Chapter Ten Judy
Chapter Ten
Judy
I’m never going to make it. One girl quit yesterday, cracking in the mock galley when she kept burning the meat for her coq au vin. It wasn’t the moment itself that did it. It was the culmination of the busiest week I can ever remember living. Ten-hour training days followed by hours of study back in the motel.
Rules. Cosmetics. Cooking. Service. Routes. Customs. Protocols. Medical terminology. Currency conversion. Uniforms.
And safety. The most important one.
What if I fail that one when it counts? The thought leaves me shaking in my no-nonsense heels.
I’ve started dreaming in airport codes, perhaps the most mind-boggling bit of all of it.
Some are intuitive:
Lisbon: LIS
Athens: ATH
Havana: HAV
Some make no sense upon first impression:
Montreal: YMQ
Rome: FCO
Jakarta: HLP
HLP sounds like help , a word that definitely races through my brain as I struggle to rest.
On top of that, you have cities that share a name. Barcelona, Spain is BCN, not to be confused with Barcelona, Venezuela, which is BLA. Or cities that have multiple airports. London LHR or London LGW. Though at least in the latter case, Pan Am only flies to one of them. Still, you have to know which one is which.
To my surprise, I have memorized them all in time for the test. Or I think I have.
Keep cool and keep calm during all circumstances.
It is written on every chalkboard. Recited every morning like a prayer, and I try to take it to heart.
I wonder if the pace of training is purposefully intense so as to weed out those who can’t keep up with that expectation.
It might break me if I were not already so broken.
Today is a day off so that we can recover from the first batch of vaccines we received earlier. Typhoid and cholera with more to come through the next few weeks and even after graduation for boosters.
For the more intrepid of stewardess trainees, Joe and the other trainers have offered to be available at the hangar for anyone who wants additional practice in lieu of the break.
I won’t be going. I have managed to avoid all eye contact with Joe ever since I drunkenly kissed him under the motel awning. There’s no way I plan to see him more than I have to. And my arm is terribly sore from where we got the injections. I never handled them well as a child either.
No, today, I will catch up on some sleep and maybe start reading a novel.
“Mail!”
Jean enters the room, her red hair peeking through pink foam rollers, a cigarette stub dangling from her lips like the permanent appendage that it seems to be. She is flipping through a small set of envelopes and flings one up to my bunk.
I catch it, and my heart races.
Please don’t be from Henry, I think. Please don’t let him find me.
Relief floods me when I see Ronelle’s scroll-like handwriting.
I rip it open, not having her patience to slice it neatly with a knife.
It’s dated three days ago.
Dear Judy,
I hope all is well for you in Miami. I’m enclosing a Saint Christopher medal from the gift shop near Saint Joseph’s in York since they told me that he’s the patron saint of travelers. And forty dollars. Don’t you dare send it back. Richard got a bonus at work and we both agreed that you deserved a bit of it. Promise me you’ll spend it on something utterly unnecessary.
But I’ll skip right to what I know you most want to hear. Henry came over to our house the day after you left, demanding information that I did not acknowledge having. In fact, I denied knowing you at all other than occasionally seeing you walk to the mailbox at the end of the drive. I think he believes me—my mom always told me I was a good little actress.
We told him to let us know if we could help. When really, we want to be in the loop on anything he discovers. So that we can warn you if necessary.
He returned the next day. The police found your car at the Philadelphia airport. I knew that was just a matter of time, but it had happened more quickly than I would have hoped. I suggested that maybe someone had kidnapped you and you were lying hurt somewhere while they stole away with your car. I don’t think he bought it, but if the suggestion delays him for even a few days, I’ll consider that a victory.
By the time you receive this, you should have almost four weeks of training left. That’s a long time, Judy. I’m not sure how many stories I can feed him before he insists that authorities turn over the manifests of every flight leaving from the airport. We had no time to get a new identification for you, nor would I even know how to go about faking such a thing. But I have some hope that he won’t look past your flight to London.
Anything to keep him from tracing you to Miami.
Still, I’d be careful if I were you.
Sending all my love. Hopefully, I’ll mail a cheerier letter in the future.
Ronelle
I press the letter to my face, and the paper soaks up some scant tears. I can smell her lavender-scented lotion, her homemade concoction that is nicer than anything you could buy at Peoples Drug. Though maybe I’m just imagining it, wishing for it, as I ache for the friendship that became my sole lifeline. I’ve been so alone for so long, cutting ties with everyone I knew. All at Henry’s insistence.
Fear makes you do things you never would have thought possible.
I read her note again. It is exactly what I needed. I cannot quit, I cannot take a break no matter how hard this is. Because I know what I’d have to return to. And that’s even worse.
I slip on my stockings and heels and head toward the hangar.
Joe is sitting in a metal folding chair under the wing reading the Miami Herald . My heart flutters every time I see him, and I wish I knew how to make it stop.
He looks up when the click-clack sound of my heels is magnified in the near-empty space. I pretend I don’t see him, looking for the other trainers, but those two women are already occupied with a couple of my classmates who also came for extra help.
I’m too late. I have no choice but to work with him.
I flex my hands back and forth before walking over. I can do this.
“Miss Goodman.” He stands up when he sees me and I hope he can’t hear how fast my heart is beating. It is deafening to me.
“Mr. Clayton.” I know I sound stiff. I intend it that way.
“How can I help you?”
I swallow. “I’m not very comfortable in the galley yet and needed to get some help with that.”
He folds his newspaper and sets it on the chair before approaching me.
“Of course. That’s why I’m here today. Any particular aspect you want to work on?”
I’m relieved. He’s the Joe Clayton of the classroom and not the one I sat with in the restaurant on Biscayne Bay. I can almost pretend that nothing happened between us.
I can almost pretend that I merely imagined the kiss.
“I feel pretty good about the rules of service. Window to aisle. Plating the meat at the two o’clock position. Six drinks to a tray. But the galley itself is, to be honest, a little intimidating.”
He smiles and his sharp blue eyes take on a softer look that is reassuring.
“That’s the hardest part for almost everyone. We can certainly practice. But don’t worry about it too much. You’ll make mistakes up in the air. We all did. But you’ll have your purser and your crew to ask for help. You’re not alone up there.”
“But they’ll be busy with their own duties, won’t they?”
He shakes his head. “We’re a family up there. And our first duty is to make sure that the customer is happy. So if you burn a few eggs or turn them green, they’ll help you make more.”
“Green?” I ask.
“A unique quirk to the Pan American ovens. If you cook the eggs too long, it turns them green. And creates a smell that you will never forget.” He shrugs like it’s something they’re all used to.
“I still want to learn how to do it correctly,” I say.
“Then you’ve come to the right place.”
I follow Joe up the metal staircase, shoes echoing as they land upon the steps, and enter the half-open 707. It’s like being in a Twilight Zone episode, seeing this giant airplane split in two, with only a thin iron railing to keep us from falling. And I feel wobbly enough around him as it is.
I turn back toward the cabin, determined to get to work. My hand brushes against the turquoise-and-green upholstery of a nearby seat, and I find its tactile feel to be oddly soothing.
“Was it the first-class galley or the tourist-compartment galley giving you the most trouble?” Joe asks.
“First class.”
“I figured. We all feel extra pressure there. The higher the ticket price, the higher the expectations.”
I follow him to the forward galley and start opening drawers and compartments. There are so many, like an old-time desk that has drawer upon drawer hiding even more secret compartments. There is a place for everything, I know. Even chopsticks and kosher food trays. I just need to study them.
It’s an efficient system once you get to know it, but until I memorize the purpose of each nook and cubby, the trial and error will waste precious time. It wouldn’t do to have the sole au vermouth get cold or the lobster thermidor coagulate while I search for the square-shaped salt and pepper shakers and the etched crystal wineglasses.
Joe slides in behind me. The space barely fits two people, and I feel his closeness acutely. It’s already hot in here, but his presence raises the temperature even more.
Every nerve in my body is on alert.
I try to shake it off. I am here to do a job.
Why is it so difficult to do so?
He seems as unaffected as I am affected, so I resolve to let this inaudible rejection ground me and ignore the disappointment it causes.
“Let’s see what they left us to work with today. With any luck, Maxim’s de Paris sent over something simple.” He opens a steel warming cabinet and pulls out a sliding tray. He lifts the foil covering and smiles.
“Jackpot. Veal à l’estragon. And I think I spy some flan in the back.”
Flan. It reminds me of our dinner, but if it stirs the same memory for him, he doesn’t show it.
“Any guesses as to where our fictional flight is going?” he asks.
I look at him with a blank expression. Was there a clue that I missed?
“South America. Or Mexico,” he says. “Here’s a little secret. The dessert offering is reflective of the country you’re flying to. So—the flan is a tip-off that we’d be heading south.”
“How marvelous,” I say with genuine wonderment. Is there nothing that Pan American doesn’t think of?
Joe pulls a stopwatch from his pocket and sits in a passenger seat, one leg crossed over the other. An acceptable position for a man. As a stewardess, we can only cross our ankles. More feminine that way.
“Okay, Miss Goodman. I’m a first-class customer. I’ll have the Waldorf salad, the veal, the cheese plate with extra Camembert, the flan, Café Sanka, and a shot of Drambuie.”
He clicks the button on the watch, and that is my cue to begin.
I smile. “Hungry, are we?”
“That’s two seconds gone, Miss Goodman. You have three minutes total.”
I snap to attention. Three minutes! To do so much! I take a deep breath and look at the puzzle of compartments in front of me. Salads—refrigerator. No, wait. I have to heat the oven first to make the veal hot enough to serve. Three hundred fifty degrees. I slide the platter into it and close the door. Now the refrigerator. I open it up and see two salad choices. I think the Waldorf is the one with grapes. I set one on the counter, unwrapping it from its cover with my right hand as I open cabinets with my left. It takes me three tries before I find the one with the white china. I pull out a plate, but it slips from my hands and shatters on the floor. I look for a broom.
“Forget the plate, Miss Goodman,” Joe calls. “The passenger doesn’t care if the galley is tidy. He just wants his food.”
Got it. I’ll clean the mess later. I pull out another plate and spoon the salad onto it, taking time to arrange the grapes neatly.
Cheese. I open another refrigerator and remove two platters, each full of a variety of cheeses. Which one is the Camembert again? I know it’s white. One of the soft ones? I make a selection of six pieces. I think six was the standard number. But he wants extra. So I place three more white pieces, hoping they are the right kind, and find a small plate on which to serve them.
Nine is an odd number. Should I make it ten? But the nine fit into a perfect circle and presentation probably counts almost as much as speed.
I leave it as it is.
The coffee! I should have started that first. I switch the pot on and pour in some water.
I can smell the veal through the oven door but am not sure if it’s ready yet. It seems so early.
“Ten seconds left.”
Joe taps his stopwatch, and I think I see a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
I pull the veal out and tip the contents of the container onto the plate just as he stops the watch.
“How do you think you did?”
I look down at the plate, mortified. The juices from the veal have pooled across everything, saturating the salad. I never got the plate onto the service tray. I forgot the Drambuie. And although he didn’t ask for it, we’re supposed to give water to every customer.
Then I look at my cheese plate. Camembert! I suddenly realize I put on cubes of Swiss.
And the coffee. It’s burning.
My shoulders slump. This is impossible.
But Joe is grinning. He stands up and walks over and pats me on the shoulder. “Congratulations. You’ve just completed the Clayton School of Plating, as taught to me by my own trainer years ago.”
“What do you mean? It’s a disaster.” I wipe my forehead with my uniform sleeve, certainly a forbidden gesture, but I feel so defeated that I just don’t care. My pulse is racing from the stress of it. How did I ever think I could do this?
Joe looks down at my sad excuse for a presentation, and his voice softens. “Of course it is. Everyone’s first try is a disaster. And their second try, and their third. So you’re in excellent company, and believe it or not, you did better than most. See, the curriculum in the book focuses on precision. Which I don’t mean to diminish. But when you’re in the air and you have multiple hungry passengers, each with a different request, you have to learn how to do it quickly. I find that if you start to train yourself by the clock, the details will work themselves out. A book can’t teach you that. And what happens in the air is more important than what happens on paper.”
The uncertainty I feel must show on my face. His eyes take on a gentle expression, and for a moment, he resembles the Joe from the restaurant. I’m grateful for it.
“You would have learned this on the job, eventually,” Joe encourages. “But if I can teach it to you now, I’ll be saving you a world of hassle. Trust me. And—here’s the twist. First-class passengers get a seven-course meal. But it’s not served up all at once. So you won’t have to worry about mixing the juices with the salad. You can relax. There is more time than you think.”
I want to be angry. Until I realize the sense of his tactic. Make it as hard as possible on me now so that the real thing will be easy.
He patiently walks me through the most efficient way to do each step, even down to memorizing the shapes of the various liquor bottles so that I can grab them by touch instead of sight.
I notice that he is careful not to let his hands touch mine.
When we’ve slowly mimicked the process several times, he asks if I’m ready to be timed again.
I say yes. And just for kicks—he grins—he’ll change up the requests.
Green salad with blue-cheese dressing. Veal again, but only because that’s what Maxim’s de Paris delivered for training purposes. A plate of cheddar only. And a slice of chocolate cake. Café Americano and a dry martini with olives.
It takes me almost four minutes. But I already feel more comfortable with it. The plating is neater. The coffee didn’t get scorched. All I’ve forgotten are the olives.
“Wonderful!” he says, and I beam under his praise. “How did you feel about that?”
“I feel like I made some progress.” And I do. My spirits have lifted a bit, and I believe that I can do this after all. I am out of breath but feeling quite proud of my performance.
“You did! You’re a quick study. Totally proving my faith in you. This will smooth out with practice, I promise. Having the pressure of the stopwatch makes every move more deliberate. Every second is useful because you’ll be serving many people at once. You are definitely going to have a leg up on your classmates after this.”
I don’t know what to do with such encouragement, and it paralyzes me. I never received this kind of praise from Henry after we were married. He always pointed out my shortcomings. The ways I’d failed.
I know that isn’t the way to live. My parents had modeled something much better, much more loving. I never saw my dad belittle my mom.
I have more rebuilding to do than I realized. But this is a start.
Joe starts to slip by me in the galley again, but he pauses, and we are face to face. So close because the cabinets in the tiny space corral us together. I can feel his breath on me as he whispers.
“We shouldn’t let this food go to waste,” he suggests.
“We shouldn’t,” I whisper back. I hope my words are steadier than my body feels. My heart is still racing. The stress. The hurry. The jubilation.
The proximity.
“Would you like to join me in the first-class section?” Joe asks. “You pick—Waldorf or green salad.”
Every bit of me wants to say yes. I almost say yes. But I am keenly aware of the two students and the two trainers who are still in the hangar, and I cannot risk being tarnished by even the smallest bit of impropriety or gossip. I have to keep my position here, and although I believe that Joe would not suggest anything that isn’t acceptable, I am too afraid to take the chance.
I thank him and leave in a hurry.