The crowd laughed even louder. I didn’t intend that last bit of double-entendre when I said it, and I was fairly certain that no amount of “reassurance” would calm Nathaniel down anytime soon.
Wading into the crowd, I kept my head down, concentrating on the hard tarmac. Men’s shoes, ladies in heels, gray cuffs, stockings with crooked back seams, and hands—hands touching my shoulder, or arm, or back as people said my name. “Mrs. York!”
And then, finally, “Elma!”
Nathaniel’s arms went around me in a shield. I wanted to cower into them, but I used his strength to draw myself up. People were watching, and I could not disappear. People were watching. That thought did not help. I could barely breathe.
But my husband was here. I lifted my head to seek his eyes as a guide wire. Their crystal blue was covered by a sheen of tears, and their edges were rimmed with red. His hand shook where it pressed against my back.
I put a hand against his cheek. “I’m fine. Love, I’m fine. It was just a tailspin.”
“Thirty percent of aviation fatalities are from tailspins.” He clutched me close and pressed his cheek against mine. “Goddamn it. Don’t ‘just a tailspin’ me.”
I don’t know where the laughter came from. Because I wasn’t dead? Because panic and hysteria are two sides of the same coin? Because he loved me so much he’d just resorted to statistics to express it? “Well, now you’ll have to revise the numbers, won’t you? Because I didn’t die.”
He laughed at that, and picked me off the ground. The crowd stepped back as he swung me in his arms.
That’s the image they showed in the National Times. First there’s my plane, tumbling out of control. And beside it, a photo of me, laughing in the arms of my husband with a crowd of people standing around us.
Those are the only photos of me, because as soon as we got off the airfield, I locked myself in the bathroom. Every time I thought I was together enough to go back out, I could hear the voices of reporters in the hall and got queasy all over again. So I waited until the air show was over, and my stomach was empty, and Nathaniel’s worry when he knocked on the door was too much to ignore.
It would make more sense to be afraid of the crash, but I was afraid of the reporters.
And I was ashamed to be so weak.
FIFTEEN
LADY PILOTS THRILL AIR SHOW THRONG
By ELIZABETH RALLS
Special to The National Times.
KANSAS CITY, KS, May 27, 1956—Hundreds of aviation enthusiasts turned out at the municipal airport here yesterday to watch the first international show of women pilots. Of particular interest to the throng was Princess Shakhovaskaya, formerly of Russia, who flew loops in her vintage biplane.
The smells of garlic and ginger wafting around Helen’s kitchen had my mouth watering. I was on cocktail duty, and was mixing another batch of martinis for the lot of us. Women pilots perched on every available seat, leaned in doorways, or—in Betty’s case—sat on the counter.
Betty held a newspaper clipping in one hand and the remnants of a martini in the other. “I quote: ‘The lady pilots acquitted themselves with admirable skill and thrilled the attending crowd. The pilots performed many astonishing feats, not least of which was the military precision of their formation flying, led by Miss Ida Peaks of Kansas City. ’”
Ida sat at the table in the corner, next to Imogene. Opposite them, Pearl, who had found a babysitter for her triplets, kept blinking around the group as if she were startled to be out of the house after dark. We’d even managed to get Sabiha Gökçen to join us before she headed back to Turkey, although the princess had “declined our kind invitation with regrets.”
“The most breathtaking moment of the air show came as Mrs. Nathaniel York—”
“Why they not use your name?” Helen glared at the large pot of vegetables she was stirring as if it were the newspaper.
“It’s standard convention.” I poured a measure of vermouth into the pitcher of gin. “And I like being married to Nathaniel.”
“Just wait until Dennis asks you to marry him.” Betty waved the newspaper at her. “And you’re Mrs. Dennis Chien.”
“Wait—what?” I turned from the martinis. “You have a beau?”
Helen stared at me, holding the spoon in one hand and shaping the word with her mouth.
“B. E. A. U. It’s French for boyfriend,” supplied Pearl. “And why don’t we know about him?”
Helen rolled her eyes and looked back to the pot of vegetables. “Just because he’s Chinese doesn’t mean we’re dating.”
I blinked. “Wait. Dennis Chien? From engineering? He’s a lamb.”
“We’re. Not. Dating.” She spun and pointed the dripping spoon at Betty. “You. Read article.”
“Aye aye, ma’am.” Betty took a healthy sip of her martini and lifted the paper again. “The most breathtaking moment of the air show came as Mrs. Nathaniel York hit a flock of wild geese and lost power to her engine.”
I winced and glanced over to Imogene. “I’m still so sorry about that.”
“Yes. I’m sure you control the flight pattern of geese.” She shook her head. “And you paid for it, so … hush.”
Helen snorted. “Good luck getting her to not feel guilty on something.”
Raising my hand, I said, “Jewish.” It was also why I’d insisted that Nathaniel and I cover the damages, even though it wiped out our savings, because I didn’t want anyone to think we were being cheap. “And Southern. It’s encoded in my DNA.”
“Try being Catholic.” Helen said from the stove.
“Agreed.” Pearl nodded. “I’m feeling guilty just sitting here.”
“The point—” Betty cut in and waved the newspaper clipping over her head. “Is that my article got picked up by the AP, which means it went out to all the major papers, and millions of people read it. So we need to start talking about our next move.”
Sabiha Gökçen raised her hand. “Another air show? Is popular. Yes?”
“Maybe we could do one in another city.” Ida said. “Like Chicago or Atlanta.”
Nodding, I added ice to the martini pitcher. “Or Seattle. Nathaniel’s been talking with Boeing about their KC-135 refueler. And, no, we can’t fly her, but still…” Even getting Boeing to loan us one of the first production models to be a static display on the field would draw a lot of attention. “There are probably local pilots there that might be good to pull in.”
Betty shook her head. “The decision makers are here in the capital. We need to do something here. Like getting an air show televised. Live.”
I nearly dropped the ice tray. Facing all of those reporters had been bad enough when it wasn’t live. But being broadcast to the nation? No thank you.
“Ooo!” Pearl clapped her hands together. “What about the Dinah Shore show? She has guests on sometimes.”
“And she’s Jewish.” Betty leaned across the counter toward me. “What about it, Mrs. Nathaniel York? Want me to see if I can get you on there?”
“Pretty sure I’d have to sing to do that.” I left alone the assumption that all Jews must know each other and stirred the martinis, focusing on the chilling pitcher as if my life depended on it. Condensation began to form on the outside as the gin cooled. “I think just flying in an air show will be enough for me. What about Ida?”
“This better not be an assumption that because I’m black, I can sing.”
“That article lists you as the leader of the formation segment.”
“Has Dinah Shore ever had a black guest?”
I pulled the spoon out of the pitcher. “A more immediate question is … who wants another martini?”