“Or?” I repeat.
“Or—we’re going to have to make some changes.” His words undo me. I promise to give him an answer when I get home.
* * *
Malachi tells me over the phone that he is still waiting for his sister. “It’s going to be my Judgment Day,” he laments.
“You think she’s coming to judge you?” I ask. “I’ll bet she just wants to see you.”
“I don’t know,” he says ruefully. “I didn’t live with them for much, never learned ’bout being with family.”
“I never learned, either,” I say and give a half laugh. “And I did live with mine.”
* * *
There is a storm moving across the area. Low-slung, black-gray clouds needle each other with lightning as they move swiftly toward us like sports cars. I want to leave early for my motel, before Willie’s dinner arrives, so that I don’t have to drive in the pounding rain. But he awakes and smiles sweetly at me when he hears the tray cart rolling down the hall.
“Won’t you join me for dinner?” he asks, and bats his eyes. I know I’m being manipulated, but I say yes, keeping a wary eye out the window. I watch as he cuts into slices of gray-colored Yankee pot roast, samples the dollop of brown-crusted mashed potatoes and tired string beans. There is a small salad of iceberg lettuce with orange dressing drizzled across the limp leaves, and diabetic strawberry Jell-O for dessert, along with a container of skim milk and a vanilla zwieback.
Willie looks the tray over. “Mmm-mmm-mmm,” he says sarcastically. “We’re going gourmet tonight.”
“I can get you something from the cafeteria,” I offer. He shakes his head.
“Don’t need it,” he says, flashing all his charm. “Your company will make it a wonderful meal.”
* * *
He is the slowest eater I have ever seen. He takes minuscule bites and chews them into subatomic particles, swallows, takes a sip of unsweetened tea that he has slowly squeezed a lemon into. Another tiny bite. Another sip.
Rain is washing hard against the window now.
“I think I should go,” I offer, watching him cut the pot roast into crumbs. “I don’t want to drive in this.”
“I’ll be done in a flash,” he says, taking another bite. He suddenly looks up at me. “You been pretty quiet. Are you okay?”
My heart jumps in my chest, and I can’t catch my breath. “I don’t know,” I say with a shaking voice, and I am surprised at my sudden emotion. “I can’t figure my life out. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where I’m going.”
“Child.” Willie reaches up for my hands and holds them in his cool, wrinkled, delicate fingers. His eyes search mine; I see the pale graying of cataracts across his dark eyes. He shakes his head and gives me an ironic, sweet smile. “Child, you’re just flying blind, and it’s okay. That’s how life is, darlin’. We’re all flying blind.”
Chapter 28
All that rushing around. All that worry about cleaning them just right. All that stink about keeping journals and reporting funny noises. All those nights of speculation over them crashing. And it looked like they were destroying their own planes, right there in the wash rack. The inside of Willie’s head felt like it was twisting, like someone was playing tricks with his mind, spinning his brain like a top, one way, then the other. His stomach plummeted at the very idea of it; he thought he might even vomit. Could they really have been responsible? But it was there, in front of him. Proof. Dozens of small bubbles and pockmarks that made the ends of the wires brittle and useless.
The loupe dropped from his hand and spun, clinking across the cement floor, coming to a stop at Fleischer’s foot. Fleischer left it there. He looked to Willie as though he was lost somewhere. His eyes looking inside himself, maybe watching the skies, maybe watching Jink slide to his death into the trees.
“Sergeant?”
Fleischer’s eyes met Willie’s, and Willie thought he might have been waiting for something, some kind of response, to help him sort it out, put it all into place. But Willie, who always had a snappy answer, because that’s what street kids from Harlem always had available, had no answer at all.
“How do you like that?” Fleischer finally managed.
“Sure looks like you’re on to something,” Willie agreed.
“We got to report this,” Fleischer said softly.
Willie shook his head. He could smell problems before they were born. “You gonna tell Vultee they’re wrong?” he asked. “You gonna tell them they don’t know how to clean their own planes?”
“I’m not gonna tell those jerks from Vultee anything,” Fleischer replied, bending down to pick up the loupe and put it safely in his pants pocket. “Gonna tell the colonel himself.”
“Good luck,” Willie said, thinking now he would just sort of slip back into the work bay because this was starting to sound tricky. “Colonel Fairchild is one tough bas—uh—colonel,” he ended lamely. “’Course, I hope you let me know what he says.”
“Won’t have to,” Fleischer said, “because you’ll be going with me.”
* * *
They took the jeep. Willie drove while Fleischer excitedly expounded on his discovery. It would be the end of planes and men falling from the skies to their deaths. It would be good news for the base. For England! For France! Maybe earn them commendations, for he was planning to include Willie in his report, as a tribute to all those beers they’d shared late at night. Maybe it would be enough to get them both out of the Housekeeping Unit and doing something they were actually trained to do.
* * *
Willie thought Colonel Fairchild was going to have a stroke. His face was crimson; his veins made a map of blue lines against his temples. “I’m in line for brigadier general,” he screamed at Fleischer. “You think I’m going to call General Markham and tell him that I approved the wrong cleaning protocol?”
“It’s corroding the connections,” Fleischer repeated for what seemed like the fourth or fifth time. He held out the loupe and a few wires, holding them out to Fairchild to see for himself, but Fairchild wouldn’t even look down at Fleischer’s hands. For once, Willie was glad he wasn’t in charge of anything. Glad he wasn’t the one who had to pass news along.
“Do you think the United States Army Air Corps is going to tell all those families that their sons died because we made a mistake cleaning the planes?” Fairchild slammed his fist down on his desk, his eyes still avoiding the wires. His mug of coffee bounced and sprinkled the papers next to it with brown dots. “British families? French, who don’t understand half of what we tell them, to begin with?” He stood up and began pacing next to his desk, his face agitated, his hands gripping each other behind his back, as if to reassure themselves.
“I don’t think we have a choice, sir,” Fleischer said patiently, blinking disbelief at Fairchild’s reaction. “But I’m sure I’m on to something. The wires hooking up the engines, the controls, sure, we replace them regularly, so they’re not wearing out, but after only a couple of thousand miles, they’re all corroded. It’s got to be the solutions.” But Fairchild was already shaking his head. He stopped in his tracks, to face Fleischer.
“Get that shit out of my sight,” he said.
Fleischer put the loupe back in his pocket, but left the wires on Fairchild’s desk.
“And take this with you,” Fairchild said, grabbing the wires and tossing them to Fleischer. “As far as I’m concerned, I didn’t see anything.”
“Sir?”
“And not a word, hear me? Not a word,” Fairchild added. “You will carry on with the same protocol, until I can think of some other way to get this past the general. Now, get out of here.”
* * *
“If that don’t beat all,” Willie exclaimed as he drove them back to the wash rack. “You’d think he would have handed us medals on a platter.” He pointed to his chest. “I was getting a spot ready right here.”
“He’s looking for a way to cover his ass,” Fleischer muttered.
“In the meantime, we have to find another way to clean them. Maybe something less corrosive.”
Willie took the wires from Fleischer, and ran his thumb and forefinger up and down their sides, feeling the insulation. The black rubber insulation had a funny feel to it. Spongy. The ends felt crumbly with corrosion; the wires themselves were brittle. “I don’t know how we gonna do it,” Willie mused. “But I don’t think Ivory soap is the answer.”
* * *
Hogarth was waiting for them the next morning, before they even started their shift.
“What do you want here?” Fleischer snapped at him as the men began their work, rolling in the first plane of the day, double-checking the pressure settings on the hoses, washing down the reeking gasoline from overnight into the gutters of the scrub bay.
“Some Housekeeping Squad. I hear you boys can’t even run a simple cleaning operation,” Hogarth said, rubbing his hands together. “Fairchild sent me here to check things out. All on the QT, you understand.” He placed himself by the front door and folded his arms. “One of you bring me the cleaning manual, so’s I can go over it with y’all.”
“I don’t need anyone babysitting me,” Fleischer growled.
Hogarth bent toward him with the eager look of a dog that had just been offered a piece of meat. “I’d hate to report to the colonel that you won’t cooperate. With the war on and all. You seem pretty jumpy about me watching things.”
There was something in his choice of words that made Fleischer stop in his tracks. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
Hogarth shrugged. “You wouldn’t be the first one to try to sabotage this base.” He gestured to Willie. “I have on good authority that you and this nigger been having some late-night meetings with that RAF fellow who was killed.” He raised his eyebrows at Fleischer. “I just might suggest an inquiry. If I have to.”
Fleischer’s body nearly lifted off the ground with anger. Willie thought he was going to rise right up into the ceiling of the wash bay and fly around Hogarth’s head like a demon.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fleischer yelled, but Hogarth just smiled at his fury. He had the advantage and he knew it. “I hope I don’t find even one little change from the manual,” he said airily. “You never know what the problem could be. And you just might wind up getting court-martialed.”
“You won’t find anything,” Fleischer roared, tossing the manual at Hogarth. “Check anything you want; we follow every damn thing that was written down.” Willie dropped the hose he was holding and glanced over at the gauges. Had Fleischer forgotten that Seekircher had approved the changes in the pressure settings? Nothing written down, no initialed change of orders, no amendments to the manuals, he had done it casually. Fairchild probably had never been asked to approve it, and apparently Hogarth knew all about it. Because now, just as casually, he was going to screw them to the wall.
* * *
Fleischer ordered his men to stop working as Hogarth made a slow tour of the hangar. He checked every tool, every piece of equipment, every work order against the manual while Fleischer followed him, watching over his shoulder. Every piece of plane that had been disassembled, every nut and bolt. They moved together, station by station, one determined to start some trouble, the other determined to avoid it.
Finally, they made their way to the wash rack. Hogarth checked the composition of the cleaning solution, the angles of the hoses. Then, with a smug smile, he started to check the pressure settings on the gauges while Fleischer hovered over him like a nervous groom.
It took Hogarth over an hour to check and recheck the pressure gauges. He seemed disappointed that they checked out exactly according to the manual. He stalked to the front of the hangar and threw the book at Fleischer’s feet.
“Just try something,” he warned Fleischer. “I’m watching and I’m waiting.” It was only over for this time, Fleischer knew. There was another shoe out there somewhere that would be ready to drop.
As soon as Hogarth marched through the doors, Fleischer was at Willie’s side. “What’s the story with the gauges?” he asked Willie, his voice shaking with relief. “How come they’re back to their old pressure?”
“Shit, Sarge, August and I changed them back while you and Hogarth were chewing on each other’s faces,” Willie replied casually.
Fleischer leaned against a plane, before extending his hand to Willie.
“Thanks, Jackson,” he said. “You may have just saved my ass.”
“Maybe this time,” said Willie, shaking Fleischer’s hand, “but I got a feeling you’re gonna need a spare ass or two before this is over. Sir.”
Chapter 29
After Pearl Harbor, Willie didn’t think there was going to be much of a holiday at all. Maxwell Field, like the rest of the country, was grim, nervous, and worried. All leaves had been cancelled; all but emergency passes were frozen; guards were stationed around the base in case of sabotage; everyone was ordered to wear their uniforms, stay alert, be ready for another attack.
But there is something about soldiers and Christmas.
The week before the holiday, the “Big Voice” announced that the ban on passes would be lifted and fifteen hundred passes would be given out. The USO had asked the citizens of Montgomery to open their homes to the servicemen on base, to give them a place to go for the holiday. Someplace to share a good Christmas dinner and perhaps even open a little gift or two, and the response was overwhelming.
But Christmas came to Maxwell Field, as did every other event and holiday. In two colors, black and white. Because there was no USO for the black soldiers. Because there was no one in the great city of Montgomery who would reach out and offer them a holiday. No home-cooked meals, no lumpy knitted sweaters or platters of home-baked cookies. Nothing, until the black citizens of Montgomery got together and arranged for a joint Christmas party to be held with the men from Tuskegee.
“Do your people celebrate?” Willie asked Fleischer as they made a last-minute adjustment to a transmitter to be replaced on the Vultee being cleaned outside the radio room.
Fleischer shrugged. “Nah, we have Chanukah. Besides, I just proposed to my girl. I’m hoping she’ll come down on the train so we can get married during the holidays. I already sent her a ring.”
Willie remembered the pyrite and copper-wire ring that Fleischer had been working on. “You mean the one that was so—unique?” he asked.
Fleischer straightened up with pride. “That’s the very one!” he said enthusiastically. “I’m hoping she’ll say yes.”
“Right, Sarge.” Willie smiled. “If anything’s gonna convince her, that ring will just be the thing to do it.”
* * *
The PX featured a small tree trimmed with glass balls, and all kinds of modest gifts for the holidays underneath its branches. Cartons of cigarettes with red bows, big packages of Hershey’s bars with red bows, Wrigley’s gum, shaving kits, extra canned food, stuffed dolls to send home, red bows. The mess hall was hung with wreaths and tinsel and red bows. There was turkey on the menu and announcements that members from several Montgomery church groups would be arriving at the base on Christmas Eve to join all military personnel for a stroll around the grounds and a night of Christmas caroling. But Christmas Eve brought a cold drizzle and the carolers had to take refuge in Hangar One, which was dazzling with decorations. The Montgomery Ladies’ Guild had spent days fixing it up, making preparations for a big Christmas Day party. Everyone was invited.
Everyone, except the foreign cadets who were left to wander the streets of Montgomery to entertain themselves.
Everyone, except the colored soldiers, who were left out of everything.
“What are you doing for Christmas?” Fleischer asked Willie, the day before. Fleischer had managed to buy a big box of Hershey’s bars for the holiday, to share with the men. They were taking a coffee break and enjoying the chocolate: August breaking his into little pieces before savoring each one, Fleischer dunking his int
o his coffee and letting it melt. “You got any plans?” Fleischer peeled back the wrapper and dropped in another piece, swirling it around with his finger.
“I think August and me are going to try and find a colored church somewhere in Montgomery,” Willie replied.
“Yessir.” August nodded happily. “Some place that’ll serve up a big old Southern dinner.” He licked his lips. “Maybe ham and black-eyed peas. And chitlins. And my aunt Lily’s fried peach pies.”
Willie laughed out loud at this. “You think they’re gonna know your aunt Lily?” he asked.
This puzzled August. “My mama always say she’s famous for her peach pies,” he said. “They little hand pies, all fried up, and you eat ’em with vanilla ice cream on top. Yessir, my mama always say that Aunt Lily was famous for her fried peach pies. And famous means everyone knows her, don’t it?”
Willie patted him on the back. “Well, then, maybe we’ll find them.” He turned to Fleischer. “You can come along, if you want. Since you being of the Hebrew persuasion, you probably have nothing to do.”
Fleischer grinned broadly and dropped in a large piece of Hershey’s, then polished off his coffee, now a thick, dark brown syrup. “By the time I see you guys again, I should be a married man. Ruth said yes. I plan to get hitched on Christmas Day.”
* * *
They all ran into each other in town. In Montgomery, the day after Christmas. Though there was a chilly rain, Willie and August had decided to go see the Christmas Lights Festival in town. They walked along, admiring the decorated trees that lit up the businesses, the glitter and brightly colored balls that hung in the windows, always mindful to step off the curb when they passed white folks, to let them go by.
“We don’t do this shit in Harlem, you know,” Willie said to August as they stepped into the street.
August wrinkled his brow to consider this. “They don’t got streets up there in New York?” Willie just shook his head at his friend’s innocence. August had never been out of the South, had never known anything else.
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