Velva Jean Learns to Fly (35 page)

Authors: Jennifer Niven

By March 16 I’d grown what Major Blackburn called my “sky legs.” He was waiting for me outside the pressure chamber, making notes on a clipboard. As I wobbled out, he said, “How was it, Hart?”

I said, “Fine, sir.”

“Easier?”

“Yes.”

He turned to the officer working the controls. He said, “Hear that? What do you think?”

The officer said, “I think she’s ready to fly.”

Sally turned twenty-four on March 18. Sally, Janie, Helen, and me dolled ourselves up and went to the service club. We heard the service club before we got to it, and that was because the music coming out of it was as blistering as a hot day in Texas when the heat rose off the ground and hovered there—so hot you could see it. It made me think of a thunderstorm and lightning and the way I felt after a good cry.

Butch
.

Inside the club the army air force pilots were talking and laughing. I saw Leonard Grossman and Zeke Bodine across the way, talking to two girls I didn’t know, but they didn’t seem to see me. Some members of the British unit were there and some of the officers, including Bob Keene and Theo Dailey and Vince Gillies.

The band was set up on the same stage I’d sung on at the Christmas dance. I recognized the drummer and bass player as two of the Lumbee Indians. Butch Dawkins was playing guitar. He was wearing a white undershirt, just like the one I’d seen him wearing that night at Deal’s. And he was bent over his guitar, hair hanging down, working the fingerboard with the broken bottle neck. The tattoo on his arm changed as his muscles shifted, tightening, relaxing. “The Bluesman.” I thought how he was just like a haint, showing up here and there, going away, coming back. I never knew when I was going to see him.

He started to sing and he sounded wild and mad, like an animal caged up in a trap, trying to lash its way out. His voice was a growl, then a howl—just like at Deal’s—but there was something else in there that unsettled me. Sorrow. Lonesomeness. Loss. I wondered what was in the suitcase he was carrying around with him.

One by one, cadets and officers came up to ask Sally and Janie and the other girls to dance, till soon it was just Helen and me standing there. Some of the men would walk by and look right at us only to keep on walking, asking another girl to dance.

Helen said, “Brrr. I should have brought a wrap.”

I stood there telling myself that it was okay, that it didn’t matter, that I didn’t want to talk over this music or dance to it anyway. The music was too deep, too raw. It was Butch Dawkins up there, naked from the inside out, for everyone to see.

Butch was singing with his eyes closed. Something about El Paso and Las Cruces, New Mexico—about being on the road, about trying to go home. Sally went dancing by with Gus Mitchell. He was looking down at her like she was the only girl in the room, and she was looking up at him like he was the only boy.

Helen was saying something about leaving, about getting out of there, but I didn’t say anything because I was thinking about El Paso and Las Cruces, New Mexico, and the B-29: “The B-29 is equipped with five power-operated gun turrets, remotely controlled, with each turret housing two .50-caliber machine guns . . .”

Helen said, “I mean it, Hartsie. I won’t stand here like Hester Prynne. We might as well have a scarlet B-29 stitched on our dresses.”

Suddenly, just like he was waiting for that moment, Butch said, “I want to thank you all for listening to us tonight. If you don’t mind, we’re getting ready to throw it down.” Only the way he said it was like: “we’re getting ready to throw. It. Down.”

Then he started in on a wild, thumping song that reached so fast and far inside me that I couldn’t breathe. That music thudded and stomped and wailed and howled till I thought I would go crazy if he didn’t stop it, because it was too much to hear and feel.

Vince Gillies danced by with one of the other WASP, and said, “What’s the matter, Fifi? Injun got your tongue?” He laughed at this, and even though it was a big, friendly laugh it didn’t sound friendly at all.

Helen grabbed my hand and said, “That does it,” and started pulling me toward the door.

Butch looked up then. He sang the next line, which was something about hitching to a truck stop and being a long way from home. He was staring right at me, and suddenly I was surrounded by haints— Mama, Daddy, Ty. I didn’t have to conjure anything because it was being conjured around me, spirits stirring up and reaching for me, trying to pull at me. It was like the fire up at the Wood Carver’s, when they threw all his carvings in to burn and the flames and the smoke climbed up into the night, reaching for more, burning, burning.

March 19, 1944

Velva Jean,

I couldn’t sleep tonight for writing. Too many words traveling in my head. I wrote some down. See what you think.

Butch

The Barefoot Blues

I got me some blues,
got the blue-sky blues
got the low-down blues
got the high-flyin’ blues
got the blues from my head
down to my shoes,
if I had any shoes.
Got the barefoot blues.

Got the piano blues
and the guitar blues
and the singin’ blues
and the silent blues
and the hard-time blues
down to my shoes,
if I had any shoes.
Got the barefoot blues.

Got the lovin’ blues
and the leavin’ blues
and the lyin’ blues
and the cheatin’ blues
and the makin’-up blues
down to my shoes,
if I had any shoes.
Got the barefoot blues.

Got the crazy blues
and the hurtin’ blues
and the lovin’-somebody-
don’t-love-me-back blues
and the lonesome blues
down to my shoes,
if I had any shoes.
Got the barefoot blues.

Oh, I got me some blues,
got the blue-sky blues
got the low-down blues
got the high-flyin’ blues
got the blues from my head
down to my shoes,
if I had any shoes.
Got the barefoot blues.

March 20, 1944

Butch,

I love your song, especially because it makes me think of driving back from Leona’s juke joint and talking about all the different kinds of blues in the world. I think my favorite line is: “And the lovin’-somebody-don’t-love-me-back blues.” Now I want to hear you sing it.

I wish I had something to send to you.

Velva Jean

THIRTY-EIGHT

M
ajor Blackburn and Bob Keene flew to New Mexico, to the

Los Alamos National Laboratory, on March 23, which meant we had a four-day break from training on the B-29. After groundschool classes in safeguarding military secrets and defense against chemical attacks, I thought I might go see Butch Dawkins.

It started raining as I walked down the rows of barracks and tents, heading in what I thought was the direction of the Indian camp. The rain came down harder and heavier, puddling at my feet. The air smelled like salt water. I passed a group of enlisted men—more boys than men, all Adam’s apples and gangly wrists and big feet. One of them said, “Where you going, sister?”

One of his friends pushed him and said, “Can’t you see? She wants me.”

I started to get a bad feeling. There were four of them and one of me. I walked faster, and suddenly one of them came running up beside me. He said, “Hey, where you going? Not real friendly, are you? Where you off to in such a hurry?”

Another one ran up and now he was on the other side of me. He said, “Don’t play coy, Waspie. We know the real reason you’re in the military.” He reached out for me.

I started to run, splashing through water till I had soaked myself up to my knees, my hips, my stomach. I must have run over that whole base till I finally saw a grove of trees that looked familiar. It was hard to tell in the rain, but I ran toward them, and there was the old runway, washed out by the water, and there were the tents, and, just past them, the small box building that the code talkers used. I thought: What if Butch leaves for the war and doesn’t even tell me? What if he’s already gone? How will I find him again? I pushed the door open and hurried in from the rain, my pants and shirt sticking to me, my shoes squishing on the carpet. I shook myself off, just like a dog, and pushed my hair out of my face.

I heard a voice say, “Look what the cat brought.” And there sat Butch, by the fireplace, guitar on his knee, papers spread out in front of him. He was wearing an undershirt, his dog tags and medicine beads shining against the material. He stood up and handed me a blanket. I wrapped it around myself, shivering, even though it wasn’t really cold outside.

He said, “You okay?”

“What?”

“You look spooked.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?” He was looking into my eyes like he was trying to see if this was true.

“Yes.” And I was fine now that I’d seen him, now that I knew he was still here.

“Come on over, then, and dry out.” I followed him to the fireplace. I was careful not to drip on his papers as I sat down in one of the chairs. He moved the papers around, tidying them up. He said, “I don’t usually like writing these things down. I like carrying them in my head.”

I said, “Why are you writing them, then?”

He said, “Because I wanted you to look at them, and it’s easier on paper. I was going to mail them to you. I didn’t know when I’d see you next.” He pushed one of the papers forward. “That’s the one I been working on most. It’s sort of following me around and not letting me alone.”

“You put down music?”

“Some. Chorus mostly.”

I said, “Ever since I left Nashville—I don’t know.” I pushed the paper back to him. “Maybe you better do it on your own.”

He said, “Do you remember that song we wrote up at Devil’s Courthouse?”

I pulled the blanket tight around me. I thought of days spent with Butch on my porch when Harley was away and afternoons up at the Devil’s Tramping Ground, playing and singing, and—one time—dancing. I saw Butch sitting outside of Deal’s and me standing there and us singing the song we wrote together while Harley stood off and watched.

Butch said, “I never wrote with anyone else, girl. I never showed my songs to anybody. You’re the only one I ever done that with, and that one we wrote together is still one of my best songs.” He said it matter-of-fact and not at all romantic, just like he was talking about the weather or what he ate for breakfast.

He handed me the paper. I saw the words and the music and they started blurring on the page, right before my eyes, like they were jumping, fighting, spinning. He didn’t ask if I had my heart set on anyone or why the officers and cadets hadn’t asked me to dance at the service club the week before, and I sat there thinking that maybe the only reason Butch talked to me was because I liked to write songs. What happened if he stopped writing music one day? Would he still want to talk to me then?

He said, “Why you think you’re stumped?”

“I don’t know.”

He sat there studying me. He rested his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand and just looked right into me. Finally he sat back and said, “Girl, we got to get you out of here.” He tapped me on the head. “And get you back into here.” He tapped me on my heart, just over my left bosom. This was enough to make me go short of breath. I started breathing raggedy and quick, just like I’d run up a mountain. I tried to be quiet about it so he couldn’t tell, and the quieter I tried to be, the more out of breath I got. “Now, tell me what you want to write about. Don’t think about it. Just say it. First thing that comes to mind.”

I said, “Being beyond the keep.” I waited for him to ask me to explain what that meant, but instead he picked up his guitar.

He said, “Okay. Good. That’s where we start.” He thumped the guitar a little and twirled the broken bottle neck. He said, “Indian army soldiers get themselves ready for battle the same way their ancestors got ready. There’s a belief in keeping balance in yourself and with everything around you. They make an offering to the universe to ask for whatever they’re asking for—keep me safe, keep me healthy, make me rich, make me happy. They all carry something to protect themselves, a talisman.” When I looked at him funny, he said, “Like a lucky charm.” He switched his cigarette to his left hand and held the broken bottle top with his right.

I said, “That’s yours.”

He said, “Since I was ten.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“My daddy.” The way he said it made me know there was a story but that I wasn’t going to hear it right now. He rubbed his thumb back and forth over the sharp edges. I held my breath a little, waiting to see him draw blood. He said, “What’s your lucky charm, Velva Jean?”

I thought about this. All my treasures were locked away in my hatbox. The framed Opry picture, Mama’s old hair combs, the clover jewelry we’d made when I was little, Mama’s wedding ring, the emerald Daddy gave me before he went away for good. I thought about the two little carvings I had from the Wood Carver—one of a girl with her mouth open in song, the other of a girl with her arms open in flight. I thought about the compass Ty had given me the last time I ever saw him. One of these was probably my talisman, but I wasn’t sure which one.

He said, “Take your time. You got to choose wisely. More than likely, it’ll probably choose you.”

As he said it, I thought that talismans might be like brace roots and that you could probably have more than one.

For the next three days, in my off-duty time, I met Butch at the code talkers’ building, where we sat by the fire and worked. I brought my Mexican guitar and also my songs, the ones I’d written in Nashville and after. There wasn’t much I was proud of, but we talked about them and ideas I had for songs, and mostly he played me things he was writing.

When we weren’t doing that, he taught me some French, Geechee, Patois, and Cajun, and even some Navajo and Comanche and Choctaw, so that I could learn more words than just the ones I knew already. Once we sang the song we’d written up on Devil’s Courthouse, the one I’d helped him with, about a girl that was as lovely and loving as she was loved. Something went through me as I sang with him. He bent his head over the guitar while he played, and I watched his face. I thought how he was the kind of handsome that sneaked up on you, that you didn’t see right away, but how it was also the kind that grew and grew until you couldn’t stop looking at him.

Butch glanced up at me with the last line of the song, and we sang it together, eyes locked. I tried to make myself look away but I couldn’t. Looking at him direct like that was, I thought, like staring at the sun—I felt blinded.

March 28, 1944

Butch,

Here’s a song I wrote just now. It’s isn’t much, but it’s the first one I’ve finished in a long while. I wrote the music for guitar and banjo. My roommate, Sally Hallatassee, is learning the banjo part right now and sometimes we play it together, her on the banjo and me on my Mexican guitar.