Come Fly with Me

Chapter Twenty Judy

Chapter Twenty

Judy

I am awake long before my alarm clock goes off, and I stare at the swirls of the plaster in the ceiling above.

The sun rises in the east and sets in the west.

There are four time zones in the continental United States: eastern, central, mountain, and Pacific.

My first thoughts are rather unexpected, though maybe they were influenced by my dreams—flashes of sitting at a metal desk in grade school, dust falling from the chalk as the teacher writes geographic facts on the board.

Things that I learned long ago but are only now taking shape since their relevance has seeped into my life. Growing up, geography meant maps to me—particularly the one hanging on my wall with all my colored pins. But the nuances— The sun rises in the east and sets in the west —bore little meaning until now.

What else had I learned that might emerge from long-dusty corners of my mind? And what was ahead of me to still discover?

Everything.

I had taken for granted in Miami that a morning bus ride to the beach could result in a most spectacular sunrise. But here, dawn is a mere glow, and it is the sunset over the water that would inspire poems if I were gifted with words.

East and west are more than points on a compass. They shape the day depending on where you are in the world.

But I don’t spend long pondering all the ways I will discover the nuances of geography in the weeks to come. Because Joe’s letter and the leather journal he gave me are sitting on my nightstand and I have thought of little else since setting them there. I have nearly memorized his letter, having read and reread and reread it. It has an anchoring effect on me. This tactile connection between us is more comforting than I might have imagined. It’s not the words themselves that give me solace, as they are merely a rundown of all his favorite hidden places from his world travels. It’s the consideration he put into writing it at all and in giving me the means to write my own down in the journal.

Not since my father has a man shown such regard for me.

Joe’s suggestions are some I will take to heart as I explore. The high tea in the crooked hotel in Blenheim, England. The butter curry at the stall run by a blind man in a New Delhi market. The restaurant in Rome built over the ruins where Julius Caesar was murdered. These are just some of the things I have to look forward to.

For now, I’m looking forward to breakfast.

My stomach is roaring with hunger—it’s nine o’clock in the morning in Pennsylvania and Florida. It’s only six here. But I don’t want to disturb my housemates by rummaging through the refrigerator.

I feel around for a pack of saltines in my purse, left over from Beverly’s care for me while I recovered. They’re mostly crumbs—dust, really. But I’ll take anything, so I open the corner of the plastic wrapping and tilt my head back, letting the tiny pieces cascade into my mouth.

I stifle a cough as the crumbs get caught in my throat.

Other than a raging return of my appetite, I am feeling fine today. Better than I can recall in a long time. Today will be my first flight working as a Pan American stewardess. And tonight, I will sleep in Honolulu. Honolulu! I can hardly believe it.

The check-in process is intimidating, to say the least.

The city bus pulls up to the departure terminal at San Francisco, or SFO as my code memorization reminds me. Only half an hour into wearing this uniform in public for the first time, I am already aware of the power it seems to command. I’d captured the eyes of most of the passengers on the ride over, drawn to me as if I was Jayne Mansfield herself. I’m not as blond nor as buxom as she, but the Pan Am uniform—or maybe that of any stewardess—seems to have the same effect on the males of the species.

As I descend the steps, the bus driver leaps out of his seat to carry my bag down for me, though I would have been quite capable of doing it myself. It’s not as if he can walk all the way through the terminal in escort. Still, I appreciate the gesture. Though not the catcall whistle that follows. Maybe from him, maybe from one of the passengers. The whir of the airport deflects sound, so I can’t be certain.

It’s something to get used to, I suppose. If I had Beverly’s cool confidence, I might have turned around, thrust a hip, and flashed a smile. But I have been too scared for the past few years to even make eye contact with another man, lest Henry accuse me of coming on to him and my skin paying the price back at home. I think that particular feminine wile has shriveled.

Though Joe Clayton has begun to resuscitate it.

I realize the irony. The miles and miles that happily separate me from Henry are the same ones that make it impossible for me to imagine a future with Joe.

I grip my bag and walk up to a ticket counter. I dial the extension that has been written in my instructions.

“Pan American offices,” says a voice that is weary enough that I can assume she is probably near the end of her shift.

“This is Stewardess Judy Goodman reporting for flight four twenty-five to Honolulu.”

“Come on back, Miss Goodman.”

Miss. Not Mrs. How refreshing it is to hear that.

I’m not going to correct her.

I can’t wait for it to be true.

I walk through a door behind the ticket counter that I know leads to the offices, because this, too, is in the set of instructions provided in a manual printed especially for the SFO staff.

I pull my white headscarf off, its gauzy sheerness briefly casting the room in a haze. The wind in Burlingame was rather gusty when I’d left, and as I’d had my hair cut and set the day before, I didn’t want to disturb it. Now, with just the blue cap on top, I catch my reflection in a nearby window and notice that my head is the perfect oval shape, apparently the goal of the overall look. My skirt is the regulation one inch below the knee. My eyes are brushed with regulation blue eye shadow, but light enough that it could still be considered natural .

The office is abuzz with thirty or so girls, a sea of cornflower-blue uniforms that make one indistinguishable from the next. We are all an average of five foot five with only a couple of inches more or less between us. Chin-length hair like mine, matching lipstick, heeled shoes. Sporting the oval-head look with their caps on.

We all look like Jackie Kennedy.

And our skin—all white, just like our gloves.

I think of Ronelle. How I wish such an opportunity was open to her. But there is hope. I read the newspapers and follow the stories of desegregation, and I cheer on the Freedom Riders in their quest for civil rights.

As backward as little Red Lion can sometimes be, it is still twelve miles above the Mason–Dixon Line dividing the North and the South. Twelve miles on the side of right.

We’d learned, as Ronelle helped me study for the Pan Am interview, that a black woman had been hired four years ago by Mohawk Airlines, a mid-Atlantic regional company, and several smaller ones had followed suit. The major companies can’t be far behind, and I hope that Pan Am will be the first.

“You look lost.”

I turn, startled out of my musings.

“Rosamaria!”

“You remember!” She spreads her arms and wraps me in a hug that I needed more than I realized I did.

“It was only a few days ago. I may be overwhelmed, but give me some credit.”

Rosamaria pulls back and laughs, and I am more grateful for a familiar face than I want to let on.

“First check-in?”

“Is it that obvious?” I clench my jaw, worried that I’m somehow broadcasting my inexperience.

“Only because I’m sure I had the same expression on my face three years ago.”

“Three years! So you’ve outlasted the typical eighteen months.”

“Not for long.” She holds up her left hand and flashes the enormous sparkling diamond on her ring finger.

“A passenger?” I ask.

“Yes.” She grins. “Sometimes clichés exist for a reason.”

“Won’t you miss all this?”

“Desperately! Though I won’t have to watch my candy intake and worry about weigh-ins. And good thing—my fiancé’s family owns a chocolate factory.”

“Well, doesn’t that sound dreamy? I’m so happy for you.”

Rosamaria rubs my arm. “Don’t worry. You’ll have your turn. Single, successful businessmen know that there’s no better place to meet a beautiful, intelligent, and worldly woman than right here on a Pan American aircraft. Why, some of them take trips just in the hopes of meeting their Mrs.!”

I didn’t think of myself as beautiful, intelligent, or worldly. But it occurs to me again that my view of myself has been molded by my husband. Who had nothing to gain, as he saw it, in a wife who had any confidence in herself. I want to believe Rosamaria. And shouldn’t the fact that Pan Am chose me out of so many applicants underscore it?

Wouldn’t the catcalls suggest that?

That might not be the most edifying way to restore my image of myself, but it’s a wound that may take many varieties of remedies to heal.

“Anyway,” Rosamaria continues. “There’s no need to rush into that. Fill up your passport, love. See the world. There’s plenty of time to settle down and make your babies. Maybe your daughters and mine won’t have to make the choice between the two.”

“My hus—” I begin. But I stop myself from finishing that sentence.

My husband didn’t want children, I had nearly said. My husband thought children would distract me from him.

A voice comes over the loudspeaker, saving me from trying to cover up that slip. My heart pounds in relief. I can’t lose this job before I’ve even started it.

“Flight number four twenty-five, please come to the check-in desk.”

“That’s me,” Rosamaria and I say at the same time.

My spirits lift. What a relief that someone familiar will be on my first flight!

“Round the world,” she whispers. “My final hurrah. How far are you going?”

I have the itinerary memorized. “Honolulu, Guam, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Bangkok. And then back.”

Her eyebrows raise. “Wow, they’re throwing you right into the fire the first time out. But I hear they’re doing that more often—better to test your stamina early on and weed out any underperforming recruits before they’re in it too long.”

I feel a look of terror come over my face, and she notices. “But not you, Judy-girl. I’m your crew chief for every one of those legs, and I’ll make sure you dazzle.”

“Captain Boyce wants to see you.” Rosamaria taps my shoulder while I’m in the galley washing coffee cups. “It’s time for your baptism.”

“My baptism?” I ask. Something is up. For the entirety of this flight to Hong Kong, I have seen the stewardesses wear bemused looks on their faces when they glance at me, but no one would spill the beans.

Rosamaria just smiles. “You’ll be fine.”

I trust her. I do. But still, I feel nervous as I set my drying towel down and make my way up the aisle. I pass first class, wishing I could take a swig from a bottle of Dom Perignon to steady my nerves.

I knock on the cockpit door and turn the handle.

“Ah, Miss Goodman. You’re just in time.” Captain Kenneth Boyce greets me warmly with a wide smile and perfectly straight teeth. “Have a seat.”

He points to the seat behind his, and I buckle up. The copilot tips his hat to me.

“Have you heard of the checkerboard landing?” Boyce asks. His voice is naturally loud, maybe a symptom of his twenty years as a pilot, attuned to the volume required to speak over the sound of the jet.

I shake my head.

“This is your baptism, then,” he says. “Every stewardess gets to sit up here for her first descent into Hong Kong.”

That doesn’t sound so bad. But why would it be noteworthy?

“You see,” he begins. I’m sure he’s given this speech many times, but he has a paternal way about him that makes me feel like it’s just for me. “The Kai Tak Airport is sandwiched between the mountains and at the edge of the city. You’ll see it all in about ten minutes as we approach. Usually, our instruments prepare us for a straight shot on a runway, but the mountains and the city don’t allow for that in Hong Kong. So it will look for a while like we are heading straight toward the mountain.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Because we are.”

Before he can elaborate, someone from the control tower speaks over the radio, and he turns his attention toward preparing the 707 for landing. I watch Captain Boyce and his copilot flip various levers and turn on buttons. In no time, I see the mountains in the distance, just as he had indicated. It is a beautiful sight—land rising out of water. And as we get closer, I can make out the ripples of the peaks and even see the tips of the high-rise buildings.

It is an incredible city from the air. But before I can linger on its charms, I feel us lose altitude as the mountains grow closer and closer.

And closer and closer. We are heading straight toward them.

I cling to the armrest of my seat, my hand turning white from the strength of my grip. Lower and lower we go, the mountains right in front of us. It seems as if we will crash, and my new life will be over before it’s begun.

I begin to see details—trees, windows, cars below us. The mountain is dead ahead. And then—I see an enormous red-and-white checkerboard built into its side. All of a sudden, the plane takes a sharp turn to the right, veering us away from our obstacle and straight into the city. I am still holding on to the armrests, afraid that I will fall out of my seat, despite the restraints. Left and right, I can see the buildings—even the people in the buildings. Even people hanging out their laundry. Our wingspan seems as if it will graze them, if not completely topple them. But Captain Boyce is calm. Not a glisten of sweat on his balding head.

They are not worried even as I am terrified. Their calm is the only thing that gives me comfort.

Lower and lower we go. I can see cars, buses, dogs.

And then—just ahead, a clearing out of nowhere. Lights on either side of it.

The runway!

The nose of the plane is still elevated even as I feel the wheels in the rear bounce on the pavement. A sense of relief washes over me, and yet I feel the residual blood rush from the ordeal. We level out, and the pilots deftly slow the 707 to a crawl. We taxi toward the terminal, and I sit in stunned silence.

“Sorry about that,” Captain Boyce says as he takes off his headphones. “I wanted to prepare you better, but I called you up a little late, and we needed to focus on what the control tower was telling us.”

“It’s like this every time?”

“Every time.” He grins. “A welcome unique to Hong Kong.”

I have, indeed, been baptized.

Hong Kong is already my favorite layover, and I’ve only had two before that.

Just like Beverly and I had heard, the stewardesses are greeted at the terminal by a small Chinese man with a green measuring tape strung around his neck.

His English is quite good and spoken with a British accent, something that surprises me until I learn that the city, in fact, is under British rule until its lease reverts to China at the end of this century.

It isn’t only the man’s English that impresses. As various stewardesses say hello to the familiar face, he addresses them in their own languages.

“Bonjour, Antoinette,” he says to a TWA girl, kissing either side of her cheek. “Veux-tu des vêtements?”

Would you like clothing?

And again, in what I assume is Norwegian, as one of our Pan Am crew approach him.

“Ah, Helene,” he says as he bows. “Du ser vakker ut i dag.”

Helene responds with rapid words that I do not understand, and by the looks of it, he doesn’t either. Still, it’s a good shtick—memorize simple greetings, get to know the stewardesses as they regularly pass through. And it clearly works. Each girl, in turn, switches to English and begins discussing the various stages of clothing they’ve commissioned from him.

Mr. Chan, as I overhear them calling him, nods to Helene, and begins to wrap the measuring tape around her—bust, waist, hips. Taking notes as he goes, ever nodding. Right here in the airport.

I have to hand it to him—Helene, more than any of us, is strikingly beautiful. More so than even Marilyn Monroe herself had been. Blond, curvy, exotic. But Mr. Chan handles himself with the utmost professionalism, which is more than I might be able to say for most men in his very fortunate circumstance.

So when he turns to me, I don’t need Rosamaria’s encouragement to give this a try, though she is eagerly forthcoming with it. It seems like a rite of passage for all stewardesses making their way through Hong Kong.

“You are new,” he says, deducing that I speak English. Or perhaps that is his standard opening no matter what, since it’s the universal language of the skies.

“Yes.” I hope it’s only obvious because he hasn’t met me before and not because I’m wearing my inexperience on the sleeves of my uniform.

“I am Mr. Chan,” he says, placing his right hand over his heart. “Will you do me the honor of letting me make you a silk dress?”

“I would love that.”

He nods again. “For you, a big discount.”

Rosamaria jumps in with her deep alto voice. “You say that to all the girls, Mr. Chan.”

He laughs and then shrugs his shoulders. “Am I wrong? I have made six dresses for you already.”

“You have the memory of an elephant, Mr. Chan,” she admits, matching his good spirits. “And I’m here for another. A wedding dress. If you can fit me in.”

“A wedding dress! For you, beautiful Rosamaria, anything.” He takes her hand and kisses it, and there is a sincerity to it that I find endearing.

“But I’ll need it in a hurry. This is my last trip here, and one of the girls is going to pick it up on her route in two weeks.”

“It is not a problem,” he assures her.

We follow him outside the airport after a brief stop at Customs and walk the four blocks to the bus stop. After a ten minute ride, we step off and into a busy, narrow street. My feet hurt in high heels that were not built for this terrain, and I stumble into Rosamaria as my ankle buckles.

Lucky for me, she is more experienced with this kind of footwear, so she is quick to catch my arm before I can come to any injury.

“We’re almost there,” she shouts above the cacophony.

I feel her grab my hand as we walk upstream against the flow of the crowd, and I’m reminded of the short walk in New York between Grand Central Terminal and the Pan Am offices just a few months ago. Buildings tall enough to pierce the sky. Black exhaust that sputters out of tailpipes. But also, I see rickshaws pulled by sweaty, often barefooted runners. Bicycles—so many bicycles—weaving through human and mechanical throngs with a fluidity and ease that is astonishing.

In the midst of this, mountains rise to my right, and water glistens to my left. Though even the water carries its own traffic jam of cargo ships and red-sailed junk boats. I’ve seen it all in photographs. None do it justice.

I am out of my small-town element. But this is what I signed up for. This is the living, breathing world that my hope-filled pushpins marked on a drugstore map. As intimidating as it is, it is also electrifying.

Alive. Alive. Alive. My heart beats to the rhythm of this city, and I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so alive.

We take a sudden left and duck into a narrow storefront, flanked by other shops not much wider than their own doorways. I smell something delicious wafting through the walls next door, and my stomach growls. I was too occupied on the flight over to eat as much as I should have. Or maybe too nervous. But the feast in front of me now is not of the tasting variety. It is instead a wonder for the eyes.

Mr. Chan’s shop is covered with shimmering fabric. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall. Yellow silks with red embroidery. Blue silks with silvery borders. Golden silks the color of the sun, radiant on their own without any additional embellishments. Behind the walls, invisible machines whir with activity.

Rosamaria takes my hand and leads me to a rack of ready-made dresses. They are more billowy than I can imagine wearing. She must see the surprise on my face.

“These are just the samples,” she explains. “You try them on, and Mr. Chan cinches them with pins. Not everyone who comes to Hong Kong has to weigh in before flights like we stewardesses do, so the samples have to accommodate a variety of bodies.”

Mesmerized, my hand caresses one particular offering. Four dresses back, I’ve seen a bit of purple peek out.

Henry hates purple. For no discernible reason, he has a visceral reaction to it, just as some do to bow ties or long beards. So I never wore it, even though it’s a color I’ve loved ever since I was a child. My parents even painted my bedroom a soft lavender at my request. But after marrying him, I never brought anything purple into the house.

It’s a small thing. An act of rebellion that would be indistinguishable to anyone witnessing it. But to me, the drive to purchase it feels like I have been infused with power. I don’t need anyone’s permission to buy this. It’s just for me. For my own sheer pleasure.

“I’ll take this one,” I declare. I am surprised by my own determination.

Rosamaria laughs as I hold out the tip of it just far enough to get a better look.

“You haven’t even pulled it off its hanger, Judy. Mr. Chan has a process. You pick several selections. Try them on. See how you like the style. Tell him where you want its length to fall, how deep the neckline should go. What kind of embroidery you’d like as embellishment.”

I know she’s right. And I don’t want to cause a stir. But I’ve already attached myself to the purple one emotionally as one might a scraggly puppy in a pound. I try to tell myself that I’m rescuing this dress, wrinkled and forgotten as it’s squeezed between so many others. And when I pull it out, maybe it will be the ugliest cut imaginable, but I won’t care. I tell her I’m sure.

I want this one.

Mr. Chan shuffles over and pushes the glasses atop his head down onto his nose.

“The lady says this is the one,” Rosamaria says on my behalf.

Mr. Chan nods and doesn’t challenge my strange request. Maybe he just wants the sale. Or maybe he knows enough about the human soul to recognize one that is wounded. I sense that he has the same intuitive qualities that bartenders and hairdressers have when working with their patrons.

He pulls it out, and I close my eyes for a moment, afraid that I’ve made a mistake. I’d be too embarrassed to admit it. But when I open my eyes, Mr. Chan has draped it over both of his arms, holding it tenderly as if it were a priceless Ming dynasty vase.

My breath catches at the sight. I love it. I love it. It’s already cut smaller than some of the others. Still too big for me, but shapely enough that I can envision how a tailored version of it will fit on me.

Mr. Chan beckons me to follow him to a trifold mirror on the corner, and I stand on a carpeted riser. He holds the dress up against my body.

Rosamaria has followed us, and her eyes grow big.

“It’s gorgeous, Judy. I’ve never seen anyone find the one on their first try.”

Even though I’m already convinced, it’s reassuring to hear her enthusiasm. Approval is not a sensation that I am used to.

“Now—try it on, and then we’ll pin it,” Mr. Chan directs.

He points to a curtained room, and I follow his instructions. I turn my back to the mirror—it’s full length and makes me shudder. I haven’t seen myself head to toe in a mirror since leaving Pennsylvania. Beverly was right that I’ve become skin and bones.

I hear Rosamaria and Mr. Chan talking beyond the curtain, and she’s commenting on the softness of one of the fabrics he’s showing her. I can’t stay behind this curtain forever.

I slip the dress over my head, and the silk flutters over my skin like a butterfly’s caress.

An image of Joe comes to me. His hands soft as the silk. His hands touching me in all the same places. My skin flushes, and I feel dizzy.

Where did that come from?

I haven’t thought of Joe in days. Much.

If you didn’t count the dreams I’d had about him.

Almost every night.

“Judy? You okay, girl? Did you drown in purple silk?”

I take a deep breath before answering, steadying my voice.

“The zipper was stuck. But I have it now. I’ll be right out.”

It’s only as I open the curtain that I realize that this dress does not have a zipper. I hope they don’t notice.

Rosamaria and Mr. Chan turn at the same time as they hear me step out onto the parquet floor.

Their eyes widen at the same time, in the same way.

“Judy Goodman, you are a stunner!”

Rosamaria steps forward to take my hand and leads me toward the trifold mirror.

And she’s right. Wow, is she right. The shade of purple looks as if it was specially spun by angels with my skin tone in mind. I turn right and left, and the dress swishes with me, casting out nearly every doubt about myself that I’d ever invited in.

Who knew that clothes could do that?

Mr. Chan doesn’t speak, but that’s understandable. He has a dozen pins wedged between his lips.

He gets to work. I feel him pinning the dress to knee length, pulling at the shoulders. His hand flits across my chest. Quickly, like the wings of a hummingbird. And not in a leeching way, but with the professional approach one might experience at a doctor’s office.

I keep my eyes looking straight, using the mirror to see the shop behind me instead of looking down. I don’t want to see the results of his handiwork just yet. I want to save the surprise of what Mr. Chan is doing when I can see it all at once. Through the reflection, I’m able to watch a few more women come through the door in their TWA uniforms. I wonder which stage of this process they’re in. Are they here to select fabric? Try on the work-in-progress and adjust the measurements? Pick up the final dress? They look like they’ve been here before. Like they’ve already tasted the elixir of Hong Kong that I am just an hour into discovering.

“Aha!” Mr. Chan speaks at last, and I allow myself to lower my eyes to look.

I’m speechless. It is perfection. My thin frame looks curvy. It is tight on the top, a slit down the middle stopping just short of scandalous. And cinched at the waistline, a feat I wouldn’t have thought possible with mere pins.

But I guess that’s why all the girls come to see Mr. Chan. And come back. And come back. I’m already thinking about the next one I’ll want.

“I’ll take it!” I exclaim, meriting a twinkly laugh from Rosamaria.

Mr. Chan writes some notes on a pad of paper, and Rosamaria follows me back into the makeshift dressing room, insisting that taking it off once it’s fitted requires some assistance. Unless I prefer getting poked with pins. Her hands move expertly—she’s done this before—and before I know it, I’m putting the Pan Am uniform back on and waiting while Rosamaria makes her own selection. White silk with ivory embroidery. It will be a beautiful gown.

The shopgirl writes up our receipts and takes our deposits in dollars. I follow Rosamaria out, and she hails a taxi and gives instructions to bring us to the Hong Kong Hilton. I learned in Honolulu that Pan Am keeps blocks of rooms so that the crew can return to a familiar place as they travel from port to port. In Honolulu, it’s the Royal Hawaiian Hotel on Waikiki Beach. The Hong Kong Hilton when making this first stop in Asia. Then Hotel Okura in Tokyo. Hotel Siam in Bangkok.

And so on. Five stars, all. Luxury at every turn.

It is a way to make it feel like home and to keep variation to a minimum since each passenger manifest brings enough variety to keep anyone occupied for a long time.

Juan Trippe isn’t satisfied with that, though. I heard from the other girls that he is going to build a hotel chain—the InterContinental—so that all the airline’s and passengers’ money stays under a Pan Am roof rather than in Conrad Hilton’s coffers.

When we arrive at the registration desk, I see that our bags have been sent ahead and are waiting on a bellhop cart. I smile at this efficiency.

But there, on the desk, I notice something that steals the smile from my face.

Days old, a New York Times headline screams danger:

Drive In Vietnam Wins Wide Gains

Conflict between the countries seems inevitable and I feel it more acutely being on this side of the world. And reminds me more than ever of the mission that was spoken of in training—that Pan Am stewardesses are ambassadors of the United States. The glamour of what I am embarking on is tempered, for the moment, by this solemn charge.