The Aviator's Wife: A Novel

by Melanie Benjamin

  But we didn’t need to, I assured myself. Two hearts, in such sympathy—there was no need for words, sentimental, silly, romantic. Charles was too special for that. And now I, as well, was too special for that.

  We were too special for that. For ordinary words, spoken by ordinary couples.

  1974

  FORTY-SEVEN YEARS LATER, as we fly across the country in first class, I can’t help but think, He hates this.

  Charles has always believed first class is the worst thing that’s happened to aviation, worse than anything that commercial airlines have done—worse than the snappy stewardesses in their daring skirts; worse than the pilots being hidden away by a curtain or a door; worse than the relentless effort to make passengers forget that they’re flying at all. It’s like being trapped in a can, he always says. Sealed off. Given a drink. Told to relax. People can pull shades down over the windows, so they don’t even have to see that they’re thirty thousand feet up in the air.

  I glance at his face; it is without color, translucent. His eyes are closed. He insisted on sitting up until the other passengers boarded, even though there’s a curtain, thoughtfully provided by the airline, hiding us all—the doctor, the nurse, our children, me. Him, on a stretcher balanced across one row of first-class seats. The IV is attached to his arm—so thin, like a sapling tree branch. He is dressed in khaki pants and a polo shirt.

  Frail as he is, when he was carried on board—the rest of us surrounding him, our backs to the world, as if to shun the healthy—he sat up straight and returned the salute of the pilot and the copilot who stood at the top of the ramp, tears in their eyes.

  Even that effort exhausted him. And now, he sleeps.

  I keep opening my purse, looking at the letters. Cruelly, I want to shake them in his face until he opens his eyes; I want to demand that he read them aloud just so I can hear him tell me, finally, something that is real and honest and from his heart. Even if the words were not intended for me—and why weren’t they? Where is my touching letter of farewell? Or is it supposed to be enough—as it was always supposed to be enough—that he had chosen me in the first place; chosen me now, to be at his side?

  I snap my purse shut; of course, I can’t do that; I can’t make him read the letters out loud. Not in front of my children.

  So I sit beside him quietly, the loyal wife, as far as anyone can tell; his flying partner once more on this, his final journey. We’ve reached cruising altitude and the bright, chipper “ding” has sounded, allowing us to move about if we feel like it. Scott is on watch right now; he is across the aisle from his father, studying him, his face a cipher. I have no idea what he is thinking, or remembering; I know only that he, of all my children, has the hardest road to travel to forgiveness.

  Jon is staring out the window, and I don’t know what he sees. He is a man of few words, even fewer than his father. But unlike his father, Jon is not comfortable in the air. His home is the sea; his passion the creatures within it.

  Land flew out earlier, and will meet us in Honolulu; his task is to arrange transportation to the far side of the island, Maui, so that Charles can be close to Hana and the home he built for us there. Good, obedient Land; if his father is air, his brother water, he is just as his name sounds—the earth. Land. Solid, a man of the west, a rancher.

  The girls are with their families, Reeve in Vermont, Ansy in France. Both have small children and can’t join us on this last journey, but they were able to say their goodbyes earlier.

  How I love my children! How thankful I am for them, and all they have given me—joy, frustration, hope; a reason to go on living when I thought I had none. And now grandchildren. But are they enough? Enough to salvage this family when—if—I reveal what I know?

  I touch my husband, just the gentlest touch, and it’s like it was in the beginning, when I could never quite convince myself I had the right. Only now, instead of a young god, he is near death, soon to be gone in body if never in memory, and it’s not fair. I wanted to have these last days to remember the best of our life together, the good times, the impossibly sweet times.

  Isn’t that what you’re supposed to remember when a spouse lies dying? Aren’t you supposed to forget and, most important, to forgive?

  But once again, he has denied me a wifely right. Because of the letters in my purse, I’ll never be able to forget all the years missing him, wanting him, wondering why he could be with me for only a few days before starting to pace, to look out windows, to plan to fly away from me once more. My own secret does not seem as enormous now; it cannot compare to the ones he has been keeping from me.

  I look at him, lying strangely still, unrecognizably weak, his mouth slightly open, his jaw slack; for the first time not telling any one of us what to do or think or feel.

  And I understand that betrayal is more enormous than forgiveness. One more thing Charles has taught me, in a lifetime of lessons and lectures.

  CHAPTER 4

  May 1929

  CEILING. GAS CAPACITY. WINGSPAN. Crosswinds. Throttle. Lift. Technical terms, words I needed to absorb, definitions I needed to memorize, as part of my new role.

  Well-done roast beef. No sauces. Vegetables cooked to the point of desperation. Slices of white bread accompanying every meal. A different list, but no less important. And just as vital to my new role, my new life.

  Had I ever been to college? Had I ever had an education? In those first weeks of marriage to the most famous man in the world (so famous that I received tearstained letters from ingénues accusing me of stealing their future husband; so famous that instead of the groom receiving the traditional congratulations, it was I who was thumped on the back; so famous that movie stars begged us to honeymoon at their estates and directors wanted to make feature-length movies about our wedding), I couldn’t believe that I had. For I had so very much left to learn.

  I went from knowing nothing about my husband to being expected to know everything about him. His likes and dislikes regarding food (all of the above), his wardrobe demands (simply tailored suits in brown tweed, starched white shirts, plain neckties, and always those battered brown boots he had worn since his days flying the airmail, no matter the occasion). I was also expected to know his daily schedule, magically, intuitively; beginning the first full day of our married life.

  That first morning, I overslept. Exhausted by all the preparations, the constant strain of keeping the press misdirected—we spent the week before our wedding driving out, in full view and pursuit, to various churches just to throw them off the scent—I overslept.

  I was exhausted, as well, by my first night as a wife. His reluctance to kiss me in public notwithstanding, my husband turned out to be a very ardent lover in private. His hands—those strong, elegant hands that had so fascinated me in Mexico City—were insatiably curious as they first discovered, then claimed, every part of my body, awakening me to pleasure and pain, both. But mostly pleasure.

  Pleasure, repeated, several times during the night, and so I rose late that first morning. We had decided to honeymoon on a new motorboat, as the entire world would be scanning the clouds for the “blissful, daring newlyweds of the sky.” The boat rocked gently, nudging me to wakefulness. I resisted, clinging to sleep. I was dreaming of my sister, of Elisabeth; she was twelve and I was ten, and she had hidden my favorite doll and wouldn’t tell me where it was, and she laughed at my tears.

  Before I was fully awake, I was angry with her, threatening to tell on her to Mother; as I was pulled further into wakefulness by the warmth of the sun baking our galley bedroom, I remembered. I wasn’t ten, and I wasn’t angry at my sister, but she had been on my mind so much these past few weeks.

  First the confusion the day after our accident, when the newspapers reported that Colonel Lindbergh and Miss Elisabeth Morrow had narrowly escaped death when their plane lost a wheel on takeoff. “I don’t understand,” Elisabeth kept saying when she called me at home that next morning; I could hear the rustle of a newspaper in her hand. “Why
would they say I was even in New Jersey?”

  “It was me,” I told her, explaining the situation. “I kept saying I was Miss Morrow. I never gave my first name.”

  “You?” She kept repeating it, to my irritation. “You? Colonel Lindbergh came calling for you? And took you up?”

  “Yes,” I said, over and over—itching to tell her the rest, but knowing I couldn’t until Charles had spoken with Mother and Daddy.

  And then, when I could tell her the rest, right before Daddy’s office put out the tersely worded statement that Colonel Lindbergh would be marrying Miss Anne Morrow, the ambassador’s daughter, the papers got it all wrong again. They continued to report that it was Elisabeth, not me, who was “the luckiest young woman in the world today, having been chosen by the gallant Lindy to be his copilot for life.” Daddy’s office issued an even more tersely worded correction. And finally the newspapers appeared to remember that Ambassador Morrow did have another daughter, after all.

  When Elisabeth and I were able to meet, soon after we announced the engagement, I ran to her with apologies already tumbling from my lips. “Oh, Elisabeth, what an awful mix-up in the newspapers! I’m so sorry, it’s not fair to you that they would make such a mistake. It makes you look like—like—”

  “The jilted lover?” She laughed breezily, tossing her head—but I could see the hurt in her blue eyes.

  “No, no, of course not, it’s just that—”

  “Oh, Anne, I don’t care about the press! Honestly, not a whit! It’s just—it’s just—”

  “What? What is it?”

  My sister grabbed me by my shoulders, looking fiercely into my eyes as tears filled her own, and whispered, “Oh, but I do so want to be happy for you! I do want to! You must believe me!” Then she ran up to her room and shut the door. And from that moment on there was an awkwardness between us; our roles had changed so significantly, neither one of us knew how to behave. Elisabeth had always been the one, the golden child. I had always been content to stand in her shadow.

  Overnight, I had turned Elisabeth, the beauty, the prize, into an old maid. A jilted old maid, at that. Even though she never accused me of this, I felt it. There were things on her mind that she wanted to say to me but could not; it was evident every time she changed the subject abruptly or couldn’t meet my gaze whenever Charles was in the room.

  Still, she had attended me at my wedding, even making sure that Charles’s boutonniere was secure, and smiled brilliantly all through the ceremony.

  And so my sister, not my husband, was on my mind when I finally awoke that first morning of my married life. Feeling vulnerable, exposed, it took me a moment to realize that I was naked beneath the musty-smelling, scratchy wool blanket. Remembering why I was naked, I smiled and reached out to my new husband—only to find an empty pillow.

  “Charles?” I searched around the tiny, dank cabin adjacent to an equally tiny, dank galley kitchen—it smelled of fish and kerosene—for something to wear; spying a flannel robe that I didn’t recognize, and not even stopping to wonder whose it could be, I wrapped myself in it, pulled on some tennis shoes, and climbed the narrow ladder up to the deck.

  My husband was bent over a table, looking nut-brown and extremely handsome in a heavy white fisherman’s sweater and a blue nautical cap; as much at home on the water as he was in the air. Even as I marveled at his hands tying slipknots on a thick white rope with the assurance of a seasoned sailor, I blushed; my skin was still tender from the memory of those hands gripping me.

  “You’re up late,” he said, his piercing blue gaze sweeping over me, taking me all in; the robe was not cinched tightly around my waist, causing it to gape at the top of my thighs. I clutched the worn fabric, but Charles flushed anyway. Then he smiled.

  “I know. I’m sorry.” I walked over to him, and for a moment didn’t know what to do. Should I kiss him? Hug him? The dusky intimacy of last night seemed to fade in the harsh daylight, and no longer was he my husband, my lover who cried out in the dark, over and over; once again he was Charles Lindbergh, the Lone Eagle.

  And I still wasn’t accustomed to the notion that I had a right to be by his side.

  I decided on a fond pat of his arm; he patted me back on the shoulder, and we both exhaled in relief. I told myself that we wouldn’t always be so tentative with each other, and I wanted to tell him this, too, but couldn’t find the words. Silence, I was learning—another thing to add to my syllabus!—was the response with which my husband felt most comfortable.

  We both turned and surveyed the scenery; we were about a quarter-mile offshore. The dinghy in which we had rowed out to the cruiser was tied up and banging against the side of the boat. The sky was overcast; it was late May, so the air wasn’t yet heavy with the humidity of summer storms. There was scarcely any breeze.

  “What’s our schedule?” I turned back to my husband with a playful smile; it was a honeymoon, after all. There was no schedule to be followed, except for lazy breakfasts, candlelit dinners—and more nights like the one we had just enjoyed. I’d even brought some of my poems to share with him; I imagined him reading them out loud by candlelight.

  “I wanted to shove off at oh-eight-hundred. But you slept in, so now we’re behind schedule. There are tins of food down in the galley, so I’d like my breakfast. After you clean up—you must scrub out the head with bleach, of course, every day—I’ll lift anchor. I expect to make it to Block Island by twelve-hundred. I thought I spotted a plane earlier, about five miles west, so we shouldn’t linger too long.”

  “But—” My head was dizzy with information; I couldn’t quite process it all. “Block Island? What will we do once we’re in Block Island? I know of a lovely little restaurant there, we could—”

  “No restaurants. We’d be discovered. We need to stop for more supplies, and for fuel.”

  “But I—I don’t really cook, you know. I took a couple of domestic science classes at Smith, but that was ages ago. I’m not sure I know how—”

  “Then you’ll learn. You’ll have to learn, anyway, for when we fly together.”

  “Oh, well, I thought that we’d—”

  “You’ll find eggs, a rasher of bacon, and some powdered milk and coffee.” Charles nodded back toward the stairs below. “Once we’re under way, then I’ll get out the books and charts and we’ll begin.”

  “Begin what? What books and charts? Charles, please slow down and be more specific!” My voice began to rise, but I was so bewildered and, yes, disappointed. What happened to my romantic honeymoon?

  My husband sighed, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re going to learn to fly, as well as navigate. I’m planning a trip to the Orient to chart the routes for passenger flights. I’ll pilot, naturally, but you’ll need to know how, as well. You’ll serve as navigator.”

  “I—I, navigate?” It was such an awesome word. Magellan navigated. Columbus navigated. Da Gama navigated. How could I do such a thing? “Are you sure?” I asked anxiously, twisting the tie of my robe in knots. “Are you sure you want me?”

  “Of course. Who else would I want? Who else would I trust but you, my wife? I would like my eggs now, if you please.”

  I could only stare at him, overwhelmed by all that was expected of me. Last night, I realized suddenly, had only just been the beginning. Charles Lindbergh had chosen me; that, in itself, had been enormous enough to absorb, and I hadn’t quite finished doing so. But now I began to understand what that really meant. I would be not only his wife but his copilot. I would not only make his eggs but steer his course to the Orient.

  I started to say, “I’ll try,” but stopped myself just in time. I understood that “try” would not be an acceptable answer.

  Instead I said, “Of course. How do you like them?”

  “Over easy.”

  “Perfect. That’s just how I like my own eggs.”

  I did not like my eggs over easy. But it would be simpler, I knew, to pretend that I did.

  Yet another thing I wa
s learning. And so soon.

  WE WERE DISCOVERED on Block Island. We went ashore to purchase more supplies, and a man said, “Hey, ain’t you that Lindbergh fellow? And his new bride?”

  I tensed, ready to flee; to my great surprise, Charles simply scratched his nose and spit—two things I had never seen him do before.

  “That Lindbergh fellow? Nah. What would he be doing here? I heard they flew to Maine, that’s what I heard.”

  “Huh. Now that I think of it, you’re right. That’s what I heard on the radio, too.”

  Charles turned to me with a wink, and I smothered a smile; I caught his joy, his mischievous delight at his deception as he grabbed my hand, for the first time ever in public. He held it tightly, even while we strolled leisurely through the little fisherman’s shack, loading up on eggs, cereal, and a can of coffee. (It had taken me three tries to make an acceptable pot that morning, and even then, all Charles would do was grunt and close his eyes as he drank it.)

  I thrilled to be claimed in such a manner; that was the moment I felt well and truly married. Even the night before had not made me feel so possessed. I had surely only imagined Charles’s frozen look when I tiptoed up for my wedding kiss; I had misunderstood all those awkward poses for the photographers in the days leading up to our wedding, when Charles had never once touched me, never once smiled down at me, never once behaved in any way like a man in love.

  Finally, here, in this rambling shack with buckets of worms in every corner, my husband did reach for me; he held on to me and at last all the tense, public weeks leading up to our wedding vanished, and we recaptured the intimate magic of the night he asked me to marry him. My heart did that crazy, weightless leap, like an airplane catching wing, and I could not stop myself from grinning. I even rubbed my face in the scratchy wool of his sweater, like a cat marking its territory. And I think he was surprised, and touched, when I did.