The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(43)

“Lucky?” He thought I was frightened because of the tailspin. They all thought I was shaking because of it. I pressed my hand against the wing and tried to steady myself. “I lived because of training that I received as one of the Women Airforce Service Pilots during the war.”

“Of course, but it still must be frightening.”

“Not really. The birds in the air startled me, of course, but surprises like that are why we were put through such rigorous training as WASPs.” I gestured to the air, where the other women in our group were still circling. If I could only turn the attention away from me as easily as they circled. “Any of the other women in our group could have overcome that spin the same way I did. In fact, we have it easier than men in those circumstances, because our bodies are not subject to the same degree of strain from the G-forces in a spin.”

“And how did it feel, to be in that spiral of death?”

“Well … the death spiral is a different type of spin.” I tried to do the society smile that Nicole used to such good effect. “But when you’re in the middle of a tailspin, if you’ve been trained, you only think about what to do next. I save the panicking for when I’m talking to reporters.”

That got a chuckle from the crowd. I kept my hand pressed against the warm wing of my plane. It had kept me alive, even after those damn birds. “One good thing about the moon and Mars missions: those pilots won’t have to worry about hitting birds.”

Another laugh. “I do hope that people will enjoy the rest of the air show, and think about what our lady pilots can do for the space missions. If we want colonies … we’ll need women in space.”

“That’s interesting that you say that. Can you tell me why?”

“Oh dear … I’m not sure if I should explain where babies come from on television.” Through the crowd, I saw Nathaniel. Or, I didn’t even really “see him,” because he was still fighting his way through; I felt him, his terror and the way he drove through the crowd to try to reach me. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go reassure my husband.”

The crowd laughed even louder. I didn’t intend that last bit of double-entendre when I said it, and I was fairly certain that no amount of “reassurance” would calm Nathaniel down anytime soon.

Wading into the crowd, I kept my head down, concentrating on the hard tarmac. Men’s shoes, ladies in heels, gray cuffs, stockings with crooked back seams, and hands—hands touching my shoulder, or arm, or back as people said my name. “Mrs. York!”

And then, finally, “Elma!”

Nathaniel’s arms went around me in a shield. I wanted to cower into them, but I used his strength to draw myself up. People were watching, and I could not disappear. People were watching. That thought did not help. I could barely breathe.

But my husband was here. I lifted my head to seek his eyes as a guide wire. Their crystal blue was covered by a sheen of tears, and their edges were rimmed with red. His hand shook where it pressed against my back.

I put a hand against his cheek. “I’m fine. Love, I’m fine. It was just a tailspin.”

“Thirty percent of aviation fatalities are from tailspins.” He clutched me close and pressed his cheek against mine. “Goddamn it. Don’t ‘just a tailspin’ me.”

I don’t know where the laughter came from. Because I wasn’t dead? Because panic and hysteria are two sides of the same coin? Because he loved me so much he’d just resorted to statistics to express it? “Well, now you’ll have to revise the numbers, won’t you? Because I didn’t die.”

He laughed at that, and picked me off the ground. The crowd stepped back as he swung me in his arms.

That’s the image they showed in the National Times. First there’s my plane, tumbling out of control. And beside it, a photo of me, laughing in the arms of my husband with a crowd of people standing around us.

Those are the only photos of me, because as soon as we got off the airfield, I locked myself in the bathroom. Every time I thought I was together enough to go back out, I could hear the voices of reporters in the hall and got queasy all over again. So I waited until the air show was over, and my stomach was empty, and Nathaniel’s worry when he knocked on the door was too much to ignore.

It would make more sense to be afraid of the crash, but I was afraid of the reporters.

And I was ashamed to be so weak.





FIFTEEN

LADY PILOTS THRILL AIR SHOW THRONG

By ELIZABETH RALLS

Special to The National Times.





KANSAS CITY, KS, May 27, 1956—Hundreds of aviation enthusiasts turned out at the municipal airport here yesterday to watch the first international show of women pilots. Of particular interest to the throng was Princess Shakhovaskaya, formerly of Russia, who flew loops in her vintage biplane.


The smells of garlic and ginger wafting around Helen’s kitchen had my mouth watering. I was on cocktail duty, and was mixing another batch of martinis for the lot of us. Women pilots perched on every available seat, leaned in doorways, or—in Betty’s case—sat on the counter.

Betty held a newspaper clipping in one hand and the remnants of a martini in the other. “I quote: ‘The lady pilots acquitted themselves with admirable skill and thrilled the attending crowd. The pilots performed many astonishing feats, not least of which was the military precision of their formation flying, led by Miss Ida Peaks of Kansas City. ’”