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.”