The Aviator's Wife (9 page)

“ ‘
You
have duties,’ ” Dwight continued. “ ‘Your sisters have duties. Remember, young man, remember,
education—
’ ”

“
Education, education
,” I chimed in—but then the phone on Daddy’s desk rang, startling us into silence. We both jumped, then giggled guiltily; had our father somehow heard us, all
the way from Mexico? I don’t think either one of us would have been surprised.

Dwight was the first to recover. Picking up the receiver and
leaning toward the transmitter, he said, “Hello, Morrow residence,” still in that urgent, high-pitched voice that sounded just like Daddy’s. I giggled again, and Dwight rewarded me with a sly smile. Then my brother suddenly colored, sat up straight in his
chair, and said, “Miss Morrow? No, she’s away. Oh—are you sure? Yes,
she
is,” and thrust the receiver and transmitter out to me.

“It’s your hero, Anne,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

“Oh, sure, sure.” I stuck my tongue out at him, enjoying the teasing, wishing to prolong it for as long as possible. I pushed myself out of the chair with an exaggerated sigh. “It’s probably that milkman.” I sashayed
to the desk, wiggling my hips just like Theda Bara, and took the receiver from him; holding it up to my ear, I leaned into the transmitter and crooned, in a deep, vampy tone, “Hello, this is Anne Morrow. Is this my hero?”

There was a pause; static crackled down the line into my ear. Then I heard a reedy voice say, “Miss Morrow? This is Lindbergh himself. Charles Lindbergh.”

I wanted to drop
the phone; I wanted to hit my brother—who was leaning back in his chair, shaking with laughter. I wanted to do anything other than somehow think of a proper reply.

“It—it is?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No—no! My brother—Dwight—you met him, remember? He was just teasing me. I’m so sorry—I mean, no, I’m glad you called. Very glad. That is—wait—this is
Anne
Morrow. Not
Elisabeth. I’m Anne.”

“Yes, I know. I had been led to believe that you would be at home today. I called yesterday, but you were out.”

“You did?” By now my knees were shaking and I had to sit down on the edge of the desk; Jo, my mother’s secretary, had
said that he had called. But she’d said he’d called for Elisabeth, not me.

Finally Dwight had the good sense to get up and leave me alone in
the room, his eyes still shining with merriment. For a moment I forgot all about his condition; I stuck my tongue out at him, just like any big sister would.

“Miss Morrow? You are still there?”

“Yes—oh, yes, I am!”

“I’m very sorry I could not make it to your graduation. It was nice of you to ask me. But I was afraid that if I came it would cause a stir, and that wouldn’t have been fair to you
or your family.”

“Oh.” How thoughtful of him! “That was very thoughtful of you,” I said, my tongue just a few beats behind my thoughts.

There was a silence; I could hear him breathing, softly. Then he cleared his throat, and I was reminded, suddenly, of the engine of the plane that we flew in together, sputtering to life.

“I understand that you’re home for the summer?” There was a hesitation—like
the catch of that motor before it finally found its groove—in his voice.

“Yes. I’m taking care of—I’m staying with Dwight while he’s home for the summer. Mother and Daddy are back in Mexico City.”

“The reason I called,” he said hastily, as if he regretted having done so, “is to ask if you would like to go up again? I promised you I would take you back up in a plane, I’m not sure if you recall.
I do not break my promises.”

“Oh! Yes, I do remember—that is, I have some recollection of it.” Cradling the receiver between my cheek and my neck, I grasped the edge of Daddy’s walnut desk, grateful for its ballast; without it, I was certain I would have floated up to the ceiling.

“Then it’s settled. I’ll call for you tomorrow at ten o’clock in the morning, if you don’t have other plans.”

Of course, I had no other plans. Even if Mother had asked me to entertain the king of England, I would have canceled! But then I thought of how Elisabeth would have replied, and so I was able to say, coolly, “I believe I can rearrange things.”

“Well, if it’s any bother …”

“Oh, no! No bother at all! No, truly, there’s nothing I’d like more, if you really are sure you have the time.”

“I said I
did.” Did I detect annoyance now?

“Yes, of course.”

“So. Ten o’clock, then?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, goodbye,” Charles Lindbergh said in a faint, almost strangled tone, and he hung up the phone.

I did not. I remained holding the receiver to my ear, the transmitter to my mouth, for at least a minute; long enough for Dwight to knock softly and stick his bushy head—he was in dire need of a haircut;
his hair stuck up all over his scalp—inside the doorway.

“Anne? Was that really Colonel Lindbergh?”

“I believe so.” In a daze, I replaced the receiver.

“What did he want?”

“He wanted me.”

“You? I thought he was supposed to be interested in Elisabeth.”

“I know—I thought—I told him she wasn’t here! Right off! Dwight, I think he really wanted to speak to me, but—oh, it’s only because he once
made a promise to me. That’s it.”

“What kind of promise?”

“He promised to take me flying again. He’s coming tomorrow at ten.”

“Ten? Huh. You sure he meant you?”

“Yes, Dwight!” How many times did I have to say it before we both believed it? I couldn’t even count that high.

“Hmmm.” Dwight scratched his head, then patted his stomach. “Anne, now I’m hungry. What were you going to have Cook make
for dinner?”

“Dinner?” I stared at my brother.
“Dinner?”

“Well, Anne, you were just asking me—”

“Oh, go ask Cook to make you a sandwich.” Finally sliding off the desk, I brushed past my brother. “I can’t help you; I must find something to wear!”

“But he’s not coming until tomorrow morning!”

“I know! I hardly have any time!”

I left Dwight standing in the hallway, still scratching his head
and saying, in a disgusted tone, “Women.”

“Men!” I called over my shoulder, already mentally going through my closet.

But I paused once, on my way to my room, to shake my head in wonder at my brother. How on earth could he think of food at a time like this?

“
HELLO
,”
I SAID
, opening the door. Then I looked up. Charles Lindbergh was standing before me, blocking out the bright morning sun. I’d
forgotten how tall he was.

He had changed. He didn’t look like a boy any longer; he had a slightly wary look in those piercing blue eyes, and he appeared much more comfortable in civilian clothes—tweed trousers and a white shirt and tie, although he did have that battered leather jacket over his arm. In place of his helmet, however, he wore a fedora that was just like every fedora I’d ever seen
on any banker, my father included.

He also had a pair of sunglasses in his pocket; he donned these quickly as he led me to his car.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit strange,” he explained, as he held the door open for me. Once I was settled, he went around and slid into the driver’s seat; as he did so, he pulled his hat brim low over his eyes.

“What is?”

“This—this getup.” He gestured to his face. “Sometimes
I can manage to fool the press, if they’re not already on my tail. I don’t think they are today, fortunately. The moment they see you with me, they’ll have us engaged. I’ve been engaged to any number of women lately.”

He then appeared to think about what he had just said; his hand, poised to flip the ignition switch, froze. “I didn’t mean—”

“That’s all right,” I said hastily. “I understand.”

“Yes.” He nodded, then started the car; with a roar he drove down the circular driveway to the private road that led to the main street. We were in a new cream-colored Ford open roadster, so I pulled my cloche hat farther down on my head, holding on to it, praying it wouldn’t fly off. His hat remained mysteriously tethered to his head.

He did not drive fast, much to my surprise. For a man who
loved to fly, he appeared cautious and careful on the ground, constantly looking over his shoulder in case cars approached from behind. Nor did he talk; after a few minutes of total silence, I began to feel as superfluous as the small green spider that had hitched a ride on the windshield. And so, as we drove through the city, then out into the country of Long Island, down roads I’d never before discovered,
I had a long time in which to wonder if, indeed, he had called the wrong Morrow sister. Half an hour passed, then forty-five minutes, and still he spoke not a word to
me, nor even looked my way. Months had passed since we’d seen each other, but obviously he did not feel compelled to explain what he had been up to, and so, out of defiance and a prickly sense of pride that made me set my mouth a
certain way, neither did I.

I glanced at my wristwatch, then at the immobile face beside me, the eyes hidden by those round smoky lenses, the brow obscured by that magical hat.

But if he didn’t talk, neither did he give any indication that he expected me to. So I gave myself over to the purity of simply being, with him, on a fine summer day. Only once did I break the silence; it was when we
drove along a lane bordered on either side with young birch trees.

“Oh, look! It’s like they’re bowing to us!” I couldn’t help but laugh, pointing as the tops of the trees shimmied ahead of us, bending in the light breeze. Charles nodded but kept his eyes on the road, and so I retreated once more, embarrassed by my outburst.

Finally we turned down a long gravel road that led to an open field.
There, two planes were waiting; an enormous white French Normandy–styled house rose up in the distance, along with several barns and smaller dwellings.

Charles braked the car, and the engine sputtered off. He turned to me.

“Well, that was fun,” he said with a sudden, surprising grin, and I had to laugh.

“You like to drive?” I fingered the leather upholstery, dusty now. But it was certainly
a fine automobile.

“I’m afraid I do. I used to have a motorcycle—an Indian—back when I was barnstorming. She was an extraordinary little machine, but I sold her to pay for my first plane, a Jenny.”

“Do you name all your machines after people?”

“I—oh, no. A Jenny is a type of plane—war surplus, they were used overseas and then refitted. We used them to fly the mail.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway.” He removed
his sunglasses and his hat, and ran his hand through his sandy-colored hair. “Here we are.”

“Where are we, exactly?”

“Friends of mine happen to have a private airfield. So far, none of the press has found it out.”

“Oh.” I could see the water of the sound glittering in the distance, beyond a thicket of slender trees. “It’s lovely.”

“Yes. The Guggenheims have been good to me in all—this.” He
waved his hands vaguely, and I understood him to mean everything that had happened to him
after
. After landing in Paris. “Harry lets me use his planes; I have a new one on order. The
Spirit
’s in mothballs now, I’m afraid. The Smithsonian has her.” There was a definite note of sadness to his voice, a wistfulness; like a small boy who had been forced to part with his favorite treasure.

Then he
cleared his throat and got out of the car. “It’s a good day for flying,” he said, pausing for a moment to survey the sky before he walked around to open my door. “Clear sailing, as far as we might want to go.”

“Good.” I scrambled after him as he strode toward the two airplanes, both silver and gleaming in the sun. He did not shorten his stride for me, and so once again, I had to run to keep up.

“You’ve not been up since I took you?” We reached the larger of the two planes, an enclosed monoplane with a longer wingspan. It was already pointed toward the flat airstrip.

“No.” And then I remembered that I had. I wondered why that memory had escaped me. Was it because it didn’t count,
without him? Or because I felt oddly disloyal for flying with someone else?

“This is different than what
we went up in before—more comfortable. For long-haul passenger flight, this is the type of plane we’ll be using, only even bigger. You don’t have to wear goggles.” And he opened a small door and helped me climb up into the cabin. The interior was hot—baked, actually, from sitting in the sun, and so I slipped out of my jacket, grateful for the short sleeves of my cotton blouse. I needn’t have worn
jodhpurs; there were four wicker chairs bolted to the floor, two in front, two in back, all cushioned. I took my place in the front passenger seat as daintily as if I were at a tea party.

Charles climbed in on the pilot’s side and took a quick look at all the controls, pushing a few buttons, playing with some toggles and pedals on the floor. Then he handed me a stick of gum—that awful spearmint,
but I accepted it gratefully, and started chewing away. He started the engine and it sputtered, the propeller whirling, but this time it seemed so far away; not at all like my first flight, when I could feel the choppy air on my face. Enclosed as we were, I could see only out the front and a limited bit to either side. The whine of the engine was muffled, although still loud; already my head was
pounding with it.

“Here we go,” Charles said, and moved the control stick gently; the plane taxied down the field, picking up speed bit by bit until, once more, I felt suspended in a grand leap—before the wind caught us and propelled us up, up, up.

The moment we took flight, I noticed that Charles looked quickly out the side of his window, did a double take, and looked again. His hand gripped
the stick, muttering something under his breath.

“What?” I asked, trying my best not to squeal in delight as we
skimmed the tops of pine trees, so close I could have sworn I felt them tickling the soles of my feet.

Charles didn’t reply, so I shrugged and enjoyed the scenery; the sound, glittering with white birds—sailboats, that is; the vast estates, many of which I recognized now as the homes
of some of Daddy’s banking associates; the vivid green undulating below. The plane bumped and bucked as it gained altitude, causing my stomach to do its own jittery acrobatics, but then it smoothed out so suddenly that my heart soared. My worries about Dwight, questions about my future, doubts about my purpose in life, all fell away. I was light, translucent; luxuriously, I stretched my arms and
legs, wondering if the sun’s rays could pass right through me.