Chapter Eight Judy
Chapter Eight
Judy
Three days. Three whole days that I haven’t woken up next to Henry and had to worry about what lay ahead when the sun rose. There is a lightness to this feeling, as if I have been buried under sandbags and suddenly, they’ve been removed.
I’ve forgotten how to breathe. My lungs struggle to gulp the thick, salty Florida air. But I am also suffocated by the fear that Henry will discover where I am, fly to Miami, and insist I come back to Pennsylvania with him.
And what choice would I have? If Pan American finds out that I’m married, I will be fired on the spot. No married girls. No women with children at home. No daughters with elderly parents who depend on her. No exceptions.
A stewardess must be completely unattached, a point that was drilled into us on the second day of training when our instructor reviewed the basic guidelines of working for the company. Of course, these had been covered in the interview, but were repeated so as to leave no doubt in our minds.
I will have to stay alert.
Pan Am has put us up in the Miami Airways Motel, a two-story square building surrounding a swimming pool lined with palm trees that tower over it all. A black-and-white-striped awning welcomes us to our home for the next few weeks. The rooms all face each other, bordered by outdoor walkways. And there is a housemother whose room has a particularly good view of all the others. No overnight guests allowed. No shenanigans.
We are all adults. But we are all plebes to Pan American.
“If I’d wanted to go to boot camp, I’d have joined the army,” one of the girls commented upon check-in, aptly making the same military comparison I had.
And yet, it is paradise in my eyes.
It is freedom.
There are two sets of bunk beds per room. I have an upper one. The girl underneath me is from Arkansas, a town called Fordyce, which she pronounces for dice. Jean has red hair and freckles, but they disappear under the thick paste she puts on her face in the morning. She left school when she received the Pan Am envelope, but keeps a Boll Weevils banner pinned to the wall. I haven’t talked to her much—she’s spent an inordinate amount of time and money on the telephone with her boyfriend.
The girl in the other upper bunk is the one I saw in New York. Beverly something. The bewitching one. Like me, Beverly has no mementos of home to adorn the room, and I wonder why that is.
What does that say about us? That we have everything ahead of us?
Or nothing to go back to?
I hope I’ll get to find out. Other than Ronelle, it’s been a very, very long time since I’ve had a friend.
The bunk below Beverly’s remains empty. A girl dropped out before classes even began when the routine physical exam revealed that she had the beginnings of varicose veins, a detriment for someone who would have to spend a great deal of their time standing.
But we’d heard that she wasn’t too broken up about it. Her boyfriend had proposed to her upon her arrival home.
I am delighted for her, whoever she is. And I’m pleased at my reaction—it means that I am not as thoroughly jaded by love as I feared. Perhaps there is hope for me.
Beverly is in the shower right now. I can hear her singing something I don’t recognize, muffled by the impressive water pressure of the showerhead. And though her bed is void of personal mementos, her many clothes are splayed across the empty bed, which she claimed early on through de facto squatter’s rights when neither Jean nor I objected. Silks and linens and all kinds of fabrics that must be specially cared for rather than washed in a bucket and dried on a line. I don’t know where she expects to wear them—our outfits for class must be practical. And after graduation, we’ve already been encouraged to pack wash-and-wear clothing for our downtime so as to maximize the precious hours we have to explore on a layover.
But to each her own. I am not going to mimic my husband and demand that all people see things my way.
I look at my own rack in the wardrobe—it is sparse in comparison to Beverly’s substantial array. Not by design, but because I took so little with me when I was hurrying out of the house. I smile at the sight of the pink-and-yellow sweater. My mom would be proud of me for being here. I wish she could have seen me.
I feel bone tired, the kind where if you don’t get moving, the ground might just swallow you up and it would be a welcome thing. My hands are numb from taking notes. My head is stuffed and cannot contain one more fact. I want to sink into the softness of my mattress and never wake, but I have to either get up and wash the clothes I’m wearing or buy new ones before tomorrow. I try not to think of my suitcase back in the attic in Red Lion and all that it holds. None of which I ever expect to see again.
When Henry finds it—because he will, undoubtedly searching every corner of the house for me—he will discover that I didn’t have an accident somewhere on the way to the pharmacy. He’ll figure out that I am gone. That I’ve left him.
Did I leave any clues as to where I was heading? I’ve done inventory in my head like an unending carousel going round and round and round. But I think I am safe on that front.
I slip out of the motel room and put a cardigan over my shoulders because I’ve found that the evenings here mercifully cool off after dark.
There is a Sears, Roebuck on Biscayne Boulevard, a short bus ride from our lodgings, and I’m sure they will have what I need for not too much money.
An hour later, I have bought two skirts and two blouses, which will have to do until I receive my first paycheck. Polyester, easy to wash in the hotel sink.
I hear the lap of waves, and my head swivels east. It is only a bay, not a beach. But it is more water than I have ever stood in front of, and I know that the Atlantic Ocean lies beyond the strip of land on the horizon. The Atlantic Ocean. On the other side sits many of the places that were mere pinpoints on my childhood map. London. Paris. Rome. Athens. I feel myself glowing with possibilities in spite of my exhaustion.
I walk to the bay’s edge and am mesmerized by its gentle kiss to the thin shoreline. And even more by the tiny crabs that skitter along it. They creep into dark, fingerlike holes in the sand and disappear.
That is a sentiment I can understand.
The sky is unremarkable—the sun is setting behind me, and I remind myself that one of these mornings, I should get up early enough to see it rise in the east. That must be a spectacular sight.
I hear music coming from a nearby café. I turn and see four men with leathery skin wearing wide-brimmed straw hats and playing drums and guitars. I believe they’re singing in Spanish, and it is unlike anything I’ve ever heard. I close my eyes and begin to sway. I have not yet left the country, but I already feel as if I’m transported to a new land, one where Henry will never find me. I smell rum and sweat and rain in the air, and it is an enchanting, heady combination. It is the melody of starting over.
“Miss Goodman?”
I am jolted from this trance, and I open my eyes to see one of our instructors in front of us. Joe Clayton, the name still emblazoned on the chalkboard. He looks different—he is not wearing a tie and has a relaxed look about him that has not yet made an appearance in our classroom. It’s hard to believe that this is the same man who wore drab brown in New York and a plain button-down shirt during the first days of training. This loose cotton one becomes him. Even if it is still basic white.
“Yes—I’m Judy Goodman.”
I smile and hang my head before looking up at him again. He has this effect on me—I feel shy and I don’t know why. “That’s quite a talent,” I say. “How do you know my name after such a short time?”
He grins, and it is a nice look on him. Sheepish. I know the definition, but can’t recall seeing it so precisely on someone before.
“A hazard of the trade, I suppose. When you spend a few years memorizing the manifests on each of your flights, you pick up a few tricks for recalling names. The Pan Am International Standard of Service. ” He chuckles. “Don’t worry. You’ll get that phrase so stuck in your head soon that you’ll get sick of it.”
“You were a steward?” I ask. I don’t know why this surprises me. He certainly knows his stuff.
“Yes. Didn’t I mention that in my introduction?”
“No. You haven’t told us anything about yourself.”
There’s that look again, as if he’s a little embarrassed by it. “I guess you’re right. I tend to skip all the pleasantries. There’s so much to cover.”
“That doesn’t sound like a very good trait for a steward.”
I regret it as soon as I say it. I didn’t mean it to sound like a criticism.
He shrugs and rubs his hand across his chin before crossing his arms across his chest. “It wouldn’t seem so, but in a way it is. Time is limited, the passengers are plentiful, so you can’t waste time on unimportant words. Although what you do say, you have to say with a smile.”
He smiles as if to underscore his point.
I like his smile.
I clear my throat. “Got it, Mr. Clayton. I’ll add that to my notes.”
The volume of the music increases, and the pace becomes frenetic, drowning out our words. I am about to say goodbye when a waiter approaches us.
“A table for two?” he shouts.
I feel my stomach growl, and I’m glad that it can’t be heard. I haven’t eaten anything since lunch, and whatever is coming from that kitchen smells delicious. But I don’t have much money. A candy bar from the Sears counter sits in my bag and will serve as my dinner.
Mr. Clayton looks at me and maybe he reads that in my eyes. “Yes. If you have something in a quieter spot.”
“Right this way, sir.”
We follow him to a room at the other end of the café, and I realize that it is much more extensive than I’d first assumed. In this back area, the band is muffled, but I’m glad we can still hear it. It’s completely new to me, and I love it.
The waiter heads toward a window. I can see the lights from boats sparkle on the distant water and the palm trees sway in a gentle dance. Mr. Clayton holds out the chair with the better view and motions for me to sit down.
As he takes his own seat, I am struck by how very different this moment is from my life just seventy-two hours ago.
I need to put aside such thoughts. If I am to have a new beginning, I cannot keep comparisons to the things of the past. And yet—I also can’t make the same mistakes. I learned the hard way that men are not always what they seem, at first, to be. The past is a necessary reminder to have caution.
The table is small and the proximity intimate. My feet brush Mr. Clayton’s unintentionally. I am mortified and pull them away.
But the electric feeling that ran through me remains. What could that mean?
I’m grateful again for the music in the background, which offers a good excuse to sit in silence. What should we even talk about? This is not a date. He is my instructor, and I am his student, and even though we’re both adults, I don’t know if this is allowed.
Not to mention that I’m married .
But too much quiet makes me uncomfortable.
“So how long were you a steward?” I ask.
A safe, simple question. I’d rather he talk about himself than have the spotlight on me.
Mr. Clayton leans in and folds his hands together on the table. “Just two years. It was a good life, but at some point, I wanted to settle in one place and build a life. So when they offered me the stability of this training job, I took it.”
“You live here in Miami, then?”
“Yes—the Magic City, as they call her.”
I don’t ask him why that is, though its magic is certainly working on me. I’m more curious about why he’s here. “I thought I’d seen you as one of the interviewers in New York. So I assumed you lived there.”
“Ah, you remember me?” That seems to please him. I notice him fidget with the stem of his water glass, and if I didn’t know better, I’d guess that he is nervous.
“Probably better than you remember me,” I answer. “You all must have seen hundreds of girls that day.”
He shuffles in his chair. “I recall you very well, Miss Goodman. In fact, I fought for the approval of your application.”
This takes me by surprise. And my next words catch in my throat.
“You did?”
He presses his lips together and nods.
A million things race through my mind. Not the least of which is the realization that if someone had to fight for me—that means I almost didn’t get the job. I shudder to think of that possibility. “Maybe you can’t tell me,” I begin. “But you bring up something I’ve wondered ever since then.”
“What’s that?” he asks. I am probably right in thinking that he regrets having said too much, but now that he’s opened that door, I have to walk through it.
“Why did I get picked? There were so many qualified girls. And so few spots.”
He takes a deep breath, clearly deliberating, and now I’m sorry that I’ve inadvertently put him in this position. But I see a decision come over his face, and his words are spoken with a resolute tone.
“I could tell you wanted it more than any of them. And in my experience, those are the women who work out the best.”
My heart beats faster. Maybe from knowing what the alternative could have been. Had it shown that much? Or is he just particularly perceptive?
I nod. “Yes. I needed this—wanted this—very badly.”
I see him relax a bit, leaning in, just as I start fiddling with the stem of my own water glass. They certainly are convenient distractions.
“You see, Miss Goodman, a Pan American stewardess is more than just the sum of what is on paper. Like most of the young women, you met all the qualifications. And there were some who checked more boxes than you did. Three languages. Or a completed degree. But I guess one side effect in this trade is a knack for sizing people up. Thousands of people coming through your flights will do that.”
I’m dying to know what those conversations were like in New York. Debating the merits of one girl over another. But I won’t press further. He already told me enough. I do him the favor of changing the subject even though I find myself burning to know more about what he thinks of me.
“And are you liking Miami so far?” I ask.
“I am.” A smile spreads that reaches all the way to his eyes, rendering them even more brilliant. “All six days that I’ve been here.”
“Six days! So you’re not quite accustomed to this heat either?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Let’s just say that if I ever flirted with doing things I shouldn’t, this heat is a reminder that I want to avoid hell at all costs.”
It’s probably best that we don’t see this side of him in the classroom. I, for one, would be too distracted to pay attention.
The waiter interrupts and asks for our drink orders before we can continue.
“We should try their mojitos,” Mr. Clayton says. “I’ve heard it’s their specialty.”
“Am I allowed to?”
Can I afford it , is what I think to myself.
“You’re not in uniform, so yes.” He sits back in his chair and hands his menu to the waiter.
I don’t drink. Ever. I lived through what it did to Henry—and then what he did to me. It was frightening.
But then an idea strikes me. The decisions I’d made before had been disastrous. Maybe the way to embrace this new life is to do everything opposite of what I’ve done in the past. Then the result will, logically, be flipped.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“I’ll have one as well,” I say to the waiter in a low voice, holding up a finger to emphasize one . A shiver runs through me.
Am I really doing this? I am really doing this.
I feel victorious. I feel daring . Goodness, I don’t know when the last time was that I could have said that. But I like it.
The drinks arrive in minutes. Condensation drips down ice-cold glasses and pools on the table. A yellow paper umbrella sticks out, and a swirl of fresh mint laces through ice cubes. I take a sip and lose myself in the way it makes my mouth and throat feel warm and cool all at the same time. Then another sip, and the sensation travels down to my empty stomach, burning and relaxing me.
One drink full of contradictions. I am lightheaded, and it is absolutely glorious.
“They’re good, right?” asks Mr. Clayton. “The menu says that the rum is from the Dominican Republic. The owner imports it from his nephew.”
My words are slow. “If I were you, I would have left New York just for this!”
He grins. I’m enjoying this relaxed version of him and I feel like I have this secret knowledge about what he’s like outside the classroom. Something that belongs just to me. At least in this moment. “You can get just about anything in New York,” he answers. “There is a pretty big Dominican community in the north part of Manhattan called Washington Heights, and I’m sure they could have made a great mojito if I’d wanted one. But it just feels more fitting here in the tropics. I rarely drink, but if I do, it has to feel like a special occasion.”
I feel my cheeks flush, and whether it’s from the drink or the notion that sitting here with me might be considered a special occasion , I don’t know.
I motion to the waiter to bring another after all, and in minutes, I’ve started on my second. I’m beginning to get really, really comfortable. I forget, briefly, about anything outside of this moment. That I have a husband. That I’m from Pennsylvania. That I have class tomorrow. That Joe Clayton is our instructor instead of a handsome man that I met outside a bar by the water in Miami.
Isn’t that the point?
If only Ronelle could see me! She’d be so thrilled. I will have to send her a postcard.
We grow comfortable in our conversation and the hesitancy I felt at first has vanished. I slur a word— bacon . But I say bacom . Why were we even talking about breakfast meat? I don’t remember, but I find it hilarious that I said it this way.
Mr. Clayton laughs when I laugh but insists that I need food and should start drinking some water. He’s on his second mojito as well, and though I can see that it has mellowed him, too, he seems far more put together than I feel.
Somehow, I don’t care.
We’re halfway through dinner—arroz con pollo for me and something called boliche for him—when he tells me that it feels silly for me to call him Mr. Clayton, at least in this setting, and so I start to call him Joe.
Joe. Joe. Rhymes with snow . Crow. Row. Glow. Toe.
Toe! Ha, that’s funny.
Did I say that all out loud? I don’t think I did.
I do feel like a new person.
Maybe that’s why Henry drinks. To make all your troubles go away. It certainly has done the trick for me. I won’t make a habit of it. But for tonight, I’ll make an exception.
Our banter turns more jovial in nature, though I notice that neither of us says anything revealingly personal.
It’s better that way.
“And then the plane hit an air pocket, and the man who had been so rude to me spilled whiskey all over his pants. It hadn’t dried by the time we landed, so he tried to adjust his bag to hold it in front of him, but the zipper caught on the back of a seat, and all his items fell out.”
I giggle. It is the fourth funny story that he’s told me about his career in the air. By the time our dessert arrives—flan—I am feeling much less nervous about this job. There is a camaraderie that seems to exist among the crew. And I’ve always wanted to feel like I was a part of something.
I might have joined a sorority at Franklin and Marshall if I hadn’t had to work during every hour of my free time.
And if I hadn’t dropped out to get married.
But I think the Pan Am family might be the very best one of all. Maybe some things work out as they should.
The waiter presents the check and Joe takes it, refusing any contribution from me. “Remember that I know what they’re paying you,” he insists. Though he seems like the sort of man who would never let a woman pick up the tab anyway.
The night sky is pitch black through the windows, and the band has started up again. Joe pulls my chair out, and I shiver at the light touch of his hand on my back as we weave through the tight spaces between the revelers who have filled up the place since we arrived.
“Where do you live?” I ask as we return to the waterfront.
“A few blocks that way.” He points to the left. For about two seconds, I imagine what it might be like to go home with him. But I have not drunk so much as to lose all my wits and I dismiss the thought as soon as it comes to me.
“Ah, our motel is near the airport. I have to catch the bus.”
My head swivels back and forth. Where was that bus stop?
“I’ll take you there,” Joe offers.
“You don’t need to. I can find my way.” But I stumble on a crack in the sidewalk as I say it. Perhaps the lingering effects of the drinks. Though as I look down, it was rather uneven. Anyone might have done the same.
“I think I have to insist.” Joe steadies me by holding my elbow and I am not sorry for an excuse to make contact again. “I wouldn’t have suggested the mojitos if—”
He lets the sentence drift unfinished. What would he have said?
If I’d known you were a lightweight? A cheap date?
There is no flattering end to that statement, and I fear that I have ruined something before it’s even begun.
All I can say is, “It’s not your fault.”
The bay glistens under the streetlights, and it conjures memories of every romantic movie I’ve ever seen. Except that this isn’t romantic—it can’t be. I must keep reminding myself of that.
It turns out that the bus stop is right across the street, and we ride in silence for the couple of miles back to the Miami Airways Motel. My head feels heavy, but I dig my nails into my skin to keep myself awake.
To keep myself from leaning into him for support.
That would not be a good idea.
When we arrive, I expect him to hop off and wait for the return ride, but instead he walks me up to the front door of the building.
I turn to thank Joe. Joe, dear Joe, the uptight instructor of the past few days who let down his hair a bit and gave me a chance to see another side of him. Tomorrow he will resume being Mr. Clayton, but tonight, he is Joe.
Then I do something I’ve never done. I raise myself up on my toes, close my eyes, and kiss him. On. The. Lips. I’ve never kissed another man besides Henry. Henry’s face was always perfectly shaven, and Joe’s is stubbly from a day of growth. It tickles my mouth, but I like it. It’s new, like everything else right now.
I am instantly sobered when I realize that he’s not kissing me back. And take a step back in stunned embarrassment.
I turn and don’t open my eyes until I’m facing the door of the motel office. I don’t thank him, I don’t look back at him.
Instead, I run inside and race up the stairs to our second-floor room. I press my forehead against the bedroom door and worry that I have made a disaster of everything.
What if the housemother saw us?
What have I just done?