Fighting for Space

by Amy Shira Teitel

  This was her intention the night she found herself sipping before-dinner cocktails at the Surf Club in Miami Beach. She was there at the behest of Molly Hemphill, a friend from the salon. Their host for the evening was Stanton Griffis, the American ambassador to Spain and a business partner of Molly’s husband, Cliff. As she stood chatting with the Hemphills, Jackie noticed a man walking toward the coat-check room wearing a simple suit rather than formal dinner dress. He was slender, clean-cut, had a fair complexion, and wore horn-rimmed glasses. She wouldn’t say he was necessarily handsome, but he wasn’t unattractive, either. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something about him that grabbed her.

  “Why can’t you ever introduce me to men like that one?” she asked, leaning over to Cliff. “He looks as though he does something with his life besides gambling.”

  “Oh, Jackie, you’re incredible.” Cliff laughed as Molly strode across the room to take the man’s arm. Guiding him through the crowd, she gave him a whispered, tongue-in-cheek introduction to her friend Jackie. “She’s a working girl—not too pretty. She has very unique hair, which she claims is natural. She has a beautiful figure and all the boys like her. Even Cliff, I think, is slightly on the make for her, but I don’t think anyone has made any headway—so you might be interested in meeting her. She is just an ignorant little nobody but, strangely enough, we always have her around. Why don’t you come and meet her?”

  As the man sat on the arm of Jackie’s chair, Molly introduced him as Floyd. Up close, Jackie could see he had brilliant blue eyes that were framed by golden hair that fell loosely over his forehead. As the group moved into the dining room, Jackie was pleased to see he sat next to her. There was something about him that put her at ease. He was funny, kind, and utterly fascinating. As the evening wore on she began to suspect that he was interested in her, too; he was so focused on learning all about her. He listened closely as she told him how she’d gotten her start in the beauty industry, how in addition to working at Antoine’s she was also part owner in cheaper salons where girls just out of beauty school gave less expensive treatments women on the dole could afford; she’d often visit these salons in the evening after her own workday. She even told Floyd about her stint as a traveling saleswoman and how the open road still held some allure. Floyd listened with such rapt attention she felt safe opening up about a private dream.

  “I’ve been thinking of leaving Antoine’s to go on the road as a cosmetics manufacturer,” she told him. “The shop can be so confining and the customers so frustrating and what I really love to do is travel. I want to be out in the air.” Jackie knew being a stylist took creativity but not a lot of smarts. She craved a challenge. She also knew that women needed more than a hairstyle for a confidence boost. She firmly believed that it was a woman’s right to feel the emotional satisfaction that came from enhancing her natural beauty. To her amazement, Floyd didn’t scoff at her ambition. Instead, he offered her some sage advice.

  “There’s a depression on, Jackie,” he reminded her. “If you’re going to cover the territory you need to cover in order to make money in this kind of economic climate, you’ll need wings. Get your pilot’s license.”

  Floyd stayed by Jackie’s side as the party moved into the casino after dinner. Though he’d given up gambling years earlier, Floyd pressed a twenty-dollar7 chip into her palm, which she promptly lost. So he gave her another, which she also lost. Jackie realized she didn’t know what he did for work and worried she was losing his hard-earned money. He had mentioned something about a bank, so she assumed he worked in finance, but his comment about the Depression didn’t suggest he knew more than the average person. He was so quiet and serious, so un-tycoon-like, that she assumed he was a bank teller, in which case she couldn’t have him spending more money on her. She moved to leave, but Floyd pressed another twenty-dollar chip into her hand, imploring her to stay a little longer. They continued this back and forth until Jackie had lost more than three hundred dollars.8 Now she was seriously concerned about his financial situation.

  It turned out that Floyd could afford to lose much more. Jackie’s gentle Floyd was Floyd Bostwick Odlum, a lawyer turned titan of the financial world. Seeing the writing on the wall in the summer of 1929, he had not only survived the stock market crash with his millions intact, but he was also profiting off the Depression. The value of companies was plummeting, and banks and brokerage houses were keen to be rid of the responsibility of the associated stocks. So Floyd’s Atlas Corporation bought them, in each case purchasing just enough shares to be the controlling party for as little as fifty cents on the dollar. He would reorganize a company, liquidate its assets, then use the profits to do the same thing to another company. While people lost their jobs in the process, Floyd emerged as one of the ten wealthiest men in the country. Jackie didn’t know the extent of his wealth that night; all she knew was she felt a connection with Floyd. They had similar backgrounds; fourteen years her senior, Floyd had also grown up poor, the youngest son of a Methodist minister. They had both worked hard for their success. The uneducated beautician and the introverted millionaire shared an insatiable ambition and an impatience with anything but an all-out effort.

  Two days later, she sat on his right as the guest of honor at his dinner party at the Indian Creek Golf Club. Their courtship was clearly beginning, but there was a complication: Floyd was married.

  By Floyd’s own admission his marriage to Hortense McQuarrie was over except on paper. That was why he was in Miami alone; he was taking the time to think through whether he wanted a divorce while Hortense stayed in New York with their two sons. Meeting Jackie tipped the balance. He wanted to make her his wife, but the situation was delicate. Floyd didn’t want to drag his sons through a messy public divorce or embarrass Hortense by openly dating before their marriage was legally over, so he wanted to end one relationship before starting another. Jackie, sure that destiny had brought her and Floyd together, trusted that he was a good man who would do the right thing.

  When Floyd ran into Jackie weeks later back in New York, he immediately asked Jackie to dinner. She gave him the number at Antoine’s and told him to call her anytime. It was against the rules to receive personal calls in the salon, but Jackie didn’t care. Floyd did call, and the manager put him through to Jackie, who was so excited she picked her next free night for their first proper date, which happened to be her twenty-sixth birthday. When Floyd found out midway through the night, he gave her a twenty-dollar gold piece from his pocket. Jackie slipped it into her purse and quietly vowed never to spend this first gift from him. From that night on, their courtship progressed under a veil of discretion; Floyd still didn’t want to be seen openly dating until his divorce was final. Jackie didn’t mind. She appreciated the delicacy of the situation and relished every chance she had to get to know him better.

  And all the while, his casual mention of flying continued to percolate in the back of her mind. It was like listening to the navy cadets in Pensacola all over again, but this time she had a reason. She was at the top of her industry in one of the most prestigious salons, but she was starting to get bored. The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to begin the next phase of her career, and she couldn’t get the idea of flying as a cosmetics saleswoman out of her mind. It wasn’t unheard of for a woman to be a pilot. Amelia Earhart had shown women that flying was in their reach, and in 1929 she’d founded the Ninety-Nines, a sorority of female pilots so named because there were ninety-nine licensed women aviators present at the time of its creation. The more Jackie thought about it, the more her goal of joining their number felt feasible. In a matter of weeks, the books on her nightstand and the magazines in her mailbox were about airplanes. All her conversations—with Floyd, with friends, even with herself in her head—were about flying. After two months of informal study, it was time to move from the page to the cockpit.

  Jackie hadn’t taken a single day off since starting at Antoine’s, which meant she had six week
s of vacation time stored up that she could use to get her pilot’s license. Talking over her plans with Floyd, she realized she didn’t want to spend all her time off working, so she decided to split it: three weeks for relaxation and three weeks for flying lessons. Floyd scoffed at her ambitious timeline, saying there was no way that she, a complete novice, could get her license in six weeks, let alone three. Jackie shot back that she absolutely could and would. Amused, Floyd decided to make it interesting. The man who didn’t gamble bet the woman who’d never been inside an airplane $4959—the cost of the lessons—that she would need more time. Jackie accepted the bet without hesitation.

  * * *

  On a Saturday morning in the last week of July, Jackie boarded a nearly empty eastbound train at Pennsylvania Station. Speeding toward Long Island, she watched the urban landscape roll by as the conductor called out the stops in a deep, drawling voice. When he announced Mineola Station, she disembarked and walked the short distance to Roosevelt Field.

  She’d picked Roosevelt Field for its proximity to the city, but the walls of the little airport held history. Named for President Theodore Roosevelt’s son Quentin, who was killed during the First World War, it was one of the most easterly airports in the country. It was thus a favorite starting point for long-distance pilots, including Charles Lindbergh, who had begun his transatlantic flight in the Spirit of St. Louis here in 1927. As Jackie walked into the front office, the little airport was empty except for Husky Llewelyn.

  “I’m starting on a six-week vacation,” she announced. “Do you think I can learn enough in that time to get my pilot’s license?”

  Husky had seen his fair share of young women come through the airport. They got it into their heads that they wanted to fly after taking a ride somewhere, then they marched into his office intending to be the next Lindbergh, only to never return for a second lesson. Looking at Jackie with her blond curls, petite frame, and made-up face, he couldn’t imagine she’d be any different. As Husky sized up Jackie, she did the same. The man was as big as his name, and she seriously questioned whether the little plane on the runway could support his weight.

  Neither teacher nor student voiced their private trepidations as Husky explained that today he would be taking her up for a half-hour teaser lesson to see if she wanted to commit to the full course. Without another word, he led her out to the runway. He climbed into the rear cockpit of the Fleet biplane trainer as Jackie took her seat in front. He told her to pay attention to the stick and pedals—they were connected so hers would move like magic as Husky controlled the plane—but under no circumstances was she to touch anything unless he told her otherwise. With that, Husky sped down the runway until, much to Jackie’s relief, the plane lifted into the air.

  In an instant, Jackie’s life changed. Why have I waited? she thought to herself. I can’t believe that I have put this off—a reason for living—for so long. Up in the sky, on that clear day, flying felt natural. She was on par with the birds, sure that there was some higher power watching over her.

  Husky flew them in circles around the airport while Jackie paid close attention to how the stick’s movements corresponded with the plane’s. He showed her how moving the stick side to side controlled aileron flaps on the wing that made the plane turn left and right. Pushing the stick down lowered the elevator in the back and the plane’s nose dove; pulling the stick back did the opposite. Pressing the pedals moved the rudder, causing the plane to roll side to side. It not only made sense to Jackie, but it also seemed so intuitive. As their half hour came to a close, Husky yelled over the engine for her to take control and bring them in for a landing. Jackie didn’t know whether he had confidence in her or if he was just bored and hoping for the excitement of jumping in to save the day, but she did as she was told. She grabbed the stick and noticed how natural it felt in her hand, how the plane seemed to move as an extension of her body. She followed his instructions to the letter and made a perfect landing on the nearby field.

  “How many hours do you have to fly to get a license?” Back on the ground, Jackie was desperate to return to the air and start her formal lessons.

  “You’ve got to fly twenty hours, then pass a test,” Husky told her, adding, “It’ll take two or three months if you’re lucky.”

  “I have to do it in three weeks because I don’t intend to spend my entire vacation out here,” she explained. She left out the part about the bet with Floyd.

  “That’ll be tough,” Husky laughed.

  “I don’t think so.” She defiantly put her $495 on the counter.

  Husky happily took her money and signed Jackie up, but made it clear that the fee was nonrefundable and he couldn’t guarantee that she would get her license or even make a solo flight.

  The next day, Jackie arrived at an empty Roosevelt Field at seven o’clock. The morning was still, and as she wandered around the airport, she couldn’t stop looking up. The sky had taken on new meaning. It wasn’t just the backdrop to a summer day anymore, it was a realm she knew she had to conquer. Walking between the airplanes parked in the nearby hangar, she studied the portraits of great aviators painted on the walls. She read Amelia Earhart’s name, Clifford B. Harmon, Henry “Hap” Arnold, Major Alexander Seversky. A wave of inspired determination washed over her as she imagined herself being on that wall next to them. Jackie snapped out of her fantasy when Husky arrived to begin their lessons.

  She flew in that same small trainer every day over the next week. She learned what airspeeds she needed for takeoffs and landings and how to guide the plane through basic maneuvers. He taught her how to fly loops, spins, and rolls in dizzying succession. On their eighth day together, after just seven hours and five minutes in the air, Husky turned Jackie loose for her first solo flight. She didn’t consider that she was still a novice. All she knew in that moment was that she wanted to be the world’s greatest aviatrix, and it was going to start right now. And so she took off down the runway as she had with Husky so many times. The controls felt familiar, as did the sensation of lifting off the ground into the air. The whole flight felt wonderful. Then, all of a sudden, the engine quit. Shielded by the blissful confidence of inexperience, Jackie didn’t panic. She assumed Husky had rigged it to stop as a test, so she did as he’d taught her: she managed her speed as best she could without her engine and glided down to a perfect dead-stick landing on the field.

  Husky and the handful of other pilots who put their own flights on hold to watch her first solo were astounded. No one had rigged the engine. Jackie had just weathered a real emergency. Husky couldn’t deny that after just hours in the air, this petite blond young woman had proved she was one of the smartest and most natural flyers he’d ever seen. So great was her aptitude that Jackie only needed another ten days before she was able to take her final tests. Flying the practical test was easy. The written exam was harder; Jackie lacked confidence in her written abilities so convinced the examiner to let her take this test orally.

  On August 17, 1932, just seventeen days after she first stepped into a cockpit, the newly licensed aviatrix collected her money from Floyd.

  7About $367 in 2019.

  8About $5,520 in 2019.

  9About $9,105 in 2019.

  Chapter 3

  A Small Airport in Vermont, August 20, 1932

  The customs official was sure he’d misheard her. “Don’t you know the way to Montreal?” he asked, doubtful.

  “No, I really don’t,” Jackie replied. “I wouldn’t be asking you for directions if I already knew.”

  He still didn’t understand. “How did you get here?”

  “Well, I came up the Hudson River and then followed the lake shoreline until I found the airport. I landed and here I am.” Jackie didn’t see the problem. It was a clear day, and she had maps showing she could follow the edge of Lake Champlain almost all the way to Montreal. In fact, the flight had been a lot easier than filling out all those customs forms she’d just completed.

  The man explained which
heading she had to follow for how many miles, where to turn, and how to adjust her timing depending on the winds she met over the Canadian border. But Jackie had no idea what he was talking about. Why couldn’t he just point her toward Montreal so she could go?

  “I don’t know how to read a compass,” she finally admitted.

  Now he was really confused, shocked that anyone in their right mind would fly alone internationally without knowing how to read a compass. He walked away and returned moments later with a group of men, each of whom grabbed a part of her plane’s wings and tail. As one, they turned the plane right there on the field with Jackie still in the cockpit. “Look at the compass!” the customs official shouted.

  For the first time, Jackie noticed that the needle on the compass moved with the plane, telling her where her nose was facing. Flying with Husky she’d learned about airspeeds and level flying, but she’d always been in view of the airport. It had never occurred to her she might need to navigate by more than landmarks. An arm appeared by her window, pointing her toward Montreal. The man’s directions made sense now, but for the first time in her short flying career, she was nervous. “Suppose I’m not good at reading this compass,” she asked the man attached to the arm. “Suppose I wander off. I don’t think I fly that straight. What will I see on my way?” All of a sudden, this last-minute trip to Canada for an air meet felt foolhardy, especially with a three-day-old license in her pocketbook.

  “Well, there aren’t any highways or railroads you can follow. They just don’t go that way. You’d better just head in the general direction. When you’re about halfway there, you’ll see two big silos. If the visibility stays as clear as it is now, you should start seeing some airplanes at that point. Just go where the other airplanes go and that’s where the airport will be. If you get lost, or never see the silos, turn around and come back.” Jackie thanked the man for his help as well as his patience and took off. She flew a few circles to get the hang of the compass needle before setting off.