She shook her head and sighed disgustedly. “What do you want, Levine?” she demanded tiredly as she flopped onto the settee, also upholstered in taupe satin silk, across from him.
“I wanna tell you,” he started to say while scraping dirt out from underneath his fingernails, “that I got some news.”
“Oh, yeah?” Mabel replied, not even looking at him.
“Yeah,” Levine replied. “I got some good news, I got some bad news, and then I got some more good news.”
“Let me guess,” Mabel said, finally shifting her gaze over to him. “Grace let you back in the house, then she kicked you out, then she let you back in again.”
Levine laughed. “No, no,” he informed her. “This is news you’re gonna wanna hear, I’m telling you.”
The maid who was not Marcelle entered the room and placed Levine’s scotch and water on the table next to him. He nodded, then picked it up and slurped a sip.
“Bert Acosta is ready to go to Cuba,” he told her, not expecting much of a reaction. He didn’t get one.
“So what?” Mabel said. “What do I care about Cuba?”
“Why?” Levine questioned with a small chuckle. “Publicity, a record-breaking title, the first woman to fly to Cuba! We could make some money on this! You got something better lined up?”
Mabel suddenly sat up straight and crossed one leg over the other.
“Maybe,” she said noncommittally. “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t.”
“Hmmmmm,” Levine said, smiling. “I’m guessing maybe you don’t.”
Mabel sneered at him. “How do you know?” she said defensively. “How do you know my plans?”
Levine also crossed one leg over the other as he swirled the scotch around in his lowball. “Well, let’s put it this way,” he said confidently. “I don’t know what your plans are, but I know they ain’t with Hinchliffe . . .”
Mabel looked shocked, then looked away.
“. . . because he’s gone,” Levine continued. “Left for England this morning.”
Although she kept her spine rigid, Mabel felt a blackness swirl in her stomach, then spread into her lungs and up into her head. She suddenly felt cold and hot and dizzy and electric all at once.
It took a moment for Mabel to find her breath. She’d seen the papers that morning: they hadn’t mentioned a word about Captain Hinchliffe’s leaving.
“I saw him yesterday,” Levine added, watching the blush drain from Mabel’s cheeks. “I was there when he got the telegram that his wife had a baby. He packed up and left.”
Mabel’s face relayed alarm. “His wife had a baby?” she asked. “How many eyes did it have?”
Levine looked at her with no expression. “Two and a half.”
“I read the papers,” Mabel said simply. “I didn’t see anything about him leaving.”
“Check the afternoon edition,” he advised. “You’ll see it there, I’m sure.”
Mabel smirked, then stared at her hands.
“You should leave, Charlie,” she finally said, fighting back a blinding wall of tears.
She really thought Hinchliffe had come here for her, Levine realized. She had counted on it.
Levine shook his head with pity. He looked at her, quiet, solemn, not able to look at him or anything else. He put the glass back on the table and moved next to her on the settee. She turned away. She would not let him see her like this.
“Aw, Mibs,” he said in a softer tone. “I told you what I heard. I told you it was some lady in England he was flying for. Some dame with a lot of money. I told you that.”
She nodded and shook her head at the same time as her head circled in a confused, noncommittal motion. She could feel a tear begin to slip.
“I just wanted to fly, Charlie,” she said with a tiny sniffle, then brushed the tear away with her fingertip when it began to fall. “I just wanted to be the one to fly it.”
“Listen,” he said, moving a little closer and putting his short arm almost around her shoulder. “This don’t change nothing. Nothing, you see? Let’s do Cuba like Bert wants, and then we’ll do the Atlantic. It’s easier from this way, anyhow. West to east. You can still be the first one, Mibs. You still can, I promise. This ain’t done for you. Hinchliffe don’t even have the plane yet. We got time.”
“But then there’s those two other women,” Mabel said, more tears streaming now. “They’re both ready to go at any minute. And Grayson—oh! She’s so ugly. A camera is wasted on her!”
Levine sat for a moment, unsure of what to say.
“The other one’s not,” he said gently. “She’s a real good-looking broad.”
“Charlie!” Mabel shrieked, then pinched him hard on the kneecap.
And then she laughed.
Levine laughed, too. “Don’t worry about them,” he said, waving his little hand, and then passed her his handkerchief. “No fool is going to take off this time of year; it’s all a con, it’s a stunt. Nobody’s taking off until spring. And if they do, they ain’t gonna make it. The way is clear for you, Mibs. Let’s give it a shot, yeah? First we’ll go to Cuba—there’ll be plenty of cameras for the first flight there, I promise—and then, in the spring, we’ll do the Atlantic. Whaddya say?”
Mabel blew her nose, then nodded and blew her nose again. She cleared her throat and looked at Levine with bulging, red, watery eyes.
“Yes,” she agreed. “I say yes.”
Charlie gave her an extra little squeeze and kissed her on the forehead.
“You’ll be the Queen of the Air,” he told her. “Queen of the Air.”
* * *
When her sister Pherlie got out of the car holding baby Joyce, followed by Aunt Susan and then Mama and Daddy, Ruth felt a burst of joy. She couldn’t believe they were there. Driving all the way from Alabama, it had taken them a week to get to New York, all of them piled into the car to come see Ruth take off.
Ruth couldn’t wait to show them the American Girl and helped Mama and Daddy up into it so they could see exactly what it was like, even though neither one would agree to go for a ride. They met George and his wife, Virginia, who had just made the trip to New York the day before, and thanked Mr. Cornell for his generosity. George, to Sarah’s delight, wore an outfit almost identical to Ruth’s: knickers, argyle socks, a sweater, and a tie.
“I figured we could use a team uniform,” he told Ruth’s mother as he shook her hand.
The reporters were eager to post their questions to the fresh faces in the hangar, tired of waiting around for something to happen with the American Girl and filing stories that were almost exact copies of the day before’s.
They descended on the families almost ruthlessly, but Ruth could see it was exciting to her parents and Pherlie. Mrs. Haldeman, however, looked a little shocked and was more than happy to let the Elders do the talking.
“Ruth is a mighty smart girl and all that,” Oscar Elder said, responding to questions. “But the young lady has just a little bit more nerve than is good for her.”
His wife discounted that immediately.
“Now, Dad, you mustn’t say that. Ruth is all right!” Sarah exclaimed. “She’s the finest daughter in the world, and she’s the greatest little woman ever, even if I am her own mother and can say it.”
“How do you think Ruth’s husband feels about all of this?” a reporter shouted.
Sarah laughed. “Why, I’m sure he feels just fine about it. He’s the one who got Ruth hooked on planes, and he is very excited like we all are for Ruth to make the crossing.”
“Do you know where Mr. Womack is now, Mrs. Elder?” another reporter joined in.
Sarah looked at Ruth for a clue. She had no idea where Lyle was or that he hadn’t arrived yet. Ruth only smiled slightly and shrugged a little.
“Well, I suppose he’s working in Panama,” Sarah finally said. “He is a very important businessman and it keeps him quite busy.”
“Mrs. Haldeman, are you worried for your husband?” another reporter as
ked.
George’s wife still looked as if she had a spotlight suddenly shining on her and she had forgotten the lines to the play.
“Well,” she started. “Well, I . . . I . . . I knew what I was facing when I married an aviator. I have every confidence in him. I know that George can land a ship anywhere anybody else can, and most aviators’ wives I know feel the same way. We were married when we were twenty-two and went away for our honeymoon in an airplane.”
Sarah Elder moved from the crowd of reporters and closer to Ruth, who was nestling in the shadows for a change.
“Ruthie,” she whispered, “Lyle isn’t here?”
Ruth shook her head.
“Is he in Panama?” her mother asked.
“I really don’t know, Mama,” she said quietly. “I suppose so.”
“Well, certainly he’s coming, right?” Sarah asked. “He’s coming to see you off?”
Ruth shrugged again. “I don’t know,” she answered. “I don’t think so. I’ve been trying to contact him with letters and telegrams, but no answer. We had an awful fight, but I would have thought he’d be done with it by now.”
A photographer came up through the hangar with a smile. “Let’s get a picture with you two,” he said, pushing Sarah and Ruth closer together.
“Wait,” Sarah said. “Get Dad. Oscar! Oscar! Come over—this here fellow wants to snap our picture for the papers.”
Ruth stood in the center with one arm around Mama and the other around Daddy.
Through her smile, Sarah was obstinate. “He can’t not come, Ruthie!” she said in between camera clicks. “He’s your husband! He’s got to be here!”
“I’ve tried, Mama,” Ruth whispered back. “I don’t know what else I can do.”
“Where’s that lady with the baby?” the photographer asked. “Let’s get her out here with Ruth by that car.”
“Pherlie!” Sarah called. “Bring Joyce! This cameraman wants you in this shot!”
“This is my sister Pherline,” Ruth said to the photographer. “You just make sure to get her name right, okay?”
Pherlie handed Joyce off to Ruth, although the little girl was not pleased by all the commotion surrounding her aunt.
George walked out of the hangar into the sunlight and pulled Ruth aside.
“We got our clearance papers,” he said excitedly. “We have to take off now in seventy-two hours. Look—after the destination, they wrote ‘Good Luck!’ ”
Ruth smiled when she saw them listing her as the head of the expedition and George as the master of the vessel.
“Do you think the weather will be different tomorrow?” Ruth asked. “Have you gotten any reports?”
Haldeman shook his head. “It looks the same for tomorrow as it did today: fog, winds, rain, especially coming in the morning right off the coast,” he said. “Maybe it will be clearer the day after tomorrow, but at least you have a little time to visit with your folks.”
“Your wife is holding her own with the press,” Ruth informed him. “You should be proud.”
“I’m always proud of her,” he said with a smile, then went off to give Cornell and the press the news.
It was then that Ruth heard it before she saw it: loud, ominous yelling from several different voices; a loud, grinding screech, a tremendous rumbling lasting longer than it should have. Then she heard the crack.
Suddenly there was the sound of a hundred running feet outside the hangar, including George’s. Ruth followed, but then halted when she saw it. The American Girl, which hadn’t been towed into the hangar yet, with a smaller biplane flown by a student pilot rammed underneath it.
Ruth couldn’t see the damage, but judging from George’s reaction—he just stood there staring with his hand on the back of his head—she could tell that it was not just a scratch.
The student pilot, shaken and dazed, was helped out of the cockpit, unhurt except for a rousing bruise on his forehead. As he was brought past Ruth she heard him mumble repeatedly, “I wrecked Miss Elder’s plane. I wrecked Miss Elder’s plane.”
She saw John Carisi, Levine’s mechanic, ducking under the wing to try to assess the damage. He pointed it out to George, who nodded, took a look, and then seemed relieved. Ruth wanted to see the injury for herself, and when she got closer, she was sorry she had. Thankfully, the nose of the student pilot’s plane had missed the fuel tanks, but it had still done some serious damage. The wing was torn and exposed, and where it met the body of the plane, there was a gaping hole that looked like a bite had been taken out of it.
Ruth was furious.
“We just got our clearance papers!” she cried. “We have seventy-two hours to take off, and now we have a hole in our plane! There is a hole in our plane! You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Ruth, it’s a mess. It is,” George agreed. “But he didn’t hit anything structural. It’s just a patch. He missed the fuel tanks and the rerouted oil lines. We can fix it.”
“In seventy-two hours?” Ruth asked George almost mockingly.
“I can fix it in seventy-two hours,” Carisi volunteered. “I can have this done in half the time.”
“Thank you, John,” Ruth said gratefully.
As George and Ruth walked back to the hangar, she turned to him and said, “That was sure nice of John to help us like that,” to which Haldeman laughed.
“Not nice at all,” he said. “I promised him he would be your third husband,” to which she laughed, then punched him in the arm.
* * *
Sitting at an overcrowded table at Sardi’s, Mabel was rather happy to finally get out into the social swing of things after her self-imposed exile waiting ridiculously for a one-eyed pilot. The cast of the Broadway play Her First Affaire was there, and drinks were flowing, the laughter was fat, and the chatter was irrepressible. Mabel was in the middle of it all, and she was amused.
Jenny Dolly swooped in and demanded that whoever was sitting in the seat next to Mabel move, and she plopped herself right down as soon as the seat was vacated.
“What a night!” she exclaimed. “I think we went out on a high note, don’t you, Mibs? I can’t believe the show is almost over! It’s been glorious to be back in New York!”
“Going back to Paris?” Mabel asked, to which Jenny nodded.
“Leaving in December after we close,” she said, and dramatically collapsed on the tabletop. “When are you going back?”
“It looks like I’ll be here for a while,” Mabel replied. “I’m flying to Cuba with Levine soon.”
“Why?” Jenny laughed. “You’ve been to Cuba!”
Mabel and Jenny both laughed, but their laughter came to a brisk halt when a small wave of champagne splashed down Mabel’s back.
“Hey, watch it,” she said as she turned around to find a rather attractive man with an empty champagne glass trying to recover his balance after being jostled by the crowd.
“I’m so sorry,” he said in a refined British accent, immediately offering his handkerchief.
“Just watch where you’re going, you brute,” Mabel said disgustedly, but snatched the cloth out of his hand anyway. “I just had this fur cleaned!”
“Oh, Dennis—I’m so sorry,” Jenny said, looking up at the man and attempting to mop up the waterfall on her friend at the same time. “Mabel, this is Dennis Wyndham. He was also in Her First Affaire; he’s a terribly delightful man and I’m sure this was one awful accident. Dennis, this is Miss Mabel Boll, the Queen of Diamonds.”
“I will be happy to get your fur cleaned again,” the man offered.
“How kind,” Mabel said, seeing just how handsome the fellow was, then withdrew her snarl and turned it into a coquettish look of amusement. “This is truly a surprise. I believe I know your wife.”
* * *
“Ruth! Ruth!” Pherlie yelled from the front of the hangar as she ran toward the American Girl waving a piece of paper in her hand.
“It’s a telegram!” she cried as Ruth stuck her head out of
the plane window.
“You have a telegram,” Pherlie said insistently to her sister. “Come down and see what it says!”
“All right, all right,” Ruth laughed as she squirmed out of the window and then hopped down from the wing. “You’da thought that thing was on fire, Pherline.”
“I bet it’s from Lyle,” Pherlie said quietly into Ruth’s ear. “I bet it’s from him and it says he’s on his way right now. I knew Lyle couldn’t be so mean as to stay away.”
After all Ruth’s time in New York, Lyle hadn’t sent one word to her—bad, good, or otherwise. She simply didn’t understand it. Lyle’s place was here, and Pherlie couldn’t figure out what was just so important that it kept him away.
Sarah was shocked, too, it was worth noting. She wondered just what kind of man her daughter had married, because apparently he was the kind of man who would abandon her when she needed him the most, and Ruth had already had that husband. No wonder she had to fill her days with things daring and frightful enough that it would take her mind off her marriage.
But now that Lyle’s telegram had come, all could be easily forgiven, even if it did take him a little too long to figure out what was most important.
Ruth smiled as she opened the telegram and read it, her smile dissolving into a frown and then returning to a smile again.
“When is he coming?” Pherlie asked, grasping onto Ruth’s arm.
“It’s from,” Ruth started, and then laughed loudly, “the navy! This telegram is from the navy, asking me not to make this flight!”
“The navy?” Pherlie questioned.
“Yes!” Ruth answered, then doubled over, laughing. “George—George! You have got to see this! They’re saying it’s too dangerous.”
George popped his head out of the engine and walked over, throwing a dirty rag over his shoulder. Ruth handed him the telegram, and his face went pale immediately.
“This is from the navy, Ruth,” he said seriously. “They’re telling us not to go.”
Crossing the Horizon Page 19
