight and even. After years of puddling around in my Cessna, flying at speed in a Mustang with a group of amazing pilots … a part of me came back to life. A part that might have withered and died even before the Meteor struck.
The seat pressed against my spine with the G-force of our turns, and the little blips of turbulence from the planes around me gave a tangible sense of the other pilots. These women made me feel vibrantly alive.
The people in the stands below? They might as well have been asleep, for all they mattered in that moment. We roared past them, banked to climb into a steep arc, and then split apart.
This next bit was Senator Wargin’s idea. It was cheesy as all hell, and I couldn’t wait. Six planes, seemingly flying out of formation, and yet perfectly in sync. Over the radio, Miss Peaks said, “On my mark, ladies.” It was a formality when she said, “Mark” a moment later, though, because we were all already where we should be. I hit the button to release a stream of colored smoke in time with the others. We each dipped in an individual arc, passing the other planes in an intricate choreography designed to avoid the wake of turbulence from each other’s slipstreams.
Behind us, in red smoke against a silver sky, we wrote the word M ARS.
I finished the final upstroke of the M and glanced over my shoulder. The ground lay at my back, past the red mist. My angle was all wrong to read it, but from here, it was enough to see that our individual strokes all connected. Damn, we were good.
I turned forward again, and hit a bird.
Then three more smacked into me. Feathers and blood flashed past the plane with meaty thuds. I had to tilt my head to the side and scrunch down to see past the carnage on my windscreen, but, by God, I managed to stay in alignment with my teammates.
My position is probably why I didn’t see my coolant levels drop. Or the engine temperature rise. Or the thick, dark smoke pouring out of the back of my plane to mix with the red.
I thought I had escaped the bird strike unharmed until my propellers sputtered and failed. A bird must have been sucked into the radiator and cut a coolant line. Not that it mattered in that moment what had caused it. I had no engine.
My plane was pointed straight up. No engine. No lift from the wings.
The ground rolled overhead as the first turn of the incipient spin. There was a moment of zero G as the plane stalled out, and everything seemed to float.
Then the spin started in earnest.
The urge to pull back on the stick was so strong, but that would have killed me. The plane flipped over again, showing sky, and then earth, and then nothing but the fairgrounds spinning like a toy below me. Red and black smoke whipped past my windshield, blending with the blood of birds.
G-forces pressed me against the right side of the plane and squeezed the breath out of my chest. Right-side spin. I kept my hands lightly on the stick and pushed the throttle all the way forward. My vision started to go dark from the outside from the G-forces as I fought to stop the roll. Stick, hard left, full opposite the spin.
The muscles in my arm burned, trying to fight the pull, and I just braced myself harder, pushing. Goddamn it. I knew how to get out of a spin—I just had to get control again. My altitude ticked away. The rudder fought me every inch, but I got it to the left.
With that, the spin slowed, but I was still aimed at the ground in a dive. My canopy was smeared with blood and feathers. All I had were instruments.
According to the instruments, I still had enough height to pull the canopy and bail out, but, by God, I wasn’t going to crash a borrowed plane while I still had space to maneuver. Dragging in a breath against the G-forces, I yanked back on the stick to pull the plane out of her dive. The tunnel vision got worse as I pulled at least three Gs, but it was that or ditch the plane. I. Was. Not. Going. To. Do. That.
I tightened my legs and abdominal muscles, trying to force blood back to my brain as the G-force increased. Blacking out was not an option. I kept my eyes on the instrument panel, relying on it to tell me when I was finally, finally back to straight and level.
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