Velva Jean Learns to Fly (13 page)

FOURTEEN

O
n Saturday August 29, Gossie and Marvina and Harold Lee and Johnny Clay and me went to Bootsy’s to hear Travelin’ Jones’s band, only now that he was gone to war one of the other men was leading it. I sat there feeling blue over Johnny Clay leaving soon and also blue over Charlie Jones being off to war. I touched my lips, remembering when he kissed me.

Tommie Lou had left for the Red Cross on Wednesday, but Marvina wasn’t going till the next week. She was leaning in close to Johnny Clay, swinging her crossed leg in his direction, every now and then bumping him with her foot. Harold Lee had a stack of napkins and he was writing down lyrics and passing them to me. Gossie was looking around at the Wall of Fame and pointing out all the people up there that we didn’t recognize. She said, “Each one has a story, and just think of all those stories we’ll never know.”

Marvina perked up at this because she loved stories. She said, “Let’s make up a story for everyone.”

And she and Gossie started doing that very thing. “Unwed mother. From Topeka. Left her baby to come out here and chase her dream. Stayed two years, but went back home after getting her heart broke and only recording one song. Now works in a bank.” Or: “Oldest of twelve. Never had anything for himself. Was barefoot when he first got here, but someone heard him singing on Church Street, trying to earn money enough for shoes, and that someone recorded his first record.”

The whole time the band played and they talked and Marvina swung her foot and Harold Lee wrote on napkins, Johnny Clay sat looking up at the pictures. Suddenly he grabbed my hand and pulled me up and said, “Come on, Velva Jean.” The girls and Stump were staring.

I said, “Where are we going?”

He said, “You’ll see.”

And with a wink at Bootsy herself, he dragged me outside the lounge and into the street and next door to where the photo booth was, in an old musty-smelling store that sold cigars and headache powder.

He said, “We’re going to take a picture before I go.”

I felt my heart clinch up. I said, “When are you going?” And I was sorry I asked it because I didn’t want to hear the answer.

He waved my question away with his hand. “We need something to remember us, Velva Jean.”

We sat down side by side in the photo booth and tried to figure out how to work it. There were some buttons and a lever and a place to put money. Johnny Clay pulled out his wallet and when he dug for money, I saw the paratrooper picture from
Life
magazine still folded and tucked away. He shoved his wallet back into his pocket and then he slid a quarter into the machine and there was a clicking and then a flashing bright light. He threw his arm around me, and we bent our heads together so they were touching, and he said, “Smile, Velva Jean.”

The light flashed and then popped, and I was nearly blind. Then it was over and we sat there waiting for the photograph to develop. I thought, What would Granny say if she could see this?

I said, “I don’t believe it.”

Johnny Clay said, “Just you watch.”

About five minutes later there was a spitting and a whirring and a grinding—like the booth was gearing itself up to run away—and then out came our picture.

I’d never seen a picture of myself before. It was good of both of us—Johnny Clay looked big as life, handsome and laughing, a little bit blurred, and just like Daddy around the mouth and Mama around the eyes.

I sat there looking at myself. I couldn’t get over it. Was this the way I looked? The face in the picture was different than the face in the mirror, and I wondered if this was because you just looked different in pictures or if it was because I’d only seen myself backward till now, like the way the mirror reflected you.

My hair looked too wild. My eyes too big. My smile too wide. I could see my freckles still, even though I was all the time trying to cover them up with powder and a bit of rouge. I wasn’t sure about me.

One thing I did know though: I looked happy, and I knew that came from being with my brother. I thought we actually looked a lot alike—I don’t think I’d ever noticed it. I looked like Daddy around the mouth and Mama around the eyes too.

Johnny Clay said, “You look like Hedy Lamarr, Velva Jean,” and before I could tell him he was crazy he grabbed the picture and fanned it to wave it dry. Then he went marching back over to Bootsy’s and right up to Bootsy herself and handed her the photo. He said, “This is for your Wall of Fame.” She liked Johnny Clay just like everyone did. She cackled at this like a summer hen and then she stood up on her little fat feet and whistled to the bartender. She said, “Get me a tack.”

He rummaged around behind the bar and then tossed her one, which she caught one-handed. Then she stood there staring at the walls, eyes narrowed, trying to find just the place. By this time Gossie and Marvina and Harold Lee were staring at us and Gossie raised her hands, palms up, like “what’s going on?”

Bootsy said, “Over here.” She moved between the tables without bumping a single person. There was a spot right over the jukebox that was easy to see no matter where you sat. It was practically the first thing you saw when you walked in the door. She said, “There.” And then she leaned up on her tippy-toes and tacked the picture to the wall, right in the middle of all the pictures of Eddy Arnold and Roy Acuff and Bill Monroe and Maybelle Carter, not to mention the hundreds of folks with names I’d never learn. Johnny Clay helped her tap the thumbtack in, and then we all three stood back. I felt someone over my shoulder, and Gossie was standing there, arms folded across her chest.

Bootsy said, “Right where you belong.”

Gossie said, “Now there’s a story, Mary Lou.”

On September 6 I went up for my first solo flight. It was almost dusk on a warm, muggy day. The old men sat outside, fanning themselves with the playing cards and drinking lemonade. Johnny Clay lay stretched out on the ground, hands folded behind his head, eyes closed. I couldn’t tell if he was awake or asleep. Duke went over the plane again and again—the safety belt, the throttle, the rudders, the engine, the wings. I thought he looked worried.

Finally he helped me up into the cockpit even though I didn’t need help. He watched as I snapped on my safety belt and pulled on my goggles. He leaned forward and tugged at the belt. He said, “You’ve got the hours. Are you sure you’re ready?”

I thought how funny this was because in his quiet way he’d always made me believe I could fly even when I didn’t believe it myself.

I said, “I’m ready.”

The Aeronca had stiff controls and a narrow cockpit. I thought I would feel hemmed in up there, but as I took off at forty miles an hour—a little shaky at first—the sky just opened up like it always did. I was going so fast I could hardly tell I was airborne, but then I saw the ground far below and I was part of the sky. I suddenly felt like I was flying myself, just me with my arms out, no plane, no safety belt. The first thing I noticed was how light the plane seemed without another person in it.

I circled over Duke’s farm, over trees and house and barn. The evening air was quiet and there were long, blue shadows over the grass. Darkness was creeping in along the outside of the sky, just along the horizon, but the sun still burned orange and gold and pink. As I flew I imagined myself as a soldier, flying somewhere over England or France, swooping down to make a daring rescue, circling the enemy. I pretended I was off to fight the Germans and Hitler and end the war once and for all for everyone, most of all my brothers.

That night, during supper at the café, Johnny Clay told everybody how I flew that plane all by myself. I felt jumpy as a cricket and twice as excited, and later, after we went upstairs, I sat in my room and got out Mama’s Bible, where I kept records of everything I’d ever done in my life, good things and bad things, and dusted off the cover. I could still feel the light of the sky high above Duke’s farm and feel myself drifting over the trees and earth.

The last entry in the Bible was from August 22, 1941: “Velva Jean . . .” It was from the day I left home, and I hadn’t known what to write then so I left it blank. Now, on the page where I had already written so many important life events, I wrote “September 6, 1942—Velva Jean learns to fly.”

Three days later Johnny Clay left Nashville. I drove him to the train station and walked him inside, even though he told me not to. We said things as we walked, like “Tell Duke good-bye for me,” and “Let me know if you run into Linc or Beach or Coyle Deal,” and “Remember to keep your nose up when you’re flying—you always keep it too low,” and “Write me when you get there.”

They were announcing his train when we got to the tracks, and Johnny Clay said, “Well, little sister . . .” And before he could finish, I threw my arms around him and hugged him tight. He just stood there like a tree, and after a minute he dropped his bag and he hugged me back and we were both crying—me a lot, him a little.

I said, “Don’t you get yourself killed, Johnny Clay Hart.”

And he said, “I promise.”

Then he pushed me away and grabbed up his bag and ran. I watched him moving away from me fast, boarding a train to Toccoa, Georgia, where they would turn him into a paratrooper, a soldier, a fighter. He swung himself up into the boxcar and before he disappeared inside he saluted me. His face was shiny from the tears and he looked gold in the sunlight.

I wanted to run after him—to get on that train and follow him to camp, and then even follow him to Italy or Germany or France. But instead I stood still, rooted to the ground, and saluted back.

September 13, 1942

Dear V. J.,

Goddamn Georgia. I’m pretty sure hell will be like this. We call this place Camp Tombs on account of the casket factory up the way, and let me tell you it’s just the right name for it. The camp is ugly as Hink Lowe. There’s mud everywhere, even in the tents. We’re four to a tent, and the mosquitoes are as big as Mrs. Garland Welch’s behind.

We’re up at dawn and every damn morning we do this run up Currahee Mountain. It’s three miles up and three miles down. Sometimes we run it once in the morning and then again in the afternoon in full dress gear in this goddamn rotten Georgia heat.

“We’re going to separate the men from the boys,” company commander Lieutenant Peter Flick told us on our first day of training. One man dropped in the first mile. I kept going with the rest of them even though my legs stung and my lungs burned and I wanted to kill someone. Maybe that’s the idea. It’s each for his own here, and I ain’t helping nobody that can’t help himself. When we got back to camp later that night, the bags of the men who’d dropped were already packed.

When I run up the mountain, I stare at the head of the guy in front of me. I pick one who ain’t going to drop. You can tell which ones will do it, just by looking at them. Already fifteen guys of the original fifty-six have gone home. Not me.

Wanna know what else I do? I tell myself, “Just one more step. One more step. One more step.” I say it over and over in my head while I run. It sounds stupid, but just telling myself “one more step” makes me keep going. I say to myself, “You think you’re going to die and you might, but just run one more step before you do.” After all, you can’t run them all at once.

Most of the fellows are fine. Some are from the South and others are from New York, California, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Missouri. This guy Mickey Gorham, from Boston, is the worst though. He was calling me “cracker” till I told him exactly what I would do to him if I ever heard the word “cracker” come out of his mouth again. We’re friends now. It’s usually his head I look at when I run. Part of me would still like to knock it in.