Wyatt, Richard

by Fathers of Myth

  I walk up to the door of the little A-framed rock house and stand there. I raise my fist to knock on the door, but my arm hesitantly locks in the upright position. After a few long seconds a surge of boldness sets my arm free to lightly tap the door once, twice and then a third time.

  A graceful and lovely elderly lady, with hair of a beautiful pewter complexion, appears from behind the door.

  “Hello, may I help you?”

  “Hello, I…” I nervously fidget for a moment, waiting for my tongue to work properly, before I continue.

  “My name is Matthew Brooks. I’m looking for the Charles Lindbergh home.”

  “Yes, this is the Lindbergh home, and I am Mrs. Lindbergh. What can I do for you?” She asks, holding the door open only a few inches, raising her eyebrows in anticipation of my intent.

  I raise my hand in offer, that she might give a welcoming handshake gesture in return. “Mrs. Lindbergh, what a privilege it is to meet you. I know I should have called for an appointment before I showed up here on your doorstep, but... I am a reporter from The Portland Herald. You probably have never heard of it before, but it’s a newspaper headquartered in Portland, Oregon,” I incoherently babble.

  “Yes Mr. Brooks,” she calmly replies. “I am aware of the Portland Herald. It is a fine newspaper, I’m sure. If I remember correctly, my father saved newspaper clippings from your newspaper many years ago,”

  “Really, from The Herald? That’s great! But… I mean, why would he save clippings from The Herald?” I ask, determined to make a fool of myself.”

  “It was one of several newspapers that had written articles of his flight across the Atlantic. He collected articles from as many newspapers as he could find that were written about his crossing. You are probably too young a man to remember such a thing.”

  “Of course I am aware of your father’s flight across the Atlantic Mrs. Lindbergh, and I’m sure your father’s flight across the Atlantic was in every newspaper in the country. He was one of America’s greatest heroes, and he is definitely one of mine.”

  “Well thank you Mr. Brooks that is very kind of you to say. Of course, you know Mr. Brooks; today people think it normal to travel back and forth into outer space. If someone wants to go to Paris in France today, they just sit back, wine and dine until they arrive three or four hours later,” she stares up through the trees at the blue sky. “Yes, going across the Atlantic doesn’t mean much to anyone anymore.”

  “Well, there may be some truth to that Mrs. Lindbergh, but there is one thing I am sure of. We couldn’t be traveling out into outer space or wining and dining our way across the Atlantic to Paris, if it weren’t for your father’s courage,” I try to convey a measure of admiration and respect.

  She looks into my eyes; a genuine smile composes upon her face. “Thank you Mr. Brooks that is very nice of you to say so.”

  “Mrs. Lindbergh, I have come here uninvited, and I wouldn’t blame you if you turned me down, but I am wondering if you would allow me to ask you a few questions about your father?” I wait for her answer with breathless expectation. The attractive middle aged gentlewoman solemnly deliberates for a moment.

  “Well Mr. Brooks, it has been a very long time since I have granted an interview to anyone,” A doubtful thought that she might say no pierces through my stomach.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what. Since you have come all the way from Portland, Oregon and since I was just about ready to sit down to tea, we could talk for a while if you wish. Would you care for some tea?”

  My face betrays my excitement and fails to hide my relief.

  “I would love some tea, Mrs. Lindbergh. Thank you so much.”

  “Oh my pleasure; please come in.”

  The scent of pine and the fragrance of perfume are the first things I become aware of, as I step inside.

  “Please have a seat, Mr. Brooks; I shan’t be but a moment.”

  I sit down into a large overstuffed leather armchair, sinking down with an audible whooshing air sound that evacuates from somewhere underneath me. I am tempted to take my shoes off and place my feet upon the most cushiony looking ottoman I have ever met. Only a thin thread of manners thwarts the magnetic pull of the flocculent footrest.

  I just sit there, quietly admiring the knotty pine walls that stretch up through the rafters to the cathedral of the housetop.

  As she enters into the room carrying a silver tray with teakettle and cups, my undivided attention fastens to her. This is actually the daughter of Charles Lindbergh, I remind myself of the magnitude of the moment.

  She sets the tray on the table between us and immediately begins to hospitably prepare my tea in earnest. My eyes take note of every move she makes, as if I am the only witness to an important historical event.

  “This is really very kind of you, Mrs. Lindbergh,” I feel compelled to say.

  “Don’t be silly. It is my pleasure to serve you. It is not very often at my age, I have the complete attention of a handsome young man.” She pours my tea and smiles.

  “Even though it is only to ask questions about my father, I can still pretend it to be flattery.” She hands to me the cup of tea still smiling, her eyes twinkle. I take the cup and return her smile.

  “I assure you Mrs. Lindbergh; I am the one that is flattered.”

  “Now young man, what would you like to know about my father?” She takes a sip of tea.

  I set my cup down and I take out a pad and pen for taking notes.

  “There are so many things I would love to ask you about your father,” I scratch my forehead. “But… I know your time is precious. I’m going to try and stick to the questions that I traveled here to ask.”

  “Mrs. Lindbergh, do you know if your father ever received any death threats from anyone?”

  Her eyes adjust from a twinkle to more of a stark stare.

  “Well Mr. Brooks, that is an unusual question. I don’t believe I, or even my father has ever been asked that question. I’m curious Mr. Brooks, what is it that would prompt you to ask such a question?” She is curios, but her eyes exhibit wariness.

  “Please Mrs. Lindbergh, call me Matthew.”

  She nods her head. “All right Matthew. Why is it you ask about death threats to my father?” She now looks at me intently, waiting for my reply.

  I feel like a child that has just asked my mother a question about a subject that I was told was taboo. I hesitate for a moment before I continue. I will try and choose my words right, but I am choking on a tongue that seems to be knotted with awkward doubt.

  “I just thought that I would start off with a question,” I shrug my shoulders. “That possibly no one else thought of to ask.” I feel as though I am being a little deceivingly crafty, but I am not ready to lay all of my cards on the table yet.”

  “Well Mr. Brooks; excuse me, Matthew…” She meditates for a moment. “I think the best way to answer that question is to show you the answer.”

  “Show me the answer?” I wonder of her meaning.

  “Yes, I think the best way to answer your question is to show you some of my father’s things he saved, many years ago.”

  She looks at me as if to ask my consent.

  “Yes of course. Whatever you feel comfortable with, Mrs. Lindbergh.” I try to keep my excitement hidden; sensing I am about to be more enlightened than I ever imagined.

  She soon returns to the room carrying a large stack of what looks like photo albums. Sitting down on the ottoman in front of me, she begins to hurriedly flip through pages of photos. She squints at each photo on each page, until her eyes open widely. Her finger points to a photo in the middle of the page, a newspaper clipping of the Hindenburg disaster.

  “Do you remember the Hindenburg disaster?” Her eyes glaze over.

  “Yes ma’am, I surly do. I remember reading about it in my high school and college history classes.”

  “Yes, it was a lifetime ago, but I can remember it like it was yesterday. All those people dying such a terrible death,”
she tells me as if she had been there.

  “Yes, I’m sure that it must have been a terrible thing to witness,” I agree empathetically.

  “Of course I wasn’t there, thank goodness,” she goes on. “I witnessed the terrible tragedy in a theater on a newsreel. Seeing it on a theater screen was horrible enough for me.” She looks into space and relives it in her mind.

  “I’m sure it was,” I repeat myself in the absence of more clever words.

  “My father was a leader in avionics as you well know, but his real concern was air safety. In fact in those days, he was one of the top promoters and researchers of air safety,” she pauses for a moment, staring at the newspaper clipping.

  “I have to admit, Mrs. Lindbergh, I knew your father to be famous because of his historic transatlantic flight, but I never knew he was also one of the first promoters of air safety,” I confess my ignorance and feel kind of embarrassed.

  “Well, don’t feel bad. Most people remember Charles Lindbergh only as the first man to cross the Atlantic by airplane. You see, father made such a big splash with his flight to Paris, it made all of his other endeavors and accomplishments seem like just a pebble plunk in a pond,” She looks at me and winks, wrinkling the sides of her mouth with a light smile.

  “Yes Matthew, unfortunately most people don’t even realize Charles Lindbergh did other great things besides crossing the Atlantic,” she reiterates, her head faintly motioning negatively from side to side.

  “Since my father was interested in promoting air safety, he studied the Hindenburg disaster and did hours of research on its design. He worked for months after the disaster, hoping to discover a design flaw or some scientific reason for the disaster. Several newspapers from around the world carried the story of the Hindenburg disaster, and I think my father must have collected every one of them.”

  “It sounds like your father was a conscientious and dedicated man.”

  “Yes he was, and painstakingly thorough at that. Look at this.”

  She hands over to me a large photo album stuffed with newspaper clippings.

  “There must be at least 200 newspaper clippings here,” I open up the album and stare in awe at the gross amount of clippings.

  “Oh I am sure there is, but that’s not all. There are five more photo albums in my attic, each containing as many or more newspaper clippings about the Hindenburg disaster, as that one in your hands,” she points at the album in my hand. Her hands come to rest on her waist, as if to gesture that she assumes me to be impressed speechless. And she has undeniably succeeded in doing just that. I am struck dumbfounded with wonder.

  “You mean your father cut out articles about the Hindenburg disaster, from over one thousand newspapers?”

  “Yes, that is exactly what he did. As I said, my father was a very dedicated man. The many newspaper articles he read, studied, and saved, were only a part of his research into the Hindenburg disaster. He also contacted several engineers and scientists from America and Germany to study the Hindenburg and its design. With their cooperation and help, they systematically went over every scenario they thought may have contributed or caused the disaster.” She pauses, returning her eyes once again to the photo album.

  I try waiting for her to continue, but questions thirst inside my mind, that only answers might quench.

  “Mrs. Lindbergh please, did your father and his associates find out anything from their research? Did they come to any conclusions about the disaster?” I try hard to mask my enthusiastic impatience.

  “Well, I remember how disappointed my father was when their research resulted in very few answers. After all of their intense hard work they still were unable to draw any concrete conclusions about the Hindenburg disaster.” Her face begins to cast a thoughtful melancholy.

  “So what did your father and his associates do then?” I attempt to ask tactfully.

  “What could they do? My father sent his friends home. Research on the Hindenburg disaster was over.”

  “It must have been depressing for your father and his friends, to do all of that work and still come up with nothing.” I make an effort to speak consolingly.

  “Yes, my father was very disappointed. It was not an easy thing for him to fail at; something he had such a great passion for.

  “You see, I knew my father to be a person that never gave in to despair or depression,” she reflects, looking up at thin air, as if speaking to some non-existent audience.

  “The day he gathered all of his research and newspaper clippings on the Hindenburg disaster, and then put them away, things changed.”

  “Your father wasn’t to blame, Mrs. Lindbergh. Being so disappointed after so much hard work is understandable. Depression can happen to the best of us,” I try to ease her burdened memory.

  “No Matthew. You don’t understand. My father wasn’t depressed about failing to find the cause of the Hindenburg disaster. In fact, he wasn’t depressed at all. He was more bewildered,” she is still staring out into space. Her explanation is now becoming confusing.

  “I’m sorry Mrs. Lindbergh, I’m not sure what you mean by bewildered. You say that your Father wasn’t at all depressed about not finding any reason for the Hindenburg disaster. What was it, exactly, about the Hindenburg disaster that bewildered your father?”

  “I’m sorry; I’m not making myself very clear. My Father wasn’t depressed or bewildered over the Hindenburg disaster; disappointed yes, but nothing more. Not being able to totally understand the cause of the disaster of the Hindenburg was just one of those things. You strike out and then go on with your life.

  “Father gathered up all of the research and newspaper clippings, as I mentioned. He planned to put them in storage and then go on to other pressing projects that were waiting for his attention. But as he was gathering up all of the newspaper clippings, he found this.”

  She extends her arm towards me and opens up her hand. A yellowed newspaper clipping lies folded upon her palm. I look at her inquisitively for just a moment, and then hesitantly take it from her hand.

  “What’s this?” I ask, puzzled.

  “It is a newspaper article about the Hindenburg disaster. I would like to ask you to please look at the photo,” she politely implores. “This photo is what started it all. That photo launched my Father on a quest that would bedevil him for many years to come. In fact it tormented him until his death in 1974,” she confesses, as I unfold it.

  §

  TWENTY THREE

  As soon as I focus on the newspaper clipping before me, I reel with amazement. The newspaper clipping is the same one I had found earlier, back at my apartment. This was the same newspaper clipping that displayed the same photo of the infamous cerebral-eyed grinning man, running away from the disintegrating Hindenburg airship. I can’t believe my eyes.

  Every molecule of my corporeal being shudders with disturbance. Self-control is a virtue, of which I have little proficiency, but now I must display it as if it were a comfortable old hat.

  “Oh yes, the photo of the Hindenburg disintegrating to the ground; it’s a very impressive photograph.” I give my appraisal in response. I pause in thought for a moment, and then continue.

  “I have this exact photo in my collection too,” I inform her. I then devote my attention to the photo.

  “Yes impressive, but so very tragic and horrifying.”

  “Besides the terrible horror of this photo, Mrs. Lindbergh, what was it about this newspaper article, that concerned or was upsetting to your father?” I ask, as if I didn’t already know.

  Rapt in deep reflection, her lips caress together as she savors her last sip of tea. As she sets her cup down onto the silver tray in front of her, I submissively await her reply. Taking a white linen napkin, she leisurely pats the prow of her lips dry, returning the napkin to her lap. Reaching over, she takes the newspaper clipping from my hand, staring at it searchingly.

  “While father was gathering all of his research for storage,” she begins to explain, “
He came upon this photo once again. Father must have studied these newspaper clippings a hundred times each, but this time was different. This time, something about that photo sparked his memory.

  “This time, for some reason, the strange man in the photo running away from the Hindenburg, looked familiar to him. The longer he studied the newspaper photo, the more he became convinced that he had seen this man previously, in another photograph, somewhere before.

  “He began an intense search of his other newspaper clippings and photos he had saved over the years, in an effort to find where he had observed this man before. After hours of searching, he finally found the newspaper photo he was looking for. The photo contained this same gentleman, who must have posed for the camera, about eight years before the Hindenburg disaster. Let me show you what I mean.”

  From underneath the stack of photo albums she pulls out what looks like a small leather scrapbook. From within the leather folder she picks out a folded newspaper clipping and then hands it over to me. I unravel the piece of paper and give attention to its content.

  The photo before me is a picture of the New York Stock Exchange. Six men are at the podium getting ready to gavel the final bell. The date and time on the wall behind them read, 4:00 PM October 28, 1929. By now it is no surprise to me, that this strange intruder into my life, as well as Charles Lindbergh’s life, is also present in this photo. Yes, for some unknown reason he is present at another one of history’s disasters, and he being the one about to gavel the day of the stock market crash to a close.

  “So it looks like the same man that was present at the crash of the Hindenburg, was one of the traders at the New York Stock Exchange, huh?” I give a simpleminded response, knowing all the while, what all of this has got to lead to.

  “Yes, on the surface it looks as if it is just coincidental that he is a stock trader that just happened to also be present at the crash of the Hindenburg,” she is intrigued.