Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (top 50 books to read .TXT) 📕

sexism infuriated her. He insisted that women were too impulsive to be good pilots, too emotional, couldn’t keep their minds steady enough to grasp all the variables of flying. Earhart’s navigational mistakes would never have been made by a man. “How do you know that?” she demanded. “Nobody knows what happened to that plane. Anyway, the navigator was a man.”

He laughed when she said that. He dropped by the hangers from time to time to check on work on his planes, mainly the D-2 fighter he was developing for the army air force. Her supervisor apparently gave her good reports for Hughes invited her to a little maintenance get-together at his house in Hancock Park a few weeks later.

She’d been in maintenance more than a year when they rolled out the D-2 twin-engine prototype for him to take up one day. He waved to her across the hangar and invited her to come up with him. She was thrilled. By that time, she knew the plane inside and out, better than Hughes himself. She was ready to fly again.

They flew out over the Ballona Channel and banked southwest toward Catalina. Even on a routine cruise she could see he was a brilliant pilot, a man with true air instincts. Kilgore Street with its deep descent toward the cliffs was easy to spot over Playa del Rey, and she thought a moment about poor Billy Todd, who would have taken over his father’s dental practice by now. She expected Howard to invite her to take the controls, but he did not. The plane started shaking when they’d been in the air less than twenty minutes, barely half the way to the island, and they turned back with a stabilizer problem that needed fixing.

Reading her disappointment, he smiled his wicked smile. “Come see me in my office when we’re back.”

She was still in overalls. Hughes never wore overalls. Coffee was served and he explained how Lockheed had stolen the design for its twin boom P-38 from the D-2, which would prove to be the far better plane, match up better with the Jap Zeros. For the first time the conversation turned personal. He asked about her past, her time in Europe, what she had seen, whom she had seen. There was nothing improper about it; he asked nothing about her romantic life, and she offered nothing. She was struck by that. Most men are curious about a woman’s romantic past, want to know all the details, however intimate. Not Howard. It didn’t matter what she had done or with whom, but what she could do for him. She enjoyed the conversation until near the end. The offer was camouflaged but unmistakable: If she slept with him he might change his mind about letting her fly. He liked to get to know his pilots.

She’d bit her tongue and not reacted, not asked if he also slept with his male pilots to get to know them. But she was furious, and that night called Lizzie to talk about options, which came down to walking out, giving in, or putting up with ground maintenance forever. None of that was her way. Besides, there was a war on. She might be the only female pilot at Hughes Aircraft, one temporarily grounded, but she’d heard of others scattered around the country. Lizzie gave her the idea of getting in touch with the others, organizing them into a collective female unit, but they had no idea how to do it. The army air force was complaining to Congress of a serious shortage of pilots. Why shouldn’t female pilots be able to serve?

Hughes laughed in her face when she mentioned it.

♦ ♦ ♦

She met Lizzie for lunch at the Brown Derby on Wilshire, a favorite place for the Hollywood crowd. Maggie had to call her at the Times to make the date. They had different schedules and seldom ran into each other at their Westwood apartment.

“It’s like you’ve moved out,” Maggie said.

“I suppose I have.”

“Asa?”

“He’s been pestering me since his overseas orders came. Looks like the Pacific. I suppose we’ll get married before he leaves.”

“Seldom have I heard such enthusiasm.”

“All these guys disappearing—apparently more marriages being performed than ever before. How can I turn him down?”

“Easy—just say no.”

“Did you say no to Arnaud?”

“We were in love. Are you?”

“I’m not the family romantic.”

“Ah. So suppose you get pregnant and he gets killed.”

“Did you get pregnant?”

“No, I did not. But I probably know more about that sort of thing.”

Lizzie reddened. Maggie was right but didn’t need to say it. “Anyway, we’re not here to discuss me, are we?”

“In a way, yes we are.” Maggie motioned to the waitress. “I told you something about my idea on the phone.”

“You want women in the army air force?”

“If we can fly as well as men, why not? We’re at war.”

They ordered sandwiches and iced tea and looked around for famous faces. Neither woman recognized anyone.

“You’re talking about noncombat flying?”

“As a start.”

“They’ll never let you fly in war.”

“One step at a time.”

“And you think I can help in some mysterious way? That’s why we’re having this lunch.”

“Exactly.”

Lizzie gave her a soft smile.

Despite the differences, you could tell they were sisters, something in how they walked and talked, even sat. Maggie moved her hands more, likely from her time in France, and with her darker complexion and athletic figure would always turn more heads. But Lizzie’s sandy hair and easy way of smiling and inviting you to tell her everything about yourself had its own appeal. Looking at the rows of pictures as they’d entered, they spied Sister Angie in white gown smiling out between Eve Arden and Bette Davis. Uncle Willie’s photo was still there.

Maggie sat back to observe her sister, who was dressed in a plain gray flannel skirt and beige sweater, the same style—maybe even the same clothes—she’d worn at UCLA. Her method was to use her anonymity to get what she wanted. No one ever mistook her for a hard-charging newspaper reporter.