The Aviator's Wife (45 page)

“You’ve read your own book, haven’t you?” He frowned, but I caught
the admiring little gleam in his eyes, and now it was my turn to blush.

To his credit, Charles had been nothing but proud—if slightly puzzled—by the success of
Gift from the Sea
. He’d even consented to pose for a pictorial for
Time
magazine when it came out. I’d only had to remind him once how I’d done the same thing for
his
book.

“Perhaps,” I admitted. “I am serious, though.”

“I know you are.
I’ve never known you not to be that. Well, I suppose that sounds like a reasonable plan. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes, this is what I want.”

He stared at me, hard; I stared back. Once, a lifetime ago, our gazes had met and it was immediately electric, powerful—so powerful that it frightened us both. There were times, even now, when our eyes would meet and I would feel a thrill jolt
through me, shocking my entire being into overdrive.

But this gaze was not like that; it was an assessment. An acknowledgment that I was taking a step that neither of us had ever thought I would, but that he had been pushing me toward, unconsciously, for years now. He’d trained me, he’d taught me—too well, I could almost hear him thinking.

Finally, I
was
strong. I was able. Able to separate
my life from his; able to separate myself, from him. Like all surgical procedures, it would not be without pain and regret.

We continued to eat without talking. Silence, after all, had been the thing that brought us together, all those years ago; he’d said he’d never met a girl so comfortable not talking, as I was.

But now that I had found my voice, I wanted to use it; I had the feeling that
once I started talking, I might never shut up. And to that end, I wanted to find someone who wanted to listen to me as much as I wanted to talk to him.

And I knew, sadly, finally, that that someone was never going to be my husband.

CHAPTER 19

1958

I
’
D LEFT IT IN A STACK
of mail on the table in the entryway. Later, I had to wonder if I’d done it on purpose, but then, that’s where I always left the mail. I’d glanced at the envelope, saw my name in the familiar handwriting,
Anne Lindbergh
, and smiled, then left it there—a treat for later, I supposed I thought. After Ansy and I returned from the city.

My daughter was about to leave for Radcliffe and she needed a new wardrobe. Of my two daughters, she was the one who was the most feminine; she was tiny and blond, with eyes that looked mischievous because of the way they turned up at the ends. But she was not mischievous; she was the most solemn of my children, even more solemn than Jon.

She was also the one who hated being a Lindbergh the most;
the one who sobbed when a reporter wrote a story about her classroom picnic when she was ten, simply because she was Charles Lindbergh’s daughter. The one who, when she was a teenager, cut off her long blond braids because a newspaper article mentioned them. And because her name happened to be Anne Lindbergh, she got double the dose of unwanted, reflected glory; every Mother’s Day, some magazine
wanted to interview the two of us, the “two Annes.”

I wondered if that was why, when she got over her adolescent
embarrassment, she made herself so determinedly fashionable, so delightedly girlish. Those were two traits I had never possessed, and these were ways she could establish her own identity, separate from mine.

That afternoon we’d burst into the house, bags hanging from our arms, and
went our separate ways until dinner; she, to try on everything all over again; me, to collapse for half an hour. Shopping was exhausting; I was too much my own mother’s daughter. I preferred to order five of the same kind of dress or sweater or skirt in different colors, and be done with it. But Ansy had tried on every outfit she saw, even if she had no intention of buying it, just for fun.

I removed my hat, my gloves—my daughter had pronounced them so “terribly dowdy, Mother.” It was true that I hadn’t bought a new hat in years, although some of the ones I’d seen today—smaller, with darling wisps of veils, little in the way of flowers or feathers—had looked very tempting. Maybe I’d buy one next time I was in the city; next week he and I were going to the theater, then dinner after—

I remembered my letter; my reward. A sly, womanly smile nudged my lips—I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I was startled by how
ripe
I looked, how my eyes sparkled, my skin seemed to glow. I ran back to the entry table, but the letter was not there—although all my other mail was, bills, a few letters from friends and readers—all addressed to “Mrs. Charles Lindbergh.”

“Now, where
on earth?” I muttered, turning around to go back to my bedroom.

But suddenly Anne was standing before me, her face red—a piece of paper in her hand.

“What are you—oh.” It was the letter. I stared thoughtfully
at her for a long moment. Then I said, “I don’t believe that was meant for you.”

“I—it said ‘Anne Lindbergh,’ and I thought it meant me, so—”

“So you opened it.” I continued to gaze at
my daughter, whose face reflected an avalanche of emotions, one tumbling right after the other—guilt, horror, anger, disbelief.

While I was icy calm. Not one bit ashamed—and this did not altogether surprise me. Once, long ago—before I became the aviator’s wife—hadn’t I wanted to be an old lady with a mysterious smile, remembering the scandalous affairs of her youth? It was that girl, that passionate
young girl, to whom the letter was addressed.

And it was that girl who stood erect, chin lifted, eyes gleaming with pride and triumph, when confronted with indisputable evidence of her passion. Evidence in the hands of her own daughter.

“Mother, are you—are you in
love
? With Dr. Atchley?”

“Yes,” I said, then held my hand out. Ansy, her own hand trembling, placed the letter in my palm. “Now,
have you tried your clothes on? Are you sure everything fits?”

“Yes,” she whispered. Then we retreated to our separate rooms. And, both excellent pupils of the best teacher in the world—

We never discussed the matter again.

AFTER THAT DINNER WITH CHARLES
, I made my peace with the house in Darien. Once, I thought I had to leave him in order to be free; now, I realized, I only had to stay. So
I started to invite friends out to spend the weekends. Male friends, mostly. I didn’t
think it was a conscious decision, not at first, but soon, to my delight, I had acquired a coterie of admirers; men whom I had known, always, but never seen, dazzled as I was by the shining light of my hero husband.

Now, breaking free from his spell—the spell I had helped him cast—I looked beyond and saw these
men, and summoned them. Enthroned upon my cushioned chair like the Queen of Sheba, no longer in the shadow of anyone—not my sister, not my husband—I thrilled to the sensation of being beguiled, instead of beguiling. I nodded thoughtfully, I smiled mysteriously. My laughter purred, my voice acquired a honeyed huskiness.

For the first time in my life, I purchased silk lingerie, luxuriating in the
rich sensation against my skin as I reclined, a cocktail in my hand; giddily imagining the astonishment, the tortured gasps, if I allowed it to be discovered.

Corliss Lamont, who had carried a torch for me since we were children, came when I beckoned, eagerly reciting eccentric poetry while I did my best to keep a straight face. But I flushed when he gazed at me in his eager, puppy-dog-like way.
So I asked him to recite more.

Alan Valentine, an academic, former president of the University of Rochester; he found his way to my terrace, where we would sip drinks and discuss politics and literature and, oh, just about anything we wanted; there were no subjects off-limits and my skin tingled when he grasped my hand to make a point, or brushed the hair out of my eyes if I argued too excitedly.

And Dana Atchley. He, too, came to my terrace—
come into my parlor, said the spider!
I was the spider, casting an enchanting web about these men who seemed to think I needed rescuing. Maybe they were right. Although I never allowed more than worshipful gazes, passionate letters. I enjoyed playing, teasing—
imagining
, just as I used to when I was a young girl. I also enjoyed
praying at night for
forgiveness, secure in the knowledge I’d not really done anything in need of forgiving.

Until Dana. My dearest Dana.

When did it start with Dana? Emotionally, with my operation, I suppose; the one to remove my gallbladder. Right before I went under the anesthesia, alone, vulnerable, sure that I was about to die, I reached for his hand because my husband wasn’t there. “Call me Anne,” I whispered,
convinced that he was the last person who would ever say my name. “Please?”

“All right. Anne.” And he grabbed my hand, instinctively knowing I needed to feel someone warm and alive and reassuring. His eyes—behind his thick glasses—were the kindest I had ever seen, the most sympathetic. They did not judge; they did not challenge. They simply saw. And found beauty in everything; even a frightened
housewife with unkempt hair and a sheet for a dress.

Up until that point, we had been “Mrs. Lindbergh” and “Dr. Atchley.” Afterward, we were “Anne” and “Dana.” After my regular appointments, we found ourselves lingering for hours in his office at Columbia-Presbyterian, talking about everything. Once, I even scolded him for spending time with me instead of his wife. “Don’t do this,” I cautioned
him, after we’d exclaimed at the lateness of the hour. “Go home to her. Don’t make your work your life.”

“I’d hardly call this work, Anne.” He smiled. But then he removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s hell at home. You don’t know.”

Oh, we discussed—everything! Everything our hearts were weary of containing. My writing, his patients, the world, our children. It didn’t seem
wrong to discuss our children with each other, at least not then. We were friends, we assured each other solemnly. Friends who corresponded almost on a daily basis,
sending letters back and forth. His “blue pills,” he called mine, for I wrote on a light blue stationery.

As friends do, we even sometimes vacationed together with our spouses; Charles liked and admired him, although neither of us
really cared much for his wife. The children all knew and loved him as the family doctor. And we might have gone on that way; he might have remained one of my small coterie of chaste admirers, those men who knew that they could never really compete with Lucky Lindy, but enjoyed sipping cocktails on his terrace with his neglected, charming wife and wondering, “what if?”

But there came a time when
I wanted more; my skin longed to be caressed by something warmer than silk lingerie. I wanted, I desired, I sought—so I took. I took more than I thought I was allowed, for the first time in my life; no longer the disciplined little girl my father admired, or the obedient wife my husband trained. I stepped through the looking glass to find the passionate woman who had been waiting for me, all these
years.

Buoyed by the slightly tipsy flattery of a few middle-aged men as unhappy in their marriages as I was in mine, one day I took the train into New York and checked in at the Plaza. I came to the city frequently, of course, but it seemed that always I was either accompanied by a child or lunching with Con at the Cosmopolitan Club.

For the first time, however, I truly felt on my own, an adult,
with adult decisions to make. My heart beat fast, as if on a grand adventure.
Silly
, I scolded myself;
you’ve visited here a thousand times before
. But not since I was a girl, coming in on the weekend from Smith with my college friends, had I felt so defiantly independent. I was going to rent an apartment, and even though Charles knew and approved, still I felt reckless and daring. And I had the
entire city from which to choose! I threw myself into
apartment hunting as I’d never thrown myself into house hunting before, when Charles had made most of the decisions.

This time, I was in charge, and I loved it. I loved every minute of it—the running up and down stairs with the tireless apartment agent, the nights spent going over brochures, the excitement of putting a bid in and having it
accepted; a two-bedroom apartment with a dollhouse kitchen on the Upper West Side, just a block away from Central Park. Then the decorating—the picking out of curtains, wallpaper, furniture—this last, in Charles’s opinion, a luxury since we had more than enough surplus furniture in Connecticut. Why didn’t I just take some?

Why, indeed? Because I wanted a fresh start. I didn’t tell him that, however;
I explained that with the cost of shipping it wouldn’t be that much less than buying new. Then I assured him I was keeping track of every expense in my accounting book. That seemed to mollify him.

Soon all was ready, and the first person I wanted to show it to was Charles. I felt, surprisingly, like a bride waiting to be carried over the threshold. It astonished me that still, after all that
had happened, he was the first person I wanted to share everything with; good and bad. Somehow, a thing never seemed real until he saw it or experienced it, too—and then told me how to think about it.