Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
The picture of Pancho at the race’s entry table, grinning and smoking her cigar, made the front page of the morning news. The headline announced, “Mrs. Barnes to Be Flying Flapper.” Beneath it the story read:
Mrs. Florence Barnes, seen here signing her official entry form for the National Women’s Air Derby, is the wife of Rankin Barnes, rector of St. James’ Episcopal Church in South Pasadena.
She and nineteen other intrepid lady aviators will race their planes from Clover Field in Santa Monica, California, to the National Air Races in Cleveland, Ohio, starting tomorrow.
The race, the first of its kind, is expected to take nine days, and its route traverses ten states.
These courageous ladies will face many dangers—extreme heat on the ground, extreme cold in the skies, sandstorms, thunderstorms, wind, fog, mechanical malfunctions, maybe even getting lost and emergency landings, not to mention the ever-present risk of crashing or even death.
In the bright light of midmorning, Rankin Barnes sat frozen, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth, while he stared at the photo of his wife.
To his left, their eight-year-old son, William, craned his neck to see what had captivated his father.
Rankin put his cup down with a sharp rattle on the china saucer.
He slapped the newspaper down on the table as well.
William exclaimed, “Mother’s in the newspaper!”
The excitement in the boy’s voice drew a stern look from Rankin. He tapped the picture. “William . . . decent woman aren’t mentioned in the papers, and they certainly don’t make the front page.”
William blinked as if trying to decide what to think of his father’s words and the picture of his mother in the morning news.
“Your mother is . . . unwell,” Rankin informed his son stiffly.
William stared at him, wide-eyed. “Does she need a doctor? What’s wrong with her?”
Rankin nodded. “Indeed, I believe she does. A special sort of doctor, William. Your mother’s ailment is inside her mind. But not to fear. I’m going to make certain she gets the help she needs.”
William nodded back and said solemnly, “I’m awful glad to hear that, sir.”
Rankin ruffled his son’s hair. “Off to the schoolroom with you, William.”
“But it’s the weekend!”
“Your tutor told me you’re falling behind in Latin, and he made a special trip to our home this morning to give you an extra lesson. He should be upstairs waiting for you now. You can go outside and play after you master your declensions, young man.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy mumbled as he scooted his chair back from the table and headed for the stairs.
Alone, Rankin stared at the photo of his wife, grinning cheekily at him from the front page.
She should be there beside him and William.
The large dining table seemed even larger with only two place settings on it. The vast emptiness was like the point of a dagger in his heart. Family was the only true wealth. His wife should have filled more of the chairs with siblings for William.
He returned his attention to the news article.
These courageous ladies will face many dangers . . .
The ever-present risk of crashing . . .
His own concern aside, Rankin couldn’t help but think of his young son’s heartbreak if his mother perished.
Florence should have grown out of her rebellious stage. Home and family should have filled her heart with contentment.
Shaking his head, he allowed his face to reflect his deep concern now that William wasn’t present to witness it. He muttered sternly to the picture, “You leave me no choice. I must take you in hand, Florence. For your own safety.”
Santa Monica’s city fathers, wealthy race donors, and other male VIPs were waiting for the gala dinner to begin, gathered behind the closed doors of the hotel’s gentlemen’s salon, where they were undoubtedly drinking expensive whiskey and smoking imported Cuban cigars, both of which Pancho loved.
Not that it would occur to any of the men to invite her into their exclusive lounge.
Irritated, she paused outside the salon and pulled out one of her own cigars.
She lit it right there in the hallway and took a puff, blowing smoke at the carved redwood doors.
Rolling her eyes, she headed for the ballroom, where the wives and girlfriends would be milling around and gossiping, checking out one another’s outfits, and waiting for the shindig to start.
All of which sounded perfectly dreadful.
Pancho rounded the corner into the cavernous space.
The women before her were turned out in grand style, showing off their fanciest dresses in the latest fashions and wearing their most expensive jewels.
Brilliantly colored silk draped and fluttered; glass beads and shiny bangles sparkled; jewels winked from throats, hands, and ears.
The whole scene glittered under the ballroom’s giant chandeliers.
She paused in the doorway, struck by how much this roomful of women in their finery reminded her of an aviary full of captive exotic birds, each more gaudily feathered than the last. They were beautiful to look at, but none were free to fly.
“Mrs. Barnes!” Clema Granger exclaimed, appalled, from just inside the door, where she was stationed to make sure no crashers got in. “This is a formal banquet!”
“And this is my formal flying attire,” Pancho replied tartly, giving her fitted black velvet suit coat, cut like a man’s, a tug.
She resisted the urge to give her white silk cravat a yank as well.
It was warm in here, and she could use a little air under the neck scarf.
She did, however, reach up to tilt her black velvet beret into a slightly jauntier angle on her head.
Clema’s face darkened. “Mrs. Barnes, the rules clearly state that all aviators will dress accordingly for the evening banquets.”
Pancho took a puff off her cigar and blew a smoke ring, enjoying how Clema’s eyes widened with outrage.
“Really, I must insist you change into something more appropriate.” Clema was showing more spine than Pancho had given her credit for. Not that it was going to make any difference.
She replied evenly, “I helped write the rules for this derby, and first and foremost, this is an air race. I’m here to win it, not fiddle-fart around, playing dress up. I’m not interested in anything that distracts me from what I’m here to do.”
Marvel strolled over, wearing a sleeveless gown in burgundy silk that showed off her slender frame nicely.
Pancho noted with approval that it wasn’t as heavily beaded and bedecked as most of the other gowns in the room, but Marvel’s youthful face and shy demeanor would have been overwhelmed by anything too flashy.
“Nice dress,” Pancho said warmly to her.
“Nice pants,” Marvel replied dryly.
Clema said, “Go home and change into a dress, Mrs. Barnes.”
Pancho shrugged. “I’ll be happy to go home and skip this foolishness altogether.”
Marvel said soothingly to Clema, “Pancho’s one of the guests of honor, and she’s giving a speech before we watch her latest movie. Did you know she’s a famous stunt pilot? She has to stay.”
Clema’s face reddened a bit more. “She cannot wear pants to a formal event. It’s simply not done!”
“And yet, here I stand, doing it,” Pancho retorted. She added, with an exaggerated glance at the ceiling, “And gee whiz, I haven’t been struck by lightning. So even God must approve of my sensible attire.”
“You’re dressed like a man,” Clema hissed. “There’s nothing sensible about that at all.”
“I’m dressed just like I was for the movie, the very essence of the theme for the evening. Hollywood aviation formal attire.” Pancho ended her comment with a saucy wink. No one missed the way her eyes sparkled with mischief.
Marvel slapped a hand over her mouth as a giggle escaped her.
Amelia, Blanche, and Ruth strolled over to join them, and all three women looked like the bee’s knees in extravagant couture gowns dripping with beads and crystals.
Ruth wore three strands of pearls that hung nearly to her waist, and Pancho didn’t doubt for a second they were real.
As they traded hugs, the women commented on how sharp Pancho looked and how jealous they were of her comfortable pants and boots.
In deference to the alarming shade of crimson on Clema’s face, Pancho refrained from sending the woman an arch look at the other pilots’ tacit support of her attire.
Truth be told, Jim and Clema had done a great job organizing the race from this end and had been nothing but supportive of the women pilots. Clema couldn’t help it if she came from an earlier generation of women who would never dare to imagine coloring outside the lines of traditional society.
Pancho cast her voice in a placating tone.
“I did put aside my usual leather jacket for this nice velvet one, and these are custom-tailored pants. I even had my best boots polished. Heck, I bought a new silk scarf for tonight so it would be nice and clean with no grease stains, and I broke out my grandmother’s diamond brooch, said to have been owned by Marie Antoinette. ”
She gestured casually at the priceless diamond pin nestled in the folds of the scarf at her neck. Its central diamond was fully the size of her thumbnail and surrounded by two dozen large diamonds in an intricate fleur-de-lis. “I promise you. This is as formal as aviation wear gets.”
Clema threw her hands up, declaring in exasperation, “I give up. If the men toss you out on your ear when they arrive, it’s on your head, Pancho.” She spun on her heel, stumbled, righted herself indignantly, and marched away into the crowd.
Marvel said stoutly, “If they kick you out, Pancho, I’m leaving as well.”
“Me, too,” Amelia declared.
“Me, three,” Blanche chimed in.
Ruth grinned. “Not me. I’m sticking around to see the fireworks if four of the race favorites refuse to make nice and walk out of the circus where we’re the main act of performing monkeys. It’s sure to be a spicy cracker.”