Page 7 of Mazywood

Brother lifted Mazelle up so she could see where the pilot sat. The metal stick and panel were simpler than the dashboard in their borrowed Model T, probably because it wasn’t real.

“What’s the picture about?” Daddy asked.

“An ace pilot who solves a robbery,” Mr. Norman said. “Audiences will go wild for a colored pilot. A war hero! We’ll stage the aerial shots right here.”

Daddy chuckled. “A colored ace pilot?”

“But we didn’t have colored pilots in the Great War, did we?” Mother asked.

“No, ma’am,” Mr. Norman said. “But that’s the magic of film. You can give people a more even shake, at least for an hour. Let them see how things can be. Don’t get me wrong—there’s a hungry audience out there, so it’s not charity work—but I’m proud we’re not making claptrap. I think of all those colored boys who’ll want to fly planes when they see The Flying Ace.”

“And girls!” Mazelle said.

Mr. Norman smiled sadly. “That’s what Bessie would have wanted.” He turned and waved to his crew. “Hey, bring out the Kodak. Take a photo of Mazy and Scout with the plane.”

Because he knows, Mazelle thought. He knows we’re the best act in the whole world.

With Mr. Norman’s permission, Brother lifted Mazelle into the plane’s seat underneath the long wings, closest to the propeller. The seat wobbled beneath her when she sat. The plane looked newer and fancier on the outside than it did on the inside. It was all just for show.

One of Mr. Norman’s workers brought out a smaller tripod and a film camera with a lens like an accordion. While he set it up, Mazelle secretly ran her fingers across the shiny metal stick, which was hot as fire from the sun. Scout barked, standing against the plane, so Brother picked Scout up next. Scout loved Brother fine.

“Just put the dog on your lap,” said the man with the camera.

While the photographer readied his camera and Mazelle giggled with Scout, Mr. Norman huddled with Mother and Daddy, almost too far away for her to hear them—almost. The worried look had returned to Mr. Norman’s face.

“So… here’s the thing about Lorenzo…” Mr. Norman began. “His pictures aren’t for a colored audience. ‘My Sweet Ole Mississippi Home’ kind of thing.”

Mother’s eyebrows shot up, which was never a good sign. “Oh.”

“Lorenzo’s a businessman first. But he has a good eye for what’s funny, I’ll say that. She could go far with him.”

“But he don’t think much of colored folks, huh?” Brother asked.

“Listen… I’m not saying he’s recruiting for the Klan like The Birth of a Nation,” Mr. Norman said. “He just follows the times, so there’s more stereotypes. Don’t want you to be surprised.”

Brother sucked at his teeth, annoyed.

“Should we—” Mother began.

“We’ll cross that bridge later,” Daddy said. “See what he says first.”

Daddy didn’t speak up as often as Mother, but Mazelle was glad Mother listened when he did. No one would be happy if Mother and Daddy quarreled now.

“Look at the camera with a big, pretty smile,” the photographer said.

Mazelle’s smile burst from her lips without any acting when Scout pressed his face to hers, posing alongside her, two peas in a pod.

“That dog looks like he’s smiling too,” the colored young man said. He pulled himself away from Doris and Dottie, who had penned him in near the plane’s tail with questions, swishing their long yellow dresses across their shins.

“Oh yes, he’s got loads of personality,” Doris said gaily, showing off for the stranger.

“Smartest dog we’ve ever seen,” Dottie agreed.

Sitting in that plane’s prop cockpit with everyone singing Scout’s praises, no one could have convinced Mazelle Washington that she wasn’t lifting off to fly straight into the clouds.

Three

1928—TWO YEARS LATER