by Theasa Tuohy
Searchers resumed their climb the next day, Sunday, but couldn’t find the plane. Then Lindbergh swooped in and hovered over the wreckage to spot their way. What the rescuers ultimately found, clambering over the lava, was charred remains. None of the bodies were readily identifiable, according to one early account. But another reporter wrote that the two pilots were found in the cockpit “with their left hands up before their faces as if warding off a blow.”
“What nonsense, they couldn’t possibly have seen that,” Laura pronounced. “Yet another so-called reporter with a vivid imagination.”
Stories were coming out about reporters at the site having somehow managed to hook up a portable telephone in an isolated surveyor’s camp to the town switchboard in nearby Grants, and the lone operator there put them through to their papers across the country. Garbled accounts were arriving in all sorts of ways; some reports said the debris indicated the plane had been headed west when it crashed, others said it had been headed back east, the direction from whence it came. More drama ensued. A TAT official tried to block the taking of photographs and demanded the bodies be immediately removed. Armed forest rangers stepped in. They had to wait for the district attorney to arrive. When the DA finally got there, he swore in cowboys from the rescue party to act as deputies.
The wrap-up came from Anne Lindbergh. “It seems to me,” she said, “the most terrible accident in all of aviation.” The comment made Laura shiver to think of the risks Jenny and Roy took every time they flew. Yet she consoled herself that their low-level flying in light planes was hardly the same as cross-country trips over high mountains.
“Wow,” she said aloud, exhausted but exhilarated after finishing her shift on Sunday, “what a story.” She marched up to Barnes. “See, if I’d been there, you could have relied on the information you got.”
“Are you nuts? One portable telephone—you would have been trampled in the melee. Besides, it’s a good thing you were here to work the extra day on Sunday, otherwise I would have had to cut your pay for all those days you missed traveling.”
* * *
Laura dutifully climbed the steep el stairs and got off at the Park Row Terminal for the next several weeks, but she was miserable thinking about Roy, and dispirited about work. Her assignments were boring; nothing like the adventures of last month or the New Mexico crash. And at home, Evelyn behaved as though they’d never spoken of Father Bernard. Laura had to admit that she hadn’t tried very hard after that first confrontation. An easy question here, one there, but her mother wouldn’t take the bait. “So what would Dad think about such and such?” was about all Laura would venture. She was basically afraid that her mother would get angry or mean if Laura badgered her. She also didn’t want her mother to start the tirade about not calling Father Bernard “Dad,” the way she had always objected to herself being called “Mom.” Laura couldn’t decide which bothered her more, the elusiveness of her father’s image or the lack of excitement at work.
Then one beautiful day in late September, as Laura was finishing up an obit, Myrtle yelled from the switchboard, “You got a call, kid!”
It was Jenny, saying she was at Roosevelt Field to discuss a business offer from Curtiss and that she planned to do the flight checkout the next day for her transport license. She’d already passed the four-hour written exam. John was there just for the in-air test and they were staying on Long Island, but Jenny could come in and spend the weekend with Laura after he left.
“I hope that grumpy boss of yours will let you come cover my trials,” Jenny said, followed by her tinkly laugh. “Mark, my friend from Curtiss, says there will be plenty of reporters, but it would be special to me if you were here.”
Laura, aglow with excitement that Jenny was affirming their friendship and thrilled that she had taken these first steps toward a new goal, did some quick homework before approaching Barnes about going to Roosevelt Field. She found you needed two hundred solo hours before taking the written exam. Then a grueling flight checklist that included spot and dead-stick landings, vertical figure eights, stalls, spins, loops, all kinds of dangerous-sounding maneuvers. And apparently you never quite knew what kind of critical situation the examiner would put you in to see if you could get out of it.
Laura shivered. It appeared that if you couldn’t get out of it, you crashed.
Barnes cut her off before she could even tell him that only three women held the license. “Take Cheesy with you,” he said, then turned back to his ringing telephone.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
JENNY TAKES HER TEST
When Laura and Cheesy arrived, Jenny was already in the air. Roosevelt Field was jammed with cars parked every which way around the perimeter of the right-angled flight line. The Daily News’ plane was cruising low overhead. People swarmed along as though at an amusement park or ball game. Laura grinned to herself. Soon no more baseball to hog Page One, and with the Yankees out of contention, she had a good shot at tomorrow’s front page with a story about Jenny. Probably only a home run by Babe Ruth or Lou Gehrig could knock her off.
New Yorkers were finding it hard to stomach that the Yankees, who had not only made it to the last two World Series but had won them, were falling victim this year to the Philadelphia Athletics. But Laura had learned from experience that some very good stories could get lost in the kismet of breaking events. Today’s Page One was Yankee Stadium; this time for the funeral of manager Miller Huggins. Yesterday it was the amazing story of Army ace Lieutenant Jimmy Doolittle flying blind in a shrouded cockpit using only instruments. True, there was another pilot in the forward cockpit as a fail-safe, but Doolittle had done it! Aviation feats were big news.
Laura was pondering how she would write her story so that she and Jenny could knock the Yankees off Page One when she noticed Mac hanging out near the Curtiss hangar with reporters from several other papers.
“Why are you here?” she asked, rushing up to the balding reporter. “Barnes said I could do this.”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head. I know all these Curtiss people, including Mark Snyder, who has loaned her a plane and wants to sponsor her. You can do the interview. I’ll handle the technical stuff.”
“Stuff the technical,” Laura said in a huff. “Doesn’t he think I can do all of it?” Pretty little head, my foot, she fumed. When will these galoots ever take me seriously?
Mac answered with a grin, as Jenny swooped low and dipped her wings over the spot where they were standing.
“She’s saying hello to you,” Mac said. “Now you’re part of the story. Cheesy’s just snapped your picture. ‘Our Gal Reporter Greeted by Winged Lass.’ Good headline.”
Laura was startled by Mac’s comment. Was he making fun of her, or was he actually trying to be nice? They had all seemed to be somewhat nicer to her in the newsroom lately. She felt she never quite knew when people were being friendly—or was she antagonizing them by trying to appear too self-sufficient? She thought of Jenny. It felt as though they were becoming true friends, but she was still afraid to trust her feelings on that as well.
Laura spotted John Flynn scanning the skies, a Panama hat with a black band shading his eyes. He was pacing near the shack that sold ice cream like an expectant father in a hospital waiting room. He seemed to be talking almost to himself, hardly noticing Laura and Cheesy, who was gyrating around taking pictures of John’s pacing. “She’s done three stalls already. I can’t imagine what that examiner wants. Probably being hard on her because she’s so young and pretty.”
Cheesy was gleeful. “I got a shot of hubby wearing a path in front a dat sign, Fly for 5 bucks.”
Jenny suddenly swooped down at them, the nose of her plane rolling as she came.
“What’s she doing?” Laura yelled over to John.
“A vertical figure eight.” He had to shout by now—the noise of Jenny’s plane so close with the background din of other planes landing and taking off was almost deafening. “Basically a couple of loops put together. The
trick is staying inside a tight perimeter.”
Jenny, her white scarf sailing behind, passed so close over their heads that Laura instinctively ducked.
John smiled at her discomfort. “It’s a maneuver that takes a lot of control.”
Cheesy was scampering this way and that, at times on one knee, at times lying on the ground.
When Laura looked back up as Jenny roared past in a fast climb, she was surprised to see a man in the front cockpit. “The inspector rides with her?”
“Sure.” Laura could barely hear John’s reply because he had gone back to his pacing. “He needs a close-up look.”
Several of the other reporters started trotting over from hangar row, apparently alerted by Cheesy’s actions that John had some importance in the spectacle. Laura, seeing them coming, leaned up on tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “Don’t talk to any of these jerks. They’re ghouls.”
John burst out laughing. “That’s the first time today I’ve relaxed enough to find anything funny.” At Laura’s panicked look, he laughed again. “Don’t worry, kiddo, Jenny told me the story is important to you. What should I do, not talk to them or give them false info?”
Laura smiled. “Thanks, I’ve got enough trouble with a guy from my own paper here. Answer only flying questions, which they probably already know anyway. Don’t answer anything else.”
John grinned again. “Whatever you say.” Then his smile faded as he squinted up into the sun.
Three reporters and another photographer came pushing through, and everyone’s eyes turned to the sky. At the top of a loop, Jenny’s plane suddenly seemed to be falling. As she got closer and closer, Laura realized there was no noise coming from the plane. “Her engine’s conked out,” Laura said, trying to control the panic in her voice. “She seems to be gliding.”
“She is.” John had stopped his pacing and was standing stone still. “Dead-stick landing, another test.”
Even Cheesy looked like a statue, his camera dangling from his right hand. The three of them watched, clustered together in silence, as the little plane seemed to glide to earth some half a mile away. They breathed a collective sigh, and watched as the plane again rose into the cloudless sky and headed into another loop.
“Who are you, mister?” a reporter with a beak nose and a snap-brim hat demanded, turning to John.
A fellow whom Laura recognized as a Times reporter was more polite. “Are you the flier’s father?”
Oops, Laura gloated, ask a husband a question like that! Good lesson there on how not to approach sources.
John turned his back on the two and addressed Laura. “You’ve won that round.”
Jenny’s plane zoomed down at them again, only to pull up at the last minute.
“Gee,” Laura said, exhaling a pent-up breath, “this is painful to watch.”
“I’ll say,” John replied. “It’s worse than when I watched her first solo. Being an old hand at this myself doesn’t help one bit.”
The Times reporter tugged at John’s sleeve. “Sorry to bother you again, sir, but could I ask you a few questions?” The photographer with him was busy taking shots of John then turning to aim at Jenny when she was in range.
“You had your question,” John said, turning to grin at Laura.
He walked away with Laura and Cheesy toward the in-field shack and bought them ice creams, which soon began melting down their fingers as they nervously craned their necks toward the sky.
“This is taking too long.” John impatiently stamped his feet and threw his cone on the ground. As he was dabbing at his sticky fingers with a handkerchief, he let out a low moan. Laura, following his pointing finger, saw a plume of dark smoke curling from the little plane.
John started out at a dead run toward the Curtiss hangar, with Laura and Cheesy close behind.
A sandy-haired man in a business suit was rushing toward them across the runway. “Mark,” John yelled to him, “can you tell what the hell is going on? Have you ordered out the fire brigade?”
Laura saw that Mac was heading their way, along with several other reporters and photographers.
The bell of a fire truck was clanging as Laura turned to watch Jenny’s plane drop for an easy, smooth stop practically in front of where they were standing.
A stampede of people headed to the plane. Jenny and the examiner climbed out at the same time, and he immediately stepped over and shook her hand. Laura, running by then, had gotten close enough to hear him say: “Well done. I never had a woman applicant before, so I was determined to be tough. But you came through with flying colors, if you don’t mind the cliché.”
John picked Jenny up and twirled her around. People continued to pour out of the hangars, everyone shouting congratulations.
Laura found herself trying to hold back tears when she gave Jenny a hug. “But what about the fire? What was it? I was so scared.”
Jenny was nonchalant, shrugged. “Pooh, that happens a lot,” she said. “Just a little too much throttle, have to wait while fuel burns off the engine. But the heck with that! I’ve got my transport license! Let’s break out the champagne.”
“Where?” Laura asked. “It’s against the law.”
“I’m way ahead of you on that,” John said, giving his wife another hug. “It’s on ice. Mark’s planning a little party in the back room of the Curtiss hangar.”
“Swell,” Jenny said. “I wouldn’t want this grand occasion to go unnoted. As for you,” she turned to Laura, “why didn’t you answer Clem?”
“Clem?” Laura looked at her as though she had a leak in her brain. The thought flashed at how startled Jenny had been a few days ago when Laura, seemingly out of the blue, had asked, “What if I’m an Indian?”
“Yes, Clem! You are the most unsocialized animal I’ve ever seen. I told you he’s sweet on you. And rich. What girl in her right mind wouldn’t follow up on that?”
Laura could feel her face getting hot. “Slightly awkward circumstances, don’t you think? I was mortified about Roy.”
Jenny yanked off her cloth helmet, waved it in a flourish, and linked her arm through John’s. “Drum roll, please. Clem’s a lawyer, you know, and he has been digging up information about how you might prove yourself eligible for your father’s headright. The Indian priest is your father, isn’t he? What did your mother say?”
“Shouldn’t we talk about this later?” Laura pleaded. “Besides, I remember Clem telling me when they closed the Osage roles. It was the month before I was born.”
“He’ll fix it. What did your mother say?”
“Ah . . . eh, yes,” Laura stammered. “But she didn’t like my bringing up the subject.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Jenny declared. “Who ever heard of a mother who would stand in the way of an inheritance? And I must say, I’m curious. I’m sure I’ve never met anyone like her before.”
“You mean someone who had an affair with a priest?”
“Now don’t get touchy. I’m sure she’s had an interesting life. A different kind from anyone I’ve ever known.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
FEAR AND TREMBLING
In Cheesy’s car driving back to New York, Laura was in a cold sweat. She dreaded the idea of Jenny getting together with Evelyn, but there was nothing to be done about it. Jenny was going to spend a couple of days with Laura at the Gay Street apartment after John left for Oklahoma. Laura had never had a friend sleep over, even as a child, and that in itself had her in a swivet. But now Jenny’s plan to confront Evelyn over Laura’s father was just too much. Laura even started worrying about the rule of not wearing white shoes after Labor Day. Although she felt almost positive that her mother didn’t even own a pair, she knew that with Evelyn one could never be sure of anything. Laura was in such a mumbly, distracted frame of mind that even Cheesy, who rarely took notice of anyone’s mood, finally asked, “What’s eating at you?” Of course, Laura replied, “Nothing.” Cheesy was hardly the one to assuage her worries about whether the white-sho
e thing mattered if the weather was still bright and sunny.
Lordy, she worried, using Jenny’s favorite expression as all her fears tumbled through her mind, how will Miss Proper Etiquette deal with Evelyn? For the first time in her life, Laura had found a real friend, and it was all going to be ruined. She just knew it. Jenny would hate her or certainly snub her after this, and Evelyn would have a fine old time watching Laura’s hopes for a new friend crumble. There was no way to stall Jenny a day, or even get home ahead of her to warn Evelyn. But what would she say to warn her? If Evelyn knew how important all this was for Laura, that would goad her even more to be mean and cynical and make fun of everything. And Jenny wanted to talk about a headright for Laura! Evelyn would go berserk. Hadn’t she been vicious in telling Laura that her father wouldn’t approve of her job? Laura had never understood Evelyn, and she never would. How could she explain it to Jenny, or prepare her for it? Come to think of it, Jenny could be a bit mean herself.
Laura told herself she must shake this gloom. She had to get to the office and write a good story. And the damned Yankees couldn’t interfere with it. She had been so excited about Jenny’s success just a short time ago, but, as usual, Evelyn was interfering even when she wasn’t there.
Laura looked out at the passing parade on the Long Island Motor Parkway. Socialites whizzing past farms and fields at probably forty miles an hour in their big cars on the way to their weekend homes. Where could you see this much green except in Central Park? For Laura, it was another world, almost as strange as Oklahoma. It made her wonder what Jenny would think of the hustle and din of Manhattan. Probably no chance she’d stick around long enough to find out after Evelyn got ahold of her.
Cheesy suddenly pulled over to the side of the road.
“What are you doing?” Laura asked. She had to get back to the office. “Is something wrong with the car?”
