Come Fly with Me

Chapter Twelve Judy

Chapter Twelve

Judy

We’ve each been given a swimsuit. Pan American blue, of course, today’s sky matching it like it was planned that way. On our heads, we wear a bathing cap for our planned exercises. Piped in white, just like the pillbox hats we’ll receive upon graduation.

Lined up, the thirty-six of us who are remaining look like a jagged mountain range crested with snow. The swimsuits are all the same size. Easy enough since we all fit the narrow weight requirement for the airline. But in height, we vary from five feet three to five feet eight. So for some—like myself—the suits bunch a bit. On the taller girls, like Beverly, it looks as if it was tailor-made for them.

No matter. We’ll be spending most of the time submerged in the water of the motel pool.

The lead instructor today is Delores, who has largely stayed in the background while Joe Clayton drilled the rules and memorization parts of our training into us. Delores was not only a Pan Am stewardess but was a member of Vassar’s swim team, so she seems the ideal woman for the job. Joe is here, though, as is our other instructor, Patsy. All tasked with molding us into Pan American perfection.

Joe is not wearing swim trunks, and I am embarrassed by my disappointment in that fact. His personal uniform seems to be a white linen shirt and brown slacks. Sometimes changing it up with a white cotton shirt. At least his sandals seem to be appropriate for poolside work, a departure from his typical penny loafers.

I wonder if his eyes are really that blue or if they stand out because he doesn’t otherwise wear color?

I need to get my mind off such things. Especially today. Ditch exercises are legendarily challenging.

“Ladies,” begins Delores, pacing the deck with her hands behind her back. “You will probably loathe me by the end of the afternoon. But of all the time we’ll spend together, the emergency-training week is the most essential. Our excellent customer service will mean nothing if our passengers are not safe. They must feel confident that we know exactly what to do in every situation. And considering that much of our flight time is spent over oceans, the water training is of particular importance. So pay attention.”

My pulse races. I’m not the strongest swimmer. I can manage to keep my head above the water line—I certainly spent enough time splashing in the Susquehanna River growing up. But I never took the kind of lessons that would differentiate a breaststroke from a butterfly. I want to peek at my classmates’ reactions, but there is something militaristic about Delores that dares you to look at anyone but her.

“If you’re inclined to complain,” she continues, “remember this. Until recently, this part of training was handled in New York. Their water exercises took place in the Atlantic Ocean in nearly all kinds of weather short of a hurricane. You ladies get to bask in the Miami sun and dive into a shark-free swimming pool. A luxury in comparison.”

Joe and Patsy walk down the line handing out deflated life vests. He pauses in front of me and our fingers brush as I take it from him. He lingers, which I notice he didn’t do for anyone else. And he smiles, causing me to do the same. It seems to be a reflex when I’m around him. But then I doubt myself. Henry used to elicit the same response from me. And I was so wrong about him.

How can I truly move on with my life if I don’t know who to trust? Or how?

All too soon, Joe continues on, and Delores directs us to bring our toes to the edge of the pool. I close my eyes and remind myself why I’m here. This is about the job. Not about matters of the heart. I’m almost grateful for the need to focus on this today.

At Delores’s command, we jump in, and I’m happy to learn that the water comes to my shoulders rather than engulfing me. It’s warm, but it’s still a good deal cooler than the thick, humid air surrounding us. We’re told to breathe air into the vests through a tube on our left and discover that doing so while in the water is a comical feat worthy of Lucille Ball. As air fills its cavities, it increases our buoyancy, challenging the reassured grip I’d had when placing my feet flat on the bottom of the pool. I already felt whalelike beneath its bulk, and I struggle with the awkward dance of filling it up while trying to stay upright.

At least I’m not alone. All around me are capped rubber heads bobbing in the water like apples in a barrel at Halloween, so there is some comfort in knowing that we all look rather ridiculous. It’s hard to distinguish one girl from another, but I hear a familiar voice behind me and turn—slowly—to see Beverly.

“If only my father could see me.” She laughs. It is the most personal thing she’s said up until now, and it strikes me that we know so little of each other even after weeks of sharing a room. “This is not exactly what he envisioned for his daughter.”

Then, a sad look that she doesn’t elaborate on. “Though none of this is, I suppose.”

A pang shoots through me as my own father’s face comes to mind. In it he’s smiling. “You can do anything, Judy,” he’d always told me. I think he’d be pleased to see me here. A blessing Beverly doesn’t seem to possess.

Maybe I shouldn’t envy her still having a father when I’d at least had such a wonderful one.

I open my mouth to respond, but a loud crashing sound comes from behind me, and I am knocked unsteady as a wave pushes me into Beverly. The force of it launches us against the pool’s wall, and my arm scrapes against its rough cement edge. I wipe the water from my eyes and through the blur, I can tell that Beverly is doing the same.

Turning around, I see that an enormous orange raft has been hoisted into the pool, nearly taking up the entire space. We’ve all been pushed to the perimeter.

I hear a laugh. An older couple—presumably other guests of the motel—are outstretched on beach towels behind the diving board, chuckling at the absurd sight.

I think again that Lucille Ball could do wonders with a scene like this. I’m sure from the vantage point of the cement deck it looks like a physical-comedy routine par excellence. Almost worthy of her chocolate-factory antics.

Joe and Patsy are opposite us, towering over the pool and smirking as they put their hands on their hips and watch us. They’ve been through this, I presume. And so they’ve earned the right to be amused by it. This is necessary hazing, if there is such a thing. Maybe I don’t need to regret not staying to pledge a sorority at Franklin and Marshall. I’m getting my fill of it now.

Delores isn’t wasting time on ruminations, though.

“Get on the raft,” she barks. “And get serious, girls. What if you have to ditch into the ocean? Your toes will not be able to touch the ground. You’ll be battling waves. Watching out for sharks. Trying to grab supplies from the sinking plane. Praying that you won’t be stranded before food runs out. And most of all— you’ll be getting terrified passengers to safety. With a Pan American smile plastered on your face.”

It is a sobering demand, and any disposition we have toward the comedy of the situation disappears. She’s right. This isn’t fun and games. If we don’t take this seriously, we might miss what we need to know if this rehearsal ever becomes reality. And it could have life-and-death consequences. This is the kind of sobering thought that I am well used to. I lived it every day in my own home.

Duly chastised, we struggle to follow her orders, but there is no easy way to manage this.

All at once, all thirty-six of us attempt to hoist ourselves onto the giant floating Frisbee. It is the most inelegant thing I’ve ever done. Limbs grasp and flail and struggle, and at last, and after much consternation, we have all managed to wrestle ourselves up there. I hope that by some miracle Joe wasn’t watching—any shred of poise or modesty I might imagine myself to possess left in the first few seconds.

I purposely avoid looking in his direction. Ignorance is bliss, they say. At the same time, I’m counting my blessings that we’re not attempting this in the Atlantic. I can tolerate the heat of Miami if it means not having to endure the ocean in New York.

The sun hits its highest point in the sky as Delores begins the fourth hour on the dreaded lesson, instructing that in a true emergency, we will have to use filters from the plane to make the seawater drinkable and that we may have to survive for days on nothing but chewing gum.

Possibly in the dark.

Possibly in a storm.

Always with a smile, she reminds us.

“To smiling.” Beverly grins. It’s Friday night, and we have the whole weekend ahead of us. We should be studying, but when Beverly finds out that I have never seen a beach, she dismisses my protestations and whisks me off to a waterfront bar for the evening.

“To smiling,” I respond. I raise my glass—a gimlet—and clink it against Beverly’s sidecar. I take a sip and let the tart lime flavor tickle my mouth. I understand better now how to pace myself after that embarrassing display of insobriety in front of Joe when I first arrived. Though I’m safe in the knowledge that despite her being movie-star beautiful, I have no inclination to kiss tonight’s companion. I’ll have only this one drink. Better for my budget. Better overall.

That thought somehow makes it taste better too. I’ll savor it rather than rush to the next one.

“And to never having to make a water landing.” Beverly shudders.

I grin, raising my glass again. “Yes. May we always be preserved from that.”

“Cigarette?” Beverly empties her glass and sets it on the table. She slips a gold filigree case out of her purse and the top springs open at her touch.

“No, thank you,” I say. I lost all interest in smoking after I married Henry. He went through a pack a day. It saturated our clothing and our upholstery, and I spent too many hours trying in vain to wash out the smell.

Beverly shrugs and puts one to her lips, her mouth gripping it like a vise. In a flash, the waiter is at her side and offers to light it. “You’re a cat,” she tells him, showing off her sparkling-white teeth. I’m amused by how red his cheeks get as he relishes her praise.

“I’ll tell you what, handsome. Tequila shots for both of us. Bottom shelf for her, top shelf for me. And keep them coming.” She opens her wallet and takes out a twenty-dollar bill, one of many that are visible. She must notice my wide-eyed expression and seems to feel the need to explain.

“Daddy Dearest cut me off for running away to join Pan Am, so I sold some of my things before coming here, and I plan to live it up until the paychecks start coming in.”

It’s more money than I’ve ever seen in one place, but I’m also keenly aware that it can only last so long. And that our paychecks will not exactly replace them in full. I wonder if Beverly has ever had to live within a budget, and I suspect not.

Running away, though, is something I can certainly relate to. I’d assumed that Beverly had every advantage over me, but I’m learning that people present a facade to conceal the wounds they are not yet ready to share. I find myself even more drawn to her because of it, a desire to know the Beverly Caldwell who lies behind the confidence and the cosmetics.

But it feels too early in our new friendship to pry.

She turns back to me as she taps the cigarette on the glass ashtray, swirling the ashes around into the shape of a diamond.

“I’ve never tried tequila,” I say, swerving the conversation back into territory in which she has control. She seems to be most comfortable in that position.

“You’re in Miami, darling. There’s no excuse for not trying it.”

“But—”

“But nothing. What are you, a schoolgirl or a woman? A mouse or a tiger? When you’re a Pan Am stewardess, men in hotel lobby bars are going to be wining and dining you right and left, and you’d better build up a tolerance if you don’t have one already. Believe me. I’m doing you a favor.”

Beverly speaks with the kind of formidability that doesn’t allow for dissension. Not that I intend to argue. I remind myself that if I want my life to be different from what it was, I have to make different choices.

Having a drink does not make me a drunk like Henry.

“Here you go, ladies.” The waiter returns with two small glasses on a wicker tray. The drinks look identical to me, clear like water, but he is deliberate about which one he gives to me and which he gives to Beverly.

“What’s the difference between them?” I ask. Bottom shelf, top shelf, she’d said. But Beverly waves him away and answers before he gets a chance.

“Nothing, Judy. Raise your glass.”

I follow her lead.

“To Pan Am,” she says.

“To Pan Am,” I repeat.

Down the hatch. It burns.

“Carlos!” she calls. He hasn’t gone far. “Another round, just the same.”

He brings two more.

“To freedom,” she says.

“To freedom,” I repeat.

Down the hatch again. It burns again, but somehow less so. My head feels light. Good Lord, this is good. The breeze feels like little kisses on my skin.

“One more, Carlos! I think we’re almost there!”

What does she mean by that?

The waiter brings a third round of drinks, and this time I raise my glass before she tells me to.

But now her look is less jovial and she stares at me with a penetrating glance.

“To truth,” she says resolutely. She doesn’t blink.

“To—truth?” My hand shakes as I send the last one down my throat. It’s a familiar feeling now. The one I felt after several mojitos with Joe, but this one came on faster. Harder.

Beverly sips at hers and then sets it down. She leans in, all business, fully in control of herself. She points to our empty glasses one at a time.

“Here’s the difference between the drinks. Bottom shelf is the cheap stuff. It will hit your system quickly and become a truth serum. Top shelf is the pricey stuff. It goes down smoother, and you can have several without feeling a thing.”

“Truth serum,” I manage to say. But it comes out slurred.

“Yes. But first—a word to the wise. If a man ever tries to order a tequila shot for you, insist that it be top shelf and watch the bartender as he pours it to make sure you’re not getting shafted. Or worse.”

I nod. I can barely keep my head up. It feels like bricks, my tongue feels like a sponge.

“So. The time has come. You’re holding something back, Judy Goodman, and it’s not that crush you have on Joe Clayton that you think you’re hiding. Because that shadow in your eyes was there before our first day of training. Spill the beans. I’m just looking out for you.”

Joe. Show. Mow. Grow. Fro. Toe.

I’m doing it again. I’ve heard of happy drunks. And Henry was an angry drunk.

But I’m—a rhyming drunk?

I’m just sober enough to be embarrassed by this discovery. But at least I didn’t say any of it out loud.

“Okay,” I begin, acquiescing. I don’t get the impression that Beverly is mining for gossip. I take her at her word that she is looking out for me. I need a friend. Desperately. And she seems to be offering to be one.

Besides, if I don’t tell someone my secret, I might explode. It’s too much to bear alone.

“I’m married.”

Beverly sits back in what seems like slow motion, a whistle escaping her lips.

“You do beat all, Judy Goodman. You do beat all. I have a pretty vivid imagination, but I didn’t see that one coming.”

I hang my head and nod.

“I don’t want to get fired. I need this job at Pan Am.”

She taps another cigarette out of its pack, and our ever-attentive waiter appears out of nowhere to light it up again. She folds her arms after taking a puff and considers this.

“We’re not going to let that happen.”

It’s exactly what I needed someone to say to me. Only then do my words spill easily. I tell her about meeting Henry at the Lancaster market. About him hitting me. About how Ronelle helped me. The tequila has not made me lose control, as I might have feared. But it has loosened my lips, and I’m glad for it.

Beverly finishes her cigarette as I finish my story. She puts her elbows on the table and considers all I have said.

Then she makes a pronouncement. “What you need is a Mexican divorce.”

“What is a Mexican divorce?” It almost sounds like the name of another drink. I don’t want another drink.

Drink. Sink. Blink. Clink.

Oh, please.

“Simple. You go to Mexico. Or you send a lawyer on your behalf. Or better yet—you hire a local lawyer, and then you don’t have to pay his travel expenses. Quick, easy, cheap. And you won’t have to face your husband at all. It’s just what’s done. Katharine Hepburn did it. And Charlie Chaplin. Lots of stars.”

She lights a third cigarette, taking a matchbook out of her purse since the waiter is attending to another table. She takes a long puff, blowing the smoke out the side of her mouth. “And Marilyn Monroe,” she adds. “How’s that for some fine company?” She folds one arm across her belly and leans her head back. Effortless sex appeal. I look around and see numerous men at tables around us stealing glances when they think the women they’re with aren’t looking. It’s rather funny.

But our discussion isn’t. I wish Ronelle was here to chime in. Not that I don’t want to be permanently, irrevocably separated from Henry. Or that I take the vows I made lightly. But I wonder if such an action would provoke him. I am already living in daily terror that he will show up at the motel demanding to see me.

Is it too much to hope that his search didn’t get any further than my flight to London? I wish I could telephone Ronelle for an update, but it would be too dangerous, since her line, like most in Red Lion, is a party line. We could not risk having someone listening in.

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” I tell Beverly. “But I can’t rule it out.”

“Easy.” She shrugs. “I read about it in Harper’s Bazaar . If you don’t want to hire a lawyer, you fly to San Diego. Drive across the border to Tijuana. Look for offices that say abogados y divorcios . I guarantee they’ll have someone who speaks English and can get your paperwork in order for fifty dollars.”

She makes it sound so simple and appealing. But there are a lot of things to consider regarding it. And I don’t want to dwell on Henry right now. I am in Florida , looking out over a marina that must have a hundred boats bobbing in its waters. Beyond that is the Atlantic Ocean. Henry cannot take this from me right now unless I let him.

I will give it some serious thought. Later. Tonight is for tequila. And friendship. And new beginnings.

Carlos brings our appetizers, six jumbo shrimp balanced on the rim of a bowl with cocktail sauce. As he walks away, the band begins a familiar tune.

Come Fly with Me.

The lyrics wash over me, and I close my eyes and bask in them. Line by line, invitations to see the world.

“You too?” Beverly smiles at my reaction.

“This song. It’s my favorite.” The effects of the drinks have mellowed into a dreamy haze. No more rhymes.

“Oh, don’t I know it,” she agrees. “I was in the audience a few years ago for a Kraft Music Hall airing. Frank was the main act.”

“You saw him in person ?” There’s a thought that sobers me. Goose bumps form on my arm at the very idea of it.

“Of course.” She takes another puff of her cigarette and tries—but fails—to blow the smoke out in a ring. So she’s not all perfect and I find that oddly reassuring.

“Are his eyes as blue as in the pictures?”

“You mean, are they as blue as Joe Clayton’s?” She leans forward, and her own eyes narrow as they wait for an answer I’m not prepared to give.

“No,” I insist. “I didn’t say that.”

She hesitates, clearly debating whether or not to push the Joe angle. Thankfully, she decides against it. For now. I have a feeling she won’t let it go forever, though. “They’re bluer in person, if you can imagine. And I had front row seats. But I have to tell you. And don’t hate me for saying this. He’s not as good performing live as he is on the records. It dimmed the whole fantasy for me a bit.”

“What do you mean?”

In the distance, I hear the bass-tone horn of a ship passing by. It sounds like the mating call of a whale.

Beverly shrugs. “His performance was just a little—off. Think of it this way. In a studio, you can sing and sing and sing and put the best version on the album. But in person, that’s it. That’s your one shot. Sometimes, it’s not going to be that great. And that night, it wasn’t.”

She makes a point. But it’s Frank . “I’d still die to see him,” I counter.

“Maybe you’ll have your chance. I heard he flies Pan Am exclusively when he goes overseas.”

“Despite TWA being on his album cover?”

She shrugs. “Who knows. Maybe that was a paid promotion. Or maybe my information is incorrect. But there are plenty of accounts of him flying in the old blue meatball. Although I hear he hates doing it. Scares him to death.”

That comes as a surprise to me. Frank Sinatra is the very face of aviation. The popularity of that particular album was probably the best favor the airline industry had ever been granted.

A wistful look comes over Beverly’s face as the song continues. She closes her eyes and then opens them again as she leans toward me.

“Okay. Don’t think. Just answer. We’re going to revisit that first conversation we had and make some real plans. Where’s the first destination you want to go when training is done? And you don’t get to say everywhere this time.”

My answer is immediate. “As far away from Pennsylvania as an airplane will take me.”

She wrinkles her mouth. “Hmm. Considering all you told me about your husband, I’ll give you a pass on that glaring lack of specificity. But seriously. There is a whole world waiting to meet the new, improved Judy Goodman.”

I take a sip of the gimlet that I never got to finish, and then another. Each one feels like it takes me back one year and then another. When this night is done, I’ll feel like I’m in high school again. Before I met Henry. A restart of myself.

“Won’t it be neat,” I muse, “to learn all the secret spots around the world that stewardesses can discover?”

“I hope you brought a camera.”

My camera was in my suitcase in my attic. Along with everything else I hold dear. “I’ll buy one before we graduate.” I hadn’t spent any of Ronelle’s generous gift. Maybe that’s what I’d do with it. Then I could send pictures to her.

“Me?” Beverly says, answering her own question. “I’m going to go to Hong Kong at the first possible opportunity. Get this.” She sits up and shifts in her seat. “You can buy custom-made clothes and jewelry for a pittance there. Silk and pearls. There’s a man who meets the girls at the airport. You’ll know him by the measuring tape hanging around his neck. He takes you on a bus to his studio and jots down your numbers. You pick the fabric, the design, the works.”

She flicks an ash with a red manicured fingernail and continues.

“Then, a few weeks later, you’re in Hong Kong on another layover. It’s almost finished. You go back to his shop to try it on, and he pins it where it needs adjustments. Quick as lightning, you’re in the city a third time and voilà, a fabulous, one-of-a-kind dress is all yours for just a few dollars. Whole thing takes about a month from what they say.”

I sigh. That indeed sounds grand. I could buy myself one new outfit a month and in no time, I’d have more dresses than I could wear in a week! And the jewelry—pearls were my mother’s favorite. Maybe I’ll find a strand in remembrance of her.

That part of my life, I don’t plan to talk about with Beverly. Not yet. I have not yet forgiven myself for cutting my mother out of my life. I don’t know if I ever will.

Brushing off this thought, I return to the conversation and realize that Beverly is not the only one who keeps an ear open for little-known secrets of Pan Am stewardesses. I’m pleased to be able to offer one of my own.

“I heard that in Paris, there are miles of tunnels underground where you can see the bones of millions of people laid out decoratively.”

Beverly nods, and I can see that she has already heard of this one. Maybe she’s even been. But she has the manners to refrain from telling me so. “That sounds rather macabre, but it could be a lark to go to. We’ll add it to the list.”

She pauses and gives me an enigmatic smile that warns me that she is not going to let me off the hook for the earlier part of our conversation, though. Despite my attempt to distract her.

“So,” she says, leaning in with a conspiratorial tone. “Back to Joe Clayton. Specifically you and Joe Clayton. It’s time to tell me everything.”