Chapter Seventeen Beverly
Chapter Seventeen
Beverly
I am out of my league.
It’s the first time I have ever had that thought. Even when the nuns of Marymount advanced me to an upper-grade literature class, I aced it. I am used to things coming without a tremendous amount of effort.
Maybe that’s why I feel so out of sorts.
All the training that I’d thought had been so difficult paled in comparison to the dozens of expectant paying customers looking at me with utter confidence that I was going to show them a remarkable time as we jetted over the dark-blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.
I have twice slipped into the tiny lavatory, afraid that with all these nerves I would lose my lunch. My belly rumbled like the roar of the engine. But thankfully, I was spared that embarrassment.
Instead, each time, I’d unzipped my tight skirt and splashed water on my face. And soldiered on.
That’s what being the daughter of Mr. Wall Street does. It trains you before you can even walk to carry yourself with unimpeachable conduct no matter how much your insides are swirling. Don’t let them see you struggle. That, I can do.
My primary station is the tourist compartment galley, which gives me the least interaction with the passengers. A typical assignment for someone their first time around. But occasionally, I step out, flash my whitened grin as I steel my nerves, and ask them if they’d like a refill of water or coffee.
I haven’t spilled any yet, so I’m going to consider that a win. Despite the fact that the carafes—made of real silver and etched with the Pan American logo, of course—feel like they weigh fifteen pounds each. And that’s before filling them up. I am like a tightrope walker holding one in each hand, serving coffee while somehow managing not to lean over two people to reach the one in the window seat.
It is a precarious ballet that will take time to master.
I’ve always been inclined toward being exceedingly pleasant to waitstaff at restaurants—perhaps as a counterbalance to Mr. Wall Street’s dismissive ways—but now that I am among their ranks, I am even more appreciative of what I feel may be the most challenging job on earth.
Or in this case, in the skies.
The chief stewardess, Miss Kessling, steps into the galley. Her demeanor is as severe as her features. At least here, where no passengers can see us.
“I just put the buttered string beans into the warmer,” I answer to a question she didn’t ask. As if I need to justify why I’m here.
She raises an eyebrow. “We use the French here. Les haricots verts au beurre . That’s what is printed on the menu. And that is what you will say, no matter which compartment you’re in.”
I swallow hard and nod. Sister Mary Clare has nothing on this woman.
“And we’re running low on the La roulade de veau aux rognons up in first class . So I’m taking some of yours.”
Miss Kessling proceeds to pull the entrée drawer out and sets six platters on a tray. In first class, they have a choice of meals. In tourist, they have a choice among what’s left.
As first class apparently has an appetite for roast loin of veal today, the tourist compartment will have to be satisfied with the breast of chicken.
Excuse me. Le suprême de volaille au Muscadet .
It could take months before I get an assignment in first class. With their wide seats. Two and two, versus the three and three here. Complete with a lounge area and a lavatory just for them. I always flew first class when Mr. Wall Street was paying. Now I’ll have to earn a place there.
“And,” Miss Kessling turns to say as she steps back toward the aisle, “Mrs. Harrison wants a pillow and Mr. Oakley would like for you to bring him a Life magazine.” Her Norwegian accent is beguiling and I know I’m not the only one to think so. She keeps a tally in a small leather journal of the number of marriage proposals she’s received from passengers in her four years at the airline. I spied an impressive number of marks on its pages.
“I’m on it.” And I step out into the aisle. She takes my place in the galley to finish pilfering what she needs for the first-class passengers.
I don’t know who Mrs. Harrison and Mr. Oakley are. In training, they encouraged us to memorize the manifests and know our passengers’ names, but I’m afraid that’s one parlor trick that I will have to master at another time. For now, I run my finger down the list hanging in the galley and look for their names.
Harrison—10B
Oakley—15A
I shake off an encroaching feeling of intimidation and assure myself that Miss Kessling was probably as nervous on her first trips as I am now. Maybe I’ll ask her if I have the chance.
Maybe I won’t.
I flip through our stacks of periodicals until I find the latest issue of Life and turn sideways to get past her, and then open a slim closet and pull out a freshly cleaned pillow.
I’ve already forgotten the names. But at least I remember the seat assignments.
Seat 10B looks familiar to me. Mint-green dress, belted with a caramel-colored belt. When she boarded, a man whom I presumed to be her husband said goodbye to her. His right hand held on to a pigtailed little girl, and in his left arm, he held a toddler. He kissed the woman and told her to have a good time.
In the few quiet moments I’ve had since we took off, I have busied myself with imagining what might be bringing each passenger on this flight, on this date, to the island of Oahu. Adventure? Love? Business? Each must have a fascinating story to tell.
I particularly would like to know 10B’s story, and I get goose bumps at the notion that this decade might be showing signs that women—mothers, even—could have a chance to take a break and fly off to Hawaii on their own. Whatever their situation, it was an unusual occurrence, but maybe a good sign of things to come.
Mrs. Harrison looks relaxed, and murmurs a gentle “thank you” when I tuck the pillow behind her head.
My high hopes are curbed at my next stop. The man sitting in 15A is wearing a tailored pin-striped suit, the standard uniform of my old stomping grounds, and even in this sitting position, he exudes the confidence of Mr. Wall Street’s set. Though his hair and skin wear the respective sun-bleached and sun-kissed hues that are incongruous with those who sit behind desks all day.
And he’s younger than those executives. Not much older than me, if I had to guess.
He’s not smoking, which is a relief. I can’t enjoy a cigarette while in uniform, and the smell of it all around me is giving me a withdrawal headache. The gentlemen in both 25 and 27 have small clouds of smoke swirling around their heads, and the odor from these and others in this close proximity of the plane have already permeated the wool in my uniform. The first thing I’ll do at the hotel is send it off to the laundry.
The ashtray in the armrest belonging to 15A is blessedly clean and unused. One point for him on that front, at least.
“You requested a copy of Life ?” I ask sweetly as I hold it out. There is no one sitting in the seats next to him, a circumstance I’m sorry for because it makes it more difficult to deliver it and leave. Something about him draws me in. Which makes me want to resist it all the more.
“That’s the one,” 15A says with a grin. He shifts himself closer to the window and pats the seat next to him, clearly inviting me to join him.
There aren’t any specific protocols about this. Though Delores had touched on it in training, saying that it was our duty to keep the passengers comfortable and entertained. So if sitting for conversation was convenient, I was allowed to do so. But not required.
I look left and right in the aisle as one might crossing a busy street in New York City, but it appears that everything is under control and no one needs me. Unfortunately. Dinner isn’t quite ready to be served in this class, so I’m going to summon all the skills I learned growing up as a proper New York socialite and apply them to the here and now.
I sit in the aisle seat, pressing my lower back against the armrest and leaving as much space as I can. I am used to having the upper hand, especially in the company of men. But up here, there is no way to make a polite exit and leave a party. I’m like a caged bird. Or a marionette. Tired old metaphors, but they’re apt. In a way, the passengers control the stewardesses—we are there to accommodate their whims. Within the boundaries of our job description, of course.
“I don’t bite,” he offers, flashing a white smile and seeming to see right into my nerves. If he knew it was my maiden voyage as a stewardess, he might—if he were of the ilk of some New York men I knew—find that to be an apt and welcome metaphor.
I am not going to be anyone’s maiden .
But I’m being unfair. The man is guilty of nothing except reminding me of the life I just left. I should give him the same chance I would want someone to give me.
Seat 15A—Mr. Oakley, I remember now—unbuttons his suit jacket and slides it off his arms. Pretty smoothly, I’d say, given the confines of space. And despite the intimacy of our proximity, he doesn’t brush against me as he maneuvers. Or even pretend to accidentally do so.
Good for him.
“Do you have proof of that? That you don’t bite?” I mean it to be witty, conversational, but I realize how very flirty it sounds as soon as it leaves my lips.
If he thinks so, too, he’s polite enough to not exploit it.
“Page twelve.”
“What?” I say as I tilt my head in confusion.
“Page twelve,” he repeats. He flips the magazine open and turns to the page. He smiles, folds it back, and hands it to me. “That’s my proof.”
I hold my hand out, considering the unusualness of the conversation. But I’d better buckle my seat belt—another metaphor here—because the very life of a Pan Am stewardess is unusual by definition.
The paper crinkles in my hands, and I smooth it out before looking down.
My eyes widen. There, in bold black-and-white splendor, is the glossy face of the man sitting just inches away from me. He is not in a pin-striped suit, though, but in long swimming trunks. And his physique—well, I think it’s best to avert my eyes if I intend to maintain a modicum of professionalism here. That’s what’s covered up underneath that suit? I resist the urge to loosen the collar of my blouse and breathe a little.
Of additional interest, though, is that he’s surrounded by four boys. Ranging, I’d guess, from ages six through sixteen. It was difficult to tell, though. Because what they have in common is that each has a handicap of some kind. Two with crutches, one in a wheelchair. One missing an arm.
Gold-Medal Swimmer Has Heart of Gold to Match
“This is you?” I ask, though the answer is obvious. A gold-medal swimmer?
Oakley hangs his head a bit before turning back, and I can see a faint blush on his cheeks.
“Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would be so—blatant.”
“You mean you haven’t seen this yet?”
Mr. Oakley—Mark Oakley, as a quick glance at the article shows—shrugs. “That’s why I asked for a copy. The airport tobacco shop was out of Life . And it just came out today, so I didn’t have a chance to get it anywhere else.”
“Then how did you know which page the article would be on?” I try to read his face for conceit, but I see none. Maybe I’ve rushed too quick to judgment.
“My coach told me. Page twelve. Just like my lucky number.”
“You have a lucky number?”
“Mm-hmm. I was born on the twelfth day of the twelfth month at twelve noon on the dot. And the number has followed me ever since.”
There is something midwestern about his voice, even though his look is Fifth Avenue. I can’t figure him out. But I am intrigued. And I haven’t even read yet what Life has to say about the man.
But a picture tells a thousand words, right?
And the laudatory nature of the headline is a pretty good recommendation.
I look up and see Miss Kessling trying to catch my eye. I begin to stand, but with more reluctance than I’d had sitting down in the first place. “My chief stewardess needs me. It was—it was nice talking to you.”
“Wait,” he says, placing his hand on my arm. But he pulls it back just as quickly and seems embarrassed to have done so at all. “I—I have never been to Honolulu. Do you have a long layover there? I could use a tour guide.”
It is on the tip of my tongue to tell him that it will be my first time as well, but it might reveal my very novice position here when I am eager to come across as the consummate professional. I did not join Pan Am to get involved with its passengers. Mark Oakley is just one of many fascinating people I am likely to meet in this new career of mine, and it will do no good to make a mistake so early on.
“I’m afraid we have too quick a turnaround. I’m sorry I can’t help you. But for the remainder of the flight, please let me know if there is anything else I can get for you.”
I wince at the abruptness in my voice, but it is necessary to conceal the waver I feel hovering in my throat.
I’ve not had such an immediate reaction to a man before.
I walk back toward the galley and check my wristwatch. Five hours behind us, two hours to go. I can do this.
The Royal Hawaiian Hotel is everything I’ve been told it would be. It is a pink palace that appears to rise from the sand like a stuccoed phoenix. As I exit the taxi that I shared with two of the other stewardesses, I am momentarily stunned by the pineapple-scented air and the smallness that I feel as building-high palm trees sway above me. Chipped into their trunks are loads of nicks, and I think at first glance that they grow this way. But then I see a man hooked to the top of it, metal cleats on his shoes as he grips the trunk and whacks coconuts and fronds from their tops. As they fall to the ground with a thunk, I realize how dangerous it would be for those to fall on an unsuspecting passerby. But I’d never considered that such a thing would be someone’s job .
It’s just one of the many sights I’m taking in as I stroll toward the lobby of these historic grounds. I’d read in the in-flight Clipper magazine on the way over that this hotel was built on the site of the coconut groves that were the vacation grounds of King Kamehameha and Queen Ka’ahumanu over a hundred fifty years ago.
The history permeates the air as much as the pineapple does.
Indeed, I feel like royalty myself as a lei of purple-and-white plumeria is placed around my neck while a group of men play simple tunes on ukuleles to welcome us. And in front of them, a woman clad only in a coconut bra and grass skirt gently sways her hips and raises her arms in the air, all moving with the fluidity of the water.
I am transfixed.
Until my roommate for the layover—Rachel—slips her arm through mine and whispers, “Just so you know, it never gets old. I must have been here forty or fifty times by now, and it still takes my breath away. Even then, there’s nothing like your first experience. Inhale it all while I go get our room key.”
She runs ahead, not giving me a chance to try to help. But I’m grateful for her consideration because I can’t begin to think about anything except taking in the myriad of sights around me. I know that people come to Hawaii to relax, but to me, it is a circus of color and wonder that leaves me feeling energized. Up until today, I thought I was well traveled, having been to all the cities of the world that my set considers fashionable. But these tropics—this hemisphere—goes largely unmentioned in New York.
I have shopped for couture in Paris, but none is so splendid as the boastful bird-of-paradise flower that parades its orange splendor around the perimeter of the walkway to the hotel. I have toured the ruins of Rome, but the porous black lava stones that frame those flowers surely predate any human endeavor, having their birthplace in the very belly of the earth itself. And I saw Carol Channing onstage on the opening night of Show Girl on Broadway just a year ago, but even the plumage of her costume was not of the caliber of the fan-shaped palms that flank each side of the entryway into the hotel or the beds of plumeria blossoms that look like a bridal convention on the rug.
All this, and I have not even stepped one foot inside.
“Your bag, miss?” I am roused from my stupor by an eager bellhop who wishes to help me with the small rolling suitcase that is the staple piece for a stewardess. I am about to dismiss him so that he can go seek larger tips from more prestigious clients, but I see four other Pan Am–labeled suitcases already on his cart, including Rachel’s, and I am not going to be the one to buck the tide so early on.
“Thank you,” I say, handing him a dollar, wondering if it’s too much or too little. He tips his hat and walks off, pushing the wheeled cart and whistling the same melody that the ukulele players are strumming.
I step inside and am again wide eyed at the Moorish archways that frame the view. Beyond the hubbub of the familiar noises of a hotel—telephones, chatty concierges, elevator bells—I see the cake-like layers of blue sky, turquoise water, white sand, green grass. It reminds me of a petit four—the little cakes my mother always ordered from the Plaza. Bright colors that entice the senses.
But I turn away when I hear the brisk clip-clip walk that I already recognize as Rachel’s.
She gestures for me to hold my hand out, and I comply.
“Key. Map of the island. Cigarettes.” She places each one down firmly. “I’d stay and show you around, but I have a date.”
I raise an eyebrow, and she gives me a conspiratorial grin.
“Oscar in Oahu. Harry in Hong Kong. Ted in Tahiti.”
I must have registered some surprise, though I don’t know why. Despite being educated by nuns, I consider myself a worldly woman.
“I’m pulling your leg, Caldwell. That might fly on other airlines, but we Pan Am girls are supposed to be classy . No one will want to marry you if you get a rep for having a man in every port. My one steady is plenty for me.”
She looks around the vast hallway of the hotel, and I notice her eyes stop when the captain of our flight comes in. Looking admittedly knee melting in his crisp uniform.
“Landing lips?” she asks me, puckering up. It’s the phrase the stewardesses use to make sure their lipstick is in good shape.
“Looks great,” I assure her.
“Thanks! Got to run,” she says, slinging a large tote bag over her shoulder. “I’ll be back late. Get yourself a good night’s sleep. And whatever else you do tomorrow, meet the crew in the hallway at three o’clock sharp. You can’t be late for your flight. And we will not wait for you.”
She hurries off—clip, clip—and I try to remember if I’d seen a wedding ring on Captain Paul’s finger when I’d brought him coffee in the cockpit. But I don’t think I did. Which makes sense. He is on the young end of the pilot core, as most of them are veterans of the war. Married and settled now with a light dusting of gray in their hair.
I look at the room key: 1212. I remember what Mark Oakley said, and a shiver runs down to my toes. I’m not one for signs and symbols, so surely that’s no more than a coincidence. I shrug it off and head toward the bank of elevators to my right. When I arrive, my bag is already placed on the bed nearest the window, Rachel’s on the other, and I’m glad I had the foresight to tip the bellman upon arrival since he is nowhere to be found. I toss the cigarettes on my bed, and they make a crispy sound as the cellophane meets the leather trim on top of my suitcase.
It’s a lonely sound. It reflects how I feel at the moment, a sensation that surprises me. This is my first solitary adventure. Everything I’ve wanted. Everything I’ve been dreaming of. In arguably the most beautiful setting in the world. But I am struck, suddenly, that there is no one to share it with. I look across the room and find a telephone. I could call my mother, and I almost do. Then I see a portfolio of exquisite stationery embossed with the image of the hotel and decide that writing a letter will suffice. After all, I’m counting my pennies now. Maybe later, I’ll call collect.
But first, I’m going to shower to get the feeling of sweat, tobacco, and travel off my skin and out of my hair.
When I’m finished, feeling exquisitely rejuvenated, I wrap one of the hotel’s plush white robes around my body and run my fingers through my short, wet hair.
I hear music wafting from outside, muted by the thick glass doors that separate me from the balcony. I pull back the curtains and open the doors to reveal a spectacular sight—the Pacific Ocean stretches before me like a majestic carpet that blankets the earth. I step out, and the warm sun kisses my cheek. I breathe the salty air deeply into my lungs, and I am instantly happy. The intimidation I felt at being the new girl on board washes away, all but forgotten, and I realize that this, at last, is what I’d pined for. That something different that had been so elusive in New York.
I can’t believe that I have family that lives here. That gets to experience this every day. I can’t wait to learn more about them. My mother has promised to find out more from Sami so that I can reach out to visit them on a future visit. If they want to see me.
I look to my left, and I see the unmistakable jagged shape of Diamond Head. Almost no advertisements of the island are printed without portraying it. Below, more ukulele music surfs on the breeze and makes its way to my ear. But not from the group of men greeting visitors at the front of the Royal Hawaiian. Instead, I see a man who has a small gathering of people surrounding him. I hear the words We’re going to a hukilau, a huki huki huki huki hukilau , and with all my soul I want to know what a hukilau is.
I run inside, throw open my suitcase, and pull out the two outfits I brought for this trip. Each is more appropriate for a luncheon at Bergdorf’s than a stroll on the beach. A pink-tweed pencil skirt with matching bolero and a belted number with a gingham pattern. I should have known better—we’d been advised during training to pack what was simple, free of wrinkles, and easy to wash. I wish I’d listened.
Then I look again at Rachel’s suitcase. She did say that she wouldn’t be here until late. Did that mean that everything she needed was in the bag she held on to? My hands shake as I approach it. I was not raised to be a thief, but I feel like I’ve fallen under the spell of the island, and I don’t consider myself fully responsible for my actions.
Two layers in, I see a bright-yellow dress, loose fitting and embellished with matching fabric buttons and a wide belt. It looks like the sunshine just outside my window, and I thank the airline gods who require the stewardesses to be nearly the same size. This dress will surely fit me, and with any luck, I’ll be able to have it laundered and returned before she notices it missing.
On second thought, I’ll leave her a note. Apologizing and promising to have it cleaned and returned before our flight.
I put it on and take a quick look in the mirror, pinching my cheeks, applying gloss to my lips, and strapping on the sandals that, at least, I’d had the foresight to pack.
The soundtrack of West Side Story enters my head. I feel pretty, Maria had sung. But not out of conceit, as I understand now. Out of the sheer exhilaration that her life was about to begin.
I share her glee. But hopefully not her fate.
I skip to the elevator, and before long, I find myself among that small crowd of people that I’d seen from my balcony, swaying and smiling and swooning as the singer looks at each woman as if she’s the only woman in the world. Even my heart skips faster when his eyes lock with mine.
But that is eclipsed when I feel the heat of a man whispering in my ear.
“His name is Don Ho. I think he’s going places.”
I turn around and my heart jumps.
“Seat 15A.” I say it more breathlessly than I would have liked.
“Beverly. My favorite Pan Am stewardess.”
“Only Pan Am?” Oh, this island magic is reawakening my confidence, my flirtatious spirit. I am feeling like myself again.
Or maybe it’s him.
Mark Oakley—yes, I remember his name—places his hand on his heart. “Have dinner with me, and I’ll forsake all other airlines. Unless you still don’t have enough time on your layover.”
I feel heat rise to my cheeks, and I know it’s not the glare of the sun because we’re standing under the shade of a palm tree. He is referring to my dismissal when he’d suggested a tour of the island.
“One drink,” I respond, not wanting to commit to more just yet. “And on one condition.”
“Anything you ask.”
“It must have a little paper umbrella in it.”
He tilts his head back and laughs, and it is as beautiful a sound as the waning laps of the waves as they ebb back into the ocean.
“I think that won’t be a problem in Honolulu.”