The Obit

The Obit

By Marcia Calhoun Forecki

           My first thought when I saw the obituary was, “It’s about time.” I felt sorry for Judson, sure. I knew he would take his brother’s death hard, no matter how badly Lyle treated him all those years.

           Judson Spray had been my foreman at North American Aviation in Fairfax, Kansas. I hired on in 1942. The huge plant (over 1 million square feet) produced B-25 Mitchell bombers. Men and women worked together. Thousands of young women who never imagined living, much less working, away from the family farm or small town became vital to the war effort overnight.  

           My friend, Bonnie Huffman, started working when the plant first opened in 1941. I was two years out of high school, working a cash register at a Woolworth, waiting for my future to walk through the door to claim me. Bonnie wrote to me that the Fairfax plant needed riveters.

           “You can stay with us in our apartment,” she wrote. “We are only three now. The more the merrier.”

           “Are you sure you have room for me?” I wrote back.

           “We have a double bed, and a sofa furnished. Don’t worry, we sleep in shifts. The bed is hardly ever empty. The other girls are great. You’ll love them. Rent split four ways is better than three. Wages for gals start about 80¢ an hour. Buses run all over Kansas City. You’ll learn you way around quick.”

           I believe I would have walked to Kansas City. Fortunately, I told a neighbor gave me a ride. Bonnie said that she had a car, and she lets the roommates ride in exchange for our ration tickets for gas.

           Judson Spray taught me how to buck a rivet. He was patient with all the girls. He was a soft-spoken man except on the production floor. There he had to shout to be heard, but he never sounded gruff or angry, even with girls who were slow to catch on. Forty percent of the plant workforce was female, and most of them had husbands or sweethearts or brothers overseas. We wanted the best equipment for our men, and we worked hard to make it.

           I can still see Judson coming across the enormous production floor. The plant was completely open and without windows to protect it from being bombed. The place was lit day and night, so it was easy to get disoriented about the time. The place was noisy as a stampede, the sound of drilling never stopped.

           Sitting at a long table of riveters every morning, I watched Judson cross the production floor with his stride-hop gait. Judson limped when he walked slowly, but when he was in a hurry, he strode out with his right foot and his left hopped up to it. Stride-hop.

           Of all the girls in the plant, Judson Spray took a shine to me. He said he was attracted by my quick smile and hard concentration on my work. I always let a few curls fall out of my headscarf around my face. When we had a minute alone together, Judson would reach up and pinch one of those curls. Judson said it was a substitute for a kiss. I said I was keeping track and after the war he would have to make up everyone.

           Lyle Spray would come to the plant at quitting time and stand outside the fence watching the girls file out. Lyle was not in the Army, because he had a criminal record, for robbing a couple of filling stations, I heard. More than once, I saw Judson open his wallet in the parking lot and give Lyle a few bills. Once I watched him follow Judson to the parking lot, mocking his brother’s limp. He would look around to see if any of the girls were watching, then throw back his head and laugh.

           Lyle told new girls he was a spy chaser for the Army, top secret work. There were all kinds of saboteurs in defense plants, he claimed. He said if he ever spotted any mischief-makers near the plant, he would shoot first and ask questions never.

           One day, Judson was late punching out. I said I would wait for him outside. He shook his head. He knew I wanted to grab smoke. I wasn’t a very enthusiastic smoker, but it was part of the way of life I embraced when I came to Fairfax. Judson said if we were to get married, I would have to quit smoking. Small sacrifice, I thought.

           I was standing inside the big concrete wall that surrounded the plant for security reasons, when I heard a familiar gait behind me and turned to see Lyle walking with his exaggerated limp. “Is this how you like it?” he asked when he was close enough to whisper.

           “I don’t think that’s very nice,” I said.

           “It’s just a joke. Ole Jud thinks it’s funny.”

           “Well, I don’t.”

           “Of all the girls, my brother picked you,” Lyle said, like it was the greatest wonder on Earth.

           Suddenly, Lyle grabbed my arms spun me around to face him. He forced his kiss on my lips. I squirmed, trying to get away, but he held me tighter. He pushed me off the sidewalk and up against the plant fence.

           I knew Judson would be along any second. I only had to resist Lyle until he arrived. Lyle let go of me with one hand and plunged it inside my coveralls. He felt my breasts. I took advantage of my free arm to slap him in the face. He only laughed and kissed me again, harder this time.

           Then, I heard a fast stride-hop coming toward me. “Leave her be,” he shouted.

           Lyle laughed and squeezed me tighter.

           “No fraternizing with the workers,” Lyle snarled.

           Judson looked to his right. On the ground by the fence lay a length of two by two. He grabbed it and swung once at this brother, catching him in the small of the back. Lyle’s knees buckled, and he collapsed like a rag doll at my feet. He never walked again.

           Judson requested a promotion to floor supervisor. He no longer worked with us girls. I knew he needed the extra money. He had Lyle to support, now. We did not see each other outside of the plant again. Once I stayed after punching out, hoping to talk to him.

           “It’s my fault he’s paralyzed, don’t you see?” Judson said.

           “He was hurting me. You didn’t know his back would break.”

           “He’s my responsibility, now,” said Judson. He smiled at me for the last time.

           Judson took care of Lyle for the rest of his life. That was his choice, you see. I couldn’t be with Judson after that because I couldn’t be around Lyle.

           A month or two after Lyle’s accident, as it was always called, I began writing letters to Bonnie Huffman’s cousin in Europe. He survived D-Day, and we were married in 1946. We had thirty happy years until he died. Then, I started thinking of Judson again. Bonnie told me that Judson and Lyle still lived in their parents’ house, though the old ones were gone. I imagined Lyle rolling around in a wheelchair, shouting orders and demanding every kind of personal service.

           Then, today I saw the obituary.

           The war brought unlikely people together, who might never have met otherwise. It brought out the best in most people. Lyle’s best never surfaced. Bonnie sent me Judson’s phone number. I called a couple of times; to say I was sorry for Lyle’s death, which I guess I was. There was no answer either time.