The Aviator's Wife: A Novel, Page 4

  I placed the envelope on the bed, then began my nightly ritual of slipping out of my dress, my step-ins, unsnapping my garters, rolling my stockings down, unbinding my chest, folding my lingerie and placing it all in a little silk bag hanging from the doorknob. I chose, after a long moment of grave contemplation, a long-sleeved pink lisle nightgown from a cupboard, where all my clothes, miraculously brushed and pressed by one of those fourteen servants, were now hanging. Sitting down at my dressing table, I unpinned my long brown hair and brushed it one hundred times, the brush occasionally getting caught in my wiry tangles, tugging my scalp until my eyes watered. And even though, all this time, I could see the white envelope waiting on the bright red coverlet of my bed, like an unopened Christmas present, I still took the time to smooth some Ponds Night Cream carefully on my forehead and cheeks, with a few extra pats for my throat.

  Only then did I go to bed; pulling the coverlet up over my knees, I finally reached for the envelope. My hands were shaking, but in a delicious way; for once in my life, I wasn’t afraid of what I might find waiting for me. Never before had I opened an envelope without being sure it contained some dire piece of news.

  Miss Morrow,

  I looked for you, but was told you had left the reception early. I cannot say that I blame you. I don’t enjoy such gatherings myself although, naturally, I much appreciate your father’s hospitality on my behalf.

  After our brief conversation on the sofa, I could not help but think that despite your silence concerning the matter, you did want to be taken up in my airplane, after all. I believe I understand your hesitation. I would not have liked to have taken my first airplane ride surrounded by newspaper reporters and photographers, either. Hence my proposal.

  If you would like to fly with me, meet me in the kitchen at four-fifteen a.m. We can go up and be back here before breakfast is served, and no one will ever be the wiser.

  I do, however, acknowledge the possibility that I have misinterpreted your intentions. I will not be offended if you do not choose to meet me.

  Sincerely,

  Charles Augustus Lindbergh

  By the time I finished reading, my hands were no longer shaking, although my rib cage was—for I was laughing. Silently, prayerfully—but I was laughing, nonetheless. If you would like to fly with me… oh, miraculous words! Intended for me and me alone!

  Colonel Lindbergh had looked for me—and, finding me, had understood me. He had known everything that I was thinking but could not express with all those people listening—that even as I longed to experience flying as he had described it, just beneath my longing was the fear that somehow I would fail this test, this test of gravity and expectations. And if I did fail—if I embarrassed myself by crying or being sick or chickening out at the last moment—I did not want it reported on the front pages of every newspaper in the land!

  Elisabeth was cut out for that kind of publicity. She would not fail, for she had never failed at anything in her life. Yet I suspected that my desire to fly was more sincere than hers. Despite her obvious interest in Colonel Lindbergh, I was certain she had asked to be taken up primarily because it was expected of her.

  There was a certain safety in being the plain one, I realized, not for the first time. Dwight was the heir apparent, expected to graduate Amherst magna cum laude simply because Daddy had done so on scholarship. Elisabeth was expected to be dazzling and beautiful and marry brilliantly. Con was too young yet, and too spoiled, anyway; she was the pet of the family, loved and unquestioned.

  I was expected to be—what? No one had ever articulated it to me; I knew only that I wasn’t to disappoint or disgrace my family, but beyond that, no one seemed to care.

  Or—did someone care?

  No, of course not; with a stern little shake of my head, I reminded myself that in real life, heroes were not interested in girls like me. It was simple politeness that compelled the colonel to ask; after all, I was the daughter of his host.

  Still, he had asked, and that was enough to make me grin stupidly at my own reflection in the mirror opposite the bed for a long moment, before suddenly becoming aware of the lateness of the hour. Slipping the note—his note—inside my pillowcase, I wound my alarm clock tightly, setting it for four a.m. My stomach was so full of butterflies and other insects with busy, brushing wings—entirely appropriate under the circumstances, I couldn’t help but think!—that I could hardly fall asleep. And when at last I did, I know I slept lightly.

  As if I remembered, even in my slumber, that I had a dream beneath my pillow that I did not wish to crush.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE NEXT MORNING, I was almost late. Not because I overslept—I was awake a good half hour before the alarm went off—but because, for the first time in my life, I couldn’t decide what to wear.

  Normally I didn’t fuss with all that. I had an ample, if somewhat boring, wardrobe that I purchased in New York with my mother every season, mainly from Lord & Taylor. Day dresses, skirts, sweaters, tea gowns, one or two modest evening gowns, tennis dresses, golf skirts.

  But not a single flying garment among them! Sorting through the clothes I had brought with me, I could not decide what would be appropriate to wear while soaring through the sky. I had seen photographs of a few aviatrixes, but they all had been dressed in clothing similar to what Colonel Lindbergh usually wore: jodhpur-like pants, snug jackets, helmets with goggles, scarves.

  My only pair of jodhpurs was back at school; there were no stables at the embassy, so I hadn’t thought to bring them. I had brought my golf clothes, however, and finally I decided on them: sweater and pleated skirt, flat rubber-soled shoes, knee socks. I braided my hair and pinned it up, and at the last minute, grabbed the wool coat I had worn on the train. I then ran, on tiptoe, down the private stairs I had discovered the night before. After going the wrong way down a hall, I turned around and found myself in the large kitchen, empty at this hour with all the white enamel cookware scrubbed and gleaming, waiting to be called into service. There wasn’t a single sign of the party from the night before; no unwashed trays or even a stray lipstick-stained glass.

  But then I realized the kitchen wasn’t empty. Colonel Lindbergh was standing stiffly by a stove in worn brown flying clothes, a leather jacket, his familiar helmet with the goggles in his hand. As I dashed into the room, he looked at his watch, a faint frown creasing his forehead.

  “You’re late.”

  “I know—I’m sorry. I didn’t quite know what to wear. Will this do?” Ridiculously, I held my skirt out as if I were a German milkmaid.

  “It’ll have to, although trousers would probably be best.”

  “I didn’t bring any.”

  “I didn’t think of that. It shouldn’t matter, anyway. The coat’s good.”

  “Thank you.” The inadequacy of my words rang stupidly in my ears.

  Without another word, he turned to go out the kitchen door. Without another word, I followed.

  Outside, in a wide graveled drive at the back of the embassy, were a chauffeur and a waiting car; how he had arranged for them, I had no idea. We both got into the backseat—he opened the door for me—and the car sped off.

  At this hour, only the edges of sky were turning pink; still, it illuminated the streets of Mexico City so that I could get a better look than I had on our way from the train station. The narrow streets were empty. The buildings were almost all the same white, either stone or flimsy slats, with arched doorways and windows, reddish-orange clay roofs. Flowers spilled out of every corner, from window boxes, around signposts, even horse troughs. Vivid reds and pinks, showy flowers that I’d seen grown only in hothouses—orchids and hibiscus and jasmine. We passed an enormous square with a fountain in the middle that looked like a gathering place; I imagined it filled with dancing señoritas in long black mantillas and trumpet-playing men in sombreros.

  Mixed in with the old and quaint was new; modern buildings—hotels, mainly—were going up on every corner. Prohibition had helped turn Mexico Ci
ty into a pleasure place for the rich, and the money they were willing to spend in order to drink freely was in abundant evidence.

  So absorbed was I that I almost forgot Colonel Lindbergh, mute as he was beside me. It wasn’t until we headed out of town on a dirt road that I became aware, once more, of his masculine presence. After I finally ran out of things to gape at, I settled back only to find the colonel had wedged himself into the farthest corner of the seat away from me. He was still frowning. Blushing, I tried to explain my rudeness.

  “I’m sorry—I haven’t had a chance to see Mexico yet, except from the train.”

  “I understand,” he said. Then he turned and stared straight ahead, his chiseled cheekbones and smooth brow immobile.

  I thought and thought of something to say; something important enough for him. But I couldn’t, and so we rode the rest of the way in silence. It wasn’t long; soon the car turned off the road and bumped across a wide, flat field dotted with several outbuildings. The platform where Daddy and all the dignitaries must have stood, waiting for his landing days earlier, still remained; now-tattered bunting featuring the colors of both the Mexican and United States flags was suddenly illuminated by the headlights of our car.

  Outside the largest structure, a horse stood, tethered to a railing.

  The car stopped, and we both got out; I followed the colonel into that building, so large it resembled a barn. Instead of being divided into stalls, however, the place was cavernous. Instead of horses, planes were housed within it. And instead of the fragrance of sweet hay and horse manure, the air was noxious with the fumes from oil and gasoline.

  “Good morning,” the colonel called to a man wearing mechanic’s coveralls who scrambled hastily from a camp bed. There was a rifle next to the bed. The man yawned, but then his face creased into a proud grin as he recognized his visitor.

  “Oh, it’s you, Colonel!”

  “I trust there’s been no trouble?”

  “None at all! But of course, you see, I have my weapon. Just in case, Colonel.”

  Nodding briskly, the colonel grabbed a wrench and strode in the direction of an airplane parked at the far end of the barn. It took me a moment to realize that this was his plane; the plane. The Spirit of St. Louis.

  I took off after him, glad for my flat golf shoes, as there were treacherous puddles of slippery grease dotting the ground. “Oh, Colonel, may I see it?”

  “Please, call me Charles,” he called over his shoulder.

  “If you’ll call me Anne.”

  My escort stopped for a moment. He nodded slowly, as if mulling over the proposition. Then he said, “Anne.”

  It was a good thing he didn’t say anything else, as suddenly my ears were filled with the roaring sound of my own pulse. How can I describe how it felt, to have him say my name? Oh, it was rubbish, ridiculous, I knew, but for once I felt as if I might understand the literal definition of the word swoon.

  Then he continued toward his plane. “I just want to tighten an axle. I noticed it was loose when I landed.”

  “Why did that man have a rifle?”

  Charles sighed. “To protect my plane from souvenir hunters. They tore off pieces of it when I landed in France. Since then, I’ve had someone guarding it at all times.”

  “Oh.” I scrambled to keep up with him; he was so tall, his stride so long. And I was so short. We passed several planes, and I wondered which one we would fly in. Of course I knew, even before I saw it up close, we couldn’t fly in the Spirit of St. Louis. It was famously built just for one; one courageous, lone flyer.

  Who was now on his hands and knees, crawling under his machine. I watched, awed; I had seen this plane only in newsreels. So while I recognized the wide, blunt wings; the cockpit built so that its pilot could see only out the sides, not the front—there was some technical reason for this, I remembered, but couldn’t recall it; the jaunty Spirit of St. Louis painted on the nose, black against the silver of the body; still, I couldn’t help but think that it was so much smaller in person. Just like a movie star; just like Gloria Swanson—I giggled, remembering. How odd to think that this plane was now even more famous than she was!

  “What’s so funny?” that reedy voice demanded, from beneath the plane.

  “Nothing.”

  “When I landed the other day I thought I felt something give. I thought—aha! There it is!” And after a few methodical grunts, the colonel emerged, still on his hands and knees, from beneath the plane; his face was greasy, and his hair flopped down into his eyes. He had a grin on his face as he remained on the ground, resting his back against the wheel of his plane.

  He looked so relaxed now, not the stiff, uncomfortable figure in evening clothes from the night before. I hadn’t realized how tense he had been then. Now his limbs looked loose, lanky; he patted the plane in the same manner as a cowboy caressing his favorite horse. I almost felt as if I was intruding on an intimate scene.

  “May I touch it?” I asked, surprised by my boldness.

  “Of course!” Charles leaped to his feet. “Go on—you can’t hurt it!” He grinned again, this time so wide that his entire face relaxed, his eyes crinkling up boyishly.

  “Why, it’s fabric!” I couldn’t believe it; this machine that had carried him all the way across the ocean was made of nothing but cloth and wire!

  “Yes. Fabric covered in dope—that’s a kind of strengthening liquid. That’s what makes it strong enough but also light enough to fly.”

  “Is the plane we’re going up in made of fabric, as well?”

  “Yes. But don’t worry, Miss—Anne. I assure you, it’s perfectly safe.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it is.” I wanted to explain to him that I wasn’t afraid; how could I be? There was no one I trusted more than Charles Lindbergh, even though I had just met him. Who else could I trust to launch me into the sky?

  The next minutes were full of activity; after Charles inspected it, the guard hooked up the nose of a different plane—a biplane, I recognized from Charles’s discourse the night before—to a tractor. This one was painted blue with a vivid orange trim, not the monochromatic silver and gray of the Spirit of St. Louis. With a startling roar that scattered the swallows gathered near the entrance, the tractor fired up and towed the plane out of the building. Charles found a helmet and goggles for me, and I followed him—again, running to keep up—out of the barn and to the plane, which was now at the end of a narrow, closely cropped strip of grass in the middle of the field. In the faint morning light, I could barely make out a flag at the end of this runway, waving in the gentle breeze.

  The air was warm and smelled sweet, like rock candy. There were a few white, puffy clouds high above, and I couldn’t believe that in a few moments I would be among them.

  Buckling my helmet beneath my chin, I eyed the plane; the two seats were in tandem, the one in back slightly higher than the one in front. They were both open to the sky.

  “How do we get in?”

  “We climb up on the wing,” Charles answered. Then he leaned toward me and tightened the helmet strap. “There.” He studied me solemnly, nodding, as if assuring himself that I was as snug as possible. I felt the careful weight of his attention yet knew, at the same time, that I was merely part of his preflight checklist, represented by a piece of paper he had tucked in a pocket; he had already measured the fuel, tested the throttle, wiped the smudges off his goggles. Then he busied himself with pulling on his leather gloves.

  “It’s very loud and very windy up there,” he told me, his voice suddenly all business, brisk and gruff. “We won’t be able to communicate. There are controls in your seat, but don’t worry, they’re not operable. I’ll be in back, you’ll be in front. Make sure you buckle your harness strap when you get in. I’d keep my hands inside if I were you. Oh—and chew this.” Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a stick of gum.

  “Why?”

  “It’ll pop your ears. You’ll see.”

  “All right.” Obediently
, I removed the wrapper and popped the gum in my mouth. “Anything else?” I mumbled, chewing away until my jaws ached.

  “No. Just relax. And have fun.”

  Then I was being helped up onto the wing, made of that same fabric as the Spirit of St. Louis, but it felt sturdy, stable, beneath my feet. Climbing into the small seat in front, I found a harness that reached across my chest, and secured it. The top wing of the plane formed a kind of canopy above me. There was a stick and a round instrument panel in front of me: the controls Charles had told me about. There was also a pedal at my feet. I was cramped in this cockpit and couldn’t have stretched my legs. I wondered how he had stayed in such a place for forty hours, even in the larger cockpit of the Spirit of St. Louis; his legs were so long.

  I felt, before I heard or saw, the propeller turn in front of me; the plane shuddered, and a slap of wind hit my face. The engine sputtered, then roared to life, and I chewed my gum vigorously to drown out the surprisingly loud whine. Then we were rambling down the field, picking up speed; I could feel every rut and bump in the ground as we tumbled over it, still clumsy, so clumsy—how could we ever take wing? The ground came toward me faster and faster, bumpier and bumpier, until suddenly, it was smooth; no more clumsiness, no more friction. It was as if I were suspended in time, suspended in air—and then, as my stomach decided to test its own boundaries, I realized that I was.

  I was airborne. My heart was rising in my throat, my stomach first leaping, then tumbling, as we went up, up, up … the tips of trees, green, leafy, so close I was sure I could touch them. Then they were below me.

  The plane banked toward the right, and suddenly I was looking back down at the airfield, the buildings, the horse getting smaller and smaller until it turned into a toy. The air slapped and then tore at my face; my eyes stung, even behind the goggles. My ears felt as if they were full of water. This pressure in them built until I remembered the gum. Chewing furiously, I felt first my left, then my right ear pop, and I could hear again the reassuring groan of the engine, the wind whistling past my face.