Tennessee/January 8, 1948
Relaxed as a stroked kitten, Ginny luxuriated in the unaccustomed comfort of the fieldstone rambler that served as the McNaughton Aircraft Company's guesthouse, taking advantage of Stan's absence to play her private hair game. Placing her right hand at the top of her head, her fingers worked incessantly until they had grasped an individual hair. When she had it secured in solitary splendor, she pulled it, stretched it out in front of her mouth and bit it in half. It was a reflexive habit she'd had since adolescence and it drove Stan crazy.
Walking in suddenly, he caught her.
"Honey, you're doing it again. That's worse than biting your nails and I don't think it's healthy. Shouldn't we talk to a doctor about it?"
"I'll talk to a doctor about this, if you'll talk to him about the way you save things."
They stared angrily at each other, in the rough eye-contact of marital silence. He broke the impasse by throwing a magazine against the peeled-pine log wall.
"This crummy place looks like a Sonja Henie movie set."
"That shows what you know. It must have cost Troy a fortune—it's better than a ski lodge. Even has a heated swimming pool." She glanced around, mentally ticking off the prices of the expensive Ethan Allen furnishings.
Then, trying to make up, she said, "Sorry, baby. We're just nervous after all that's gone wrong. Maybe things will work out after all."
Coleman shook his head, his voice bitter. "Fat chance. We were better off before you got your dad involved."
"Better off! At least you got a chance to fly McNaughton's rocket plane."
"Big deal. Yeager goes through the sound barrier, and they cancel our program."
She lit a cigarette and drew deeply on it. "Why the hell couldn't he have crashed? Or even just bailed out?"
"Because he was good."
Sounding genuinely contrite for a change, she said, "I'm sorry, honey, I was trying to help."
"Yeah, just like today. The only reason Troy McNaughton is going to talk to me is because of your stepfather. I know that, he knows that, and it makes me feel like a jerk."
Ginny reached out and stroked his arm. "That's not true. You're here because you're a great pilot, and McNaughton needs you.
She managed him by switching subjects like a conman shifts the pea under the shells. Plopping herself down on his lap, she asked, "What's his wife like?"
Coleman shrugged. "I haven't seen her, but I hear she's pretty good-looking—she's a lot younger than Troy—and she's supposed to run the plant single-handed."
"You be careful around her."
He hugged her and said, "Let's both be careful. When you see her tomorrow, let her do the talking, find out all you can. This might be our big chance. And maybe our last one."
The next day had gone quite well for Stan Coleman; Ginny thought it had gone well for her, too.
Coleman was early for his nine o'clock appointment, and McNaughton gave him a quick tour of the huge plant. Only three years before, it had teemed with workers as Sidewinder and Mamba fighters poured off the production line for Russia, three shifts a day, seven days a week. Now most of the bays were empty, chained off, lights darkened and populated solely by the birds that inevitably found their way into the gloom of empty hangar space. Some modification activity was going on, but no new production. The empty plant made Coleman uneasy—McNaughton Aircraft looked as if it needed a funeral director more than a test pilot.
"Sad, isn't it? We took this place from a cornfield to one of the most modern aircraft plants in the world in just a few years. Now we'd be better off turning it back into a cornfield; we could get a few niggers in to run it. Might as well—the whole South's being taken over by them anyway."
"Somehow you don't look like a corn farmer to me, Mr. McNaughton." Stan traded on repackaging what people had just said, giving it a humorous conspiratorial twist. He'd already caught McNaughton's prejudiced view of Negroes and played to it.
Relaxed as a stroked kitten, Ginny luxuriated in the unaccustomed comfort of the fieldstone rambler that served as the McNaughton Aircraft Company's guesthouse, taking advantage of Stan's absence to play her private hair game. Placing her right hand at the top of her head, her fingers worked incessantly until they had grasped an individual hair. When she had it secured in solitary splendor, she pulled it, stretched it out in front of her mouth and bit it in half. It was a reflexive habit she'd had since adolescence and it drove Stan crazy.
Walking in suddenly, he caught her.
"Honey, you're doing it again. That's worse than biting your nails and I don't think it's healthy. Shouldn't we talk to a doctor about it?"
"I'll talk to a doctor about this, if you'll talk to him about the way you save things."
They stared angrily at each other, in the rough eye-contact of marital silence. He broke the impasse by throwing a magazine against the peeled-pine log wall.
"This crummy place looks like a Sonja Henie movie set."
"That shows what you know. It must have cost Troy a fortune—it's better than a ski lodge. Even has a heated swimming pool." She glanced around, mentally ticking off the prices of the expensive Ethan Allen furnishings.
Then, trying to make up, she said, "Sorry, baby. We're just nervous after all that's gone wrong. Maybe things will work out after all."
Coleman shook his head, his voice bitter. "Fat chance. We were better off before you got your dad involved."
"Better off! At least you got a chance to fly McNaughton's rocket plane."
"Big deal. Yeager goes through the sound barrier, and they cancel our program."
She lit a cigarette and drew deeply on it. "Why the hell couldn't he have crashed? Or even just bailed out?"
"Because he was good."
Sounding genuinely contrite for a change, she said, "I'm sorry, honey, I was trying to help."
"Yeah, just like today. The only reason Troy McNaughton is going to talk to me is because of your stepfather. I know that, he knows that, and it makes me feel like a jerk."
Ginny reached out and stroked his arm. "That's not true. You're here because you're a great pilot, and McNaughton needs you.
She managed him by switching subjects like a conman shifts the pea under the shells. Plopping herself down on his lap, she asked, "What's his wife like?"
Coleman shrugged. "I haven't seen her, but I hear she's pretty good-looking—she's a lot younger than Troy—and she's supposed to run the plant single-handed."
"You be careful around her."
He hugged her and said, "Let's both be careful. When you see her tomorrow, let her do the talking, find out all you can. This might be our big chance. And maybe our last one."
The next day had gone quite well for Stan Coleman; Ginny thought it had gone well for her, too.
Coleman was early for his nine o'clock appointment, and McNaughton gave him a quick tour of the huge plant. Only three years before, it had teemed with workers as Sidewinder and Mamba fighters poured off the production line for Russia, three shifts a day, seven days a week. Now most of the bays were empty, chained off, lights darkened and populated solely by the birds that inevitably found their way into the gloom of empty hangar space. Some modification activity was going on, but no new production. The empty plant made Coleman uneasy—McNaughton Aircraft looked as if it needed a funeral director more than a test pilot.
"Sad, isn't it? We took this place from a cornfield to one of the most modern aircraft plants in the world in just a few years. Now we'd be better off turning it back into a cornfield; we could get a few niggers in to run it. Might as well—the whole South's being taken over by them anyway."
"Somehow you don't look like a corn farmer to me, Mr. McNaughton." Stan traded on repackaging what people had just said, giving it a humorous conspiratorial twist. He'd already caught McNaughton's prejudiced view of Negroes and played to it.
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