“She and her husband flew in last night. Lost everyone except a brother, I understand.”
“That’s horrible.”
… 35897932384 … Everyone would know someone “back east.” I was not the only person who had lost family.
The saleslady said, “I heard on the news that we should expect a lot more meteor refugees, on account of Wright-Patterson.”
Meteor refugee. That’s what I was. It’s just that I was the first refugee that anyone had seen here. Of all the times for the tears to finally hit, it had to happen in a dress store?
“That’s what my husband was saying.” Mrs. Lindholm seemed to be just outside the door to my dressing room. “I’m going to go by the base hospital to volunteer later today.”
“That’s so good of you.”
Volunteer. I could do that. I could volunteer to fly refugees back from the East, or wrap bandages, or something. I’d done it during the war, and there was no reason not to pull myself together and do it again.
“Is that the CBS you’ve got on the radio now?”
I wiped my eyes and stood, reaching for the dress I’d snatched. It was a polka-dot number in a size better suited for a pencil than for me.
“Mm-hm … They were just saying that they’d found a surviving cabinet member. Let me turn it up, if you ladies don’t mind.”
In the mirror, it looked as though a ghoul had come to shop. I’d thought I looked homeless, but really, I looked as if I hadn’t truly survived the impact. Both of my eyes were blackened. I had tiny cuts all over my face and arms. Something had hit me, right below my hairline, and left a scrape. But I was alive.
“… and those tidal waves have also swamped the Caribbean, leaving many nations there without water or electricity. The devastation is said to number in the hundreds of thousands…”
I opened the door of the dressing room and tried to tune out the radio. “Silly me. It’s the wrong size.”
The saleslady came over to help me and we consulted on sizes and current fashion while the news continued in the background. It was like playing the fiddle while Rome burned around us.
SIX
INDIANS OFFER AID TO MRS. ROOSEVELT
Questions by Press Underscore the Growing Friendship for U.S.
The Times.
NEW DELHI, India, 4 March 1952—Questions put to Mrs. Franklin D. Roosevelt by Indian newspapermen at a Delhi press association luncheon for the former president’s widow today underscored the significant wide and growing devastation in the United States after a meteorite struck earlier this week. Initially intended as a hospitality meeting, talks focused on offers of aid for the United States.
The sky was a high, silver overcast, as Mrs. Lindholm dropped me off at HQ. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home and rest, dear?”
“Thank you, but I really do feel better when I’m active.”
Her mouth turned down in disappointment, but, to her credit, she didn’t argue with me anymore. “Well, I’ll be over at the base hospital, if you need me. Don’t forget to eat something.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I waved as she drove off. Shopping was all well and good—and, yes, I’ll grant that I felt better with clean clothes and makeup to hide the worst of the bruising, but I’d spent the entire time we were out feeling like I was playing make-believe. In every store, a radio or television had been tuned to the news. Delaware basically didn’t exist anymore, and the only surviving cabinet member they’d found so far was the secretary of agriculture.
But there were still refugees that needed to be transported. I knew how to fly. So, I brushed off my new polka-dotted navy blue dress, straightened its bright red belt, and headed inside to find Colonel Parker. He would not have been my first choice, mind you, but at least he knew my record of flying.
I knocked on his door, which stood open. He sat at his desk, head bent over a memo. I swear his lips moved as he read. He’d developed a bald spot at the back of his head about the size of a half-dollar. Wonder if he knew about it yet.
He looked up, but didn’t stand. “Mrs. York?”
“I saw on the news that the Air Force was mobilizing to deal with refugees.” I came in and sat down without being asked. I mean, I didn’t want to make him look bad about leaving a lady standing.
“That’s right. But don’t worry, your husband won’t be sent out.”
“Since he’s not active service and was never Air Force, this does not surprise me.” I breathed out, trying to let my irritation go with it. “But I was wondering if I might help. With so many of our men still in Korea, I thought having an extra pilot might be useful.”
“Well, now. … that’s very kind of you, but this really isn’t the place for a lady.”
“There are plenty of women among the refugees. And since I have firsthand experience—”
He held up his hand to stop me. “I appreciate your zeal, but it isn’t necessary. General Eisenhower is recalling our troops, and there’s an influx of UN aide.”
“What about Korea?”
“Cease-fire.” He shuffled the papers on his desk. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Still, until they are home, you’ll have a shortage of pilots.”
“Are you proposing to join the Air Force? Because, if not, I can’t let you fly one of our planes.” He made a mockery of regret. “And since your plane was damaged … I’m afraid there’s really nothing for you to do here.”
“Well.” I stood. He did not. “Thank you for your time.”
“Of course.” He looked back down at the memo. “You might try nursing. I understand that’s a good occupation for women.”
“Aren’t you just so clever. Thank you ever so much, Colonel Parker.” What truly aggravated me was that he was right. I wanted to help, but the skills I had were largely useless. Without a plane, what was I supposed to do? Math the problem to death?
My timing, when I arrived at the base hospital, couldn’t have been worse—or better, depending on how you looked at it. A plane of refugees had just landed and swamped the hospital. Tents had been set up as a waiting area, filled with people who had been outside for the last two days. Burns, dehydration, lacerations, broken bones, and simple shock.
I was handed a tray of paper cups filled with electrolytes and told to distribute them. It wasn’t much, but it was something useful.
“Thank you, ma’am.” The blond woman took a paper cup and looked down the rows of chairs to the doctors. “Do you know what’s going to happen to us next?”
The elderly man next to her shifted in his seat. His blackened eye was swollen nearly shut, and the blood crusted around his nose made it clear that he’d had a doozy of a nose bleed at some point. “Send us to camps, I reckon. I would’ve been better off staying where I was than sitting here.”
Camps had a grisly connotation, and that sort of talk was not going to help anyone. I held my tray of paper cups out to the old man. “Drink, sir? It will help restore some strength.” God. That was my mother’s doctor voice. Kind and brisk.
He snorted and crossed his arms, but he winced when he did. “You’re not a nurse. Not in that getup.”
He had a point. Still, I smiled at him. “You’re right. I’m just helping out.”
He snorted, and blood bubbled in one nostril. Then a gusher started. “Oh, hell.”