Chapter 6 #2
Pancho smiled at her fellow fliers. “Sorry, ladies. I didn’t mean to put you in a tricky situation. At least not before the race has even begun,” she amended.
Marvel looped her arm through Pancho’s and tugged her deeper into the ballroom. “You did tell us you were aiming to make a splash. Of course we expected to get a little wet.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The race officials and male VIPs had begun to emerge from the gentlemen’s salon. Clema hustled over to her husband, gesturing angrily in Pancho’s direction, clearly hoping for backup from him.
Pancho took a long draw from her cigar, blowing a cloud of smoke that drew gasps from the coifed and gowned ladies nearby.
“Waste of our time making us turn out for this party,” she groused loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear.
“I’ll have you know, Marvel, I didn’t put these banquets in any of the rules I helped to write. ”
Marvel rolled her eyes. “Of course you didn’t. We all know that sponsors only back us in order to increase their profits. Showing us off like prize ponies is the only reason they sign us on. They were likely chatting about it in their gentlemen’s lounge while you were working hard on their behalf.”
“I’m of half a mind to go tell off the other members of the race committee who hid this banquet from me,” Pancho remarked with a look toward the opposite side of the room, where several men were shaking hands and looking mighty pleased with themselves.
“Please don’t,” Marvel replied in alarm. “The way I hear it, once you get wound up, you don’t stop for a while. We’ll all have to stand here until you finish . . . and dinner will get cold.” As Pancho harrumphed, she added, “Maybe save your energy for the race. What do you say?”
Pancho sighed. Contrary to the rumors, she did generally have good control of her temper.
But now and then, a calculated explosion was called for.
As irritating as this party might be, she supposed it wasn’t doing any harm.
It wasn’t a bad thing for the racers to blow off a little steam and make nice with the people paying for the whole event, she supposed. She nodded at Marvel.
“Well, that’s some good, straight talk right there. I want you to know that I’m going to try to win this race. But if I don’t, I hope you do, Marvel.”
They smiled warmly at each other. They might be competitors, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends, too. On impulse, Pancho reached out and hugged Marvel.
Marvel had a sensible head on her shoulders. Arguing with these men over a party, when there was an opportunity to just let their skills in the cockpit speak for themselves, did none of the women any good. Focusing on the race was definitely the way to go.
And Marvel was going to be stiff competition. Not only was she one of the most skilled fliers among them, with experience cross-country racing against men, but Marvel’s Speedwing single-seater with a Wright J-6-7 engine was fast. Really fast.
Yep, she was going to have her hands full trying to beat Marvel, and she couldn’t afford to let parties and dress codes distract her.
Regardless of who won or lost, though, Pancho had a feeling she and Marvel were going to be good friends, the lifelong kind, pushing each other to work harder and be better in the profession they both loved so much.
The chicken turned out to be overcooked and dry; the brown gravy, lumpy and bland.
The mashed sweet potatoes weren’t half bad, and Pancho wolfed those down.
The string beans and pickled carrots were edible, and she finished those off as well.
Bored as the meal dragged on, she excused herself from the table and headed out into the hallway in search of a phone.
It took her a minute to find one tucked in a dark wooden cubicle.
She stepped inside and lifted the receiver.
“Operator. What number are you calling?”
She gave her estate’s number and heard several clicks as operators connected to her family’s compound, where multiple descendants of her grandfather, Thaddeus Lowe, had built homes. Her grandmother had built her a palatial home on the estate when she’d gotten married.
One of the maids answered the phone politely.
Pancho said, “Put William on. His mama wants to tell him good night.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry, ma’am, but . . . umm . . . Rev. Barnes said not to let you speak with Master William.”
“What nonsense is that? I’m his mother.”
The maid made a soft sound of distress on the other end of the line. In the background, Pancho heard a male voice say something unintelligible and then the maid saying clearly, “Yes, sir.”
“Good evening, Florence,” her husband said formally.
Pancho’s eyes narrowed. Her husband was a reverend, and she knew that self-righteous tone often heralded a stone wall of his opinion about how she should live her life.
It won’t be the first time you’ve refused to bend . . .
Still, she decided to make an effort for William’s sake and not fly off the handle.
“I’ll be more inclined to agree it’s a good evening when you put William on the line so I can say good night to him,” Pancho informed him firmly. “Talking to my son makes for a fine evening.”
“Is it still your intention to fly in the Women’s Air Derby?”
Pancho didn’t hesitate. “It is. I don’t know why you’re wasting time asking me a question like that. I told you I was going to do it. When have you ever known me to change my mind once I’ve made it up?”
“Never,” he agreed a shade bitterly. “William saw your picture in the newspaper.”
Pancho felt a pinch of guilt.
“His friends were gleefully pointing out his mother smoking a cigar on the front page next to stories of mobsters and murder.”
“I posed for that picture so folks would have something decent to see instead of that other bad news. This derby is about achievements. That’s why I am doing it.”
“Really, Florence? Be honest. You want to win.”
“That’s right, I do,” Pancho confirmed.
“Have you considered how concerned our son is? The paper outlined some very dire conditions surrounding this race.”
Pancho didn’t back down. “William can be proud to know his mother is no coward.”
“Do you believe that will be any comfort at your funeral?” Rankin wasn’t dropping the matter either. “I really wonder if you are in a sane state of mind these days.”
It was a warning, a reminder that the law favored men and allowed husbands to control every aspect of their wives’ lives. Pancho wasn’t having it, though.
“Put William on, and I will happily say good night to you,” she said coolly.
“I will not.”
Pancho felt her temper snap. Too many women lived a life restrained by unspoken things. She refused to stay silent.
“If you’re so worried about appearances, you should have taken me inside as a chaperone when you went calling on your female parishioners.
You’re the pot calling the kettle black.
No one dares to question you because I went with you.
That is naught but a quilt pulled up over the dirty sheets.
” Pancho bit back an outright accusation that he’d been sleeping with his female parishioners .
. . even though she knew darned good and well he had.
It was thin-ice territory. Many women ended up in asylums being treated for hysteria when they dared to stand up against their husbands.
So many unspoken things . . .
They weighed too much for her to tolerate.
She wasn’t the appeasing sort, but the law favored her husband. Sure, she had a great lawyer, but she had the race to focus on right now. It was poor timing to pick a fight. She needed to choose skill over temper.
“Did you really think I was naive enough not to know what you were about while I sat out in the car? Maybe you should spend more time worrying about the example you are setting for your son than the one I am. Now, put William on, please.”
“Only if you withdraw from this race,” he said.
“This race is about the future of aviation, something my family has been involved in for three generations.”
He exhaled audibly, then said more quietly, if not less angrily, “Since it’s your intention to go ahead with participating in this insane and dangerous race, you leave me no choice. I must protect my son from the dangerous example you’re setting.”
“William is my son, too,” she retorted. “The only example I’m setting for him is demonstrating that he comes from aviation stock. I fly, just like my father and grandfather did. In fact, as soon as this race is over, I’m taking William up and teaching him how to do it.”
“You will not take my son up in one of those flying coffins!” Rankin exclaimed. “Absolutely not.”