Crossing the Horizon

by Laurie Notaro

  “Take me to Lord & Taylor or Saks Fifth Avenue,” she demanded as she headed toward a taxi, “or any store that doesn’t have a donkey in front of it.”

  She was wearing her new navy velvet dress when she and Levine headed over to an underground casino and speakeasy after dinner for some blackjack and drinks that night. Levine knew the doorman, as men who enjoyed the drink during Prohibition often did, and slipped him several bills for his trouble. Stultz preferred to drink alone in his hotel room, swigging out of a bottle of rum courtesy of Levine, who had managed to smuggle it across in an empty gas can.

  With a bath, some lipstick, and her cavalcade of jewels, Mibs looked human again on the arm of Levine. He had just won a thousand bucks at roulette when he cheered, looked across the table, and saw the guy. The guy. The guy who had called him a larcenist in that rag, along with some anti-Semitic slurs that Levine could have easily lived without reading.

  Before Mabel knew it, Levine was climbing over the roulette table, his baby hands around the neck of Erskine Gwynne, editor of Le Boulevardier, the guy whom Levine had repeatedly said he would reveal as a punk. He was as spindly as Levine was short, and Levine’s body was dragged over the spinning wheel as the lanky and gangly editor tried to back away from the maniacal man attached to his throat. To Mabel, it looked like a cartoon, and she quickly downed her Sidecar before it was knocked out of her hand by the ruckus.

  Mabel peered over the edge and saw Charlie squirming on top of the twiggy anti-Semite, and began to laugh.

  “You get him, Levine!” she yelled with riotous delight. “You get that bastard, Levine!”

  Someone had the nerve to pick Levine off Gwynne and help the nasty beanpole to his feet as he caught his breath. Two other men, each grasping one of Levine’s arms, held him back while Gwynne choked and panted for air. When it seemed things had simmered down, the men released Levine, who straightened his tie and pulled down his vest. In a split second, he pulled back and landed a fat, square punch against Gwynne’s jaw that Mabel saw happen in slow motion: his jaw snapping, his lips flapping like rubber and then recoiling.

  Levine then turned and walked around the table and offered his arm to Mabel, and they walked out while Gwynne’s face blossomed into shades of purple and black.

  * * *

  The Endeavour handled like a dream.

  Flying solo, Elsie couldn’t believe how smooth the ride was and how easy it was to handle. It was the largest plane she had ever flown, but seemed to glide more than fly. As she promised herself, when she got to a high enough altitude, she cut the engine and just basked in the tranquillity of the silence. It was just what she had waited for.

  She and Captain Hinchliffe had embarked on test flight after test flight every extra minute she could spare. They had already flown for several twelve-hour stretches, and before their March departure date, Hinchliffe wanted to make sure they were adept and trained for handling a straight twenty-four-hour flight. He had shared his course with the Air Ministry, and together they created several reserve plans should inclement weather present itself without prediction. Every now and then, Hinchliffe would get an inquiry from a colleague or someone at Brooklands about his destination, but he quickly deflected questions with vague answers, claiming he wouldn’t know it until he took off.

  Spending the holidays at Glenapp was all Elsie could think of, except the silent solo flight on the Endeavour. There was the Christmas pageant to organize, as well as the children’s luncheon and trying to wrangle all of her siblings to join her. Effie and her husband would be abroad in Egypt with their parents, but Margaret, Janet, Kenneth, and their families had all made promises to make it out for at least the holiday week itself.

  She planned to leave within the week, taking Bluebell and Sophie with her.

  Still feeling quite calm after her trip up into the reticent sky, she drove home slowly to retain the peacefulness she felt. It would be a delightful evening, she promised herself: a little supper with Bluebell, then possibly reading after dinner in the drawing room with a nice, bright fire and some tea.

  When she arrived at Seamore Place, Chim trotted down the staircase to see his beloved mistress, and Elsie greeted him with kisses and pets. She glanced at the salver on the foyer table, and on top was an envelope addressed to “Lord Elsie Mckay’s Rich Father” written in the most childish scrawl.

  Sensing it might be a joke from Sophie or perhaps even Tony Joynson-Wreford, Elsie noticed the New York postmark and that “London” was misspelled, and knew it was not an acquaintance of her father’s. Well, it did have her name on it, not his.

  She dug into it after unruly curiosity got the better of her, noting the odor that now permeated the entire front hall. It smelled of saloon girls and baby powder, Elsie thought as she held her breath, then flipped open the crammed, wrinkled letter.

  She outwardly gasped when she saw the letterhead.

  Well, well, she thought. Mabel Boll.

  “What is that smell?” cried Bluebell, who was coming down the staircase. She wrinkled her nose. “It smells like . . . Piccadilly. It’s despicable! Oh, it’s not yours, is it?”

  “Goodness, no!” Elsie laughed. “It’s Mabel Boll. She claims I stole her ‘pilt.’ ”

  “ ‘Pilt’?” Bluebell inquired. “What is that, like a fur, or a cape?”

  “No,” Elsie said, folding the letter back up. “It’s the word for ‘pilot’ after too much champagne. Layered on top of gin. Layered on top of an acute case of bitterness. Poor Mabel Boll. Jealous, drunk, and apparently a bit illiterate.”

  “Who is she?” her cousin asked, motioning Elsie to hold the letter farther away.

  “She wants to be the first woman to fly across the Atlantic,” Elsie explained. “And she’s afraid someone else will beat her to it.”

  “Someone like you?” Bluebell asked with a wicked smile.

  “Exactly,” Elsie said, shaking her head.

  “And will you?”

  “Oh, dear one,” Elsie said, fanning the letter in front of Bluebell’s face and laughing. “What is it that you assume to know?”

  “You have an official ‘pilt,’ and you bought a new plane,” her cousin ticked off on her fingers, and then shrugged. “I think it’s grand. You’re a smashing pilot, and I don’t believe anyone would do it as beautifully as you could. Take me with you!”

  “Little Bluebell,” Elsie said, pinching her cousin’s cheek. “I wish I could keep you forever. I will be sad when you return home after the holidays. At least we’ll be together for them! Glenapp is a fairy tale in the winter. It’s incredibly beautiful.”

  “Beat this harpy!” Bluebell insisted. “When will you go?”

  Elsie looked at her cousin and smiled. She couldn’t lie, but couldn’t tell the truth.

  “I will promise,” she said instead, “we will fly to fantastic places when you are old enough. Until then, you stay grounded and I shall dream of our adventures and wait.”

  * * *

  “So, what about a cold cream?” Mr. Palmer, Ruth’s manager, asked over the phone. “You want to do a cold cream?”

  “I don’t use cold cream,” Ruth said from her hotel room in Washington, D.C. “I’m twenty-three. No, I don’t think I would be good as a cold cream spokesperson.”

  “All right,” he said. “What about Postie’s Lemon Dietetic Carbonated Beverage? It’s sugar-free and low calorie.”

  “That sounds awful!” Ruth exclaimed. “Would I have to drink it?”

  “There’s an offer from Faulkner’s Nosegay Shag Cigarettes. You’ve certainly smoked before,” he said, sounding exasperated.

  “I don’t think Daddy would be too happy to see me doing that,” she answered.

  “Then this is my last one for today: Ever want to be a queen? A racetrack has offered you and George fifty thousand dollars to dress up like King Arthur and Queen Guinevere to advertise indoor greyhound racing,” he said.

  “I can’t say yes for George, but . . . that’s a lo-o-o-
o-o-tta dough!” Ruth said.

  “Paramount called, and Joseph Schenck from United Artists,” Mr. Palmer said.

  “After I finish the tour in three months, I’d like to go to California,” Ruth said.

  “That looks very possible,” he said. “Are you sure about the cold cream?”

  “Mr. Palmer, I don’t mean to be rude, but could I call you back later about the cold cream?” Ruth asked. “I’m about to go have lunch with President Coolidge.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  WINTER 1927

  Charles Lindbergh and Ruth Elder at the White House, 1927.

  Charles Lindbergh was the tallest man Ruth had ever seen. As the photographers pushed them together for photographs at the White House luncheon, she couldn’t even figure out how the camera lens would be able to fit the two of them into the same picture.

  “Either someone can bring me a chair to stand on,” she commented, “or Mr. Lindbergh can kneel to get us in the same atmosphere.”

  Lindbergh said nothing, only blushed.

  “The King and Queen of the Air,” President Coolidge announced as he walked in and saw the two aviators. Ruth laughed and turned to shake Lindbergh’s hand. It was long and bony, and Ruth was impressed with his grip. His hand swallowed hers.

  “It was you who inspired me to fly across the Atlantic,” she told him, to which he smiled and still said nothing, only nodded. “You’re a peach!”

  The room was a virtual who’s who of famous fliers, and Ruth was delighted to meet them all: Clarence Chamberlin and Charles Levine; Admiral Richard Byrd, who had flown across the Atlantic to Paris that June; and of course George Haldeman.

  “Well, everybody’s here,” President Coolidge said, offering his arm to Ruth. “Suppose we go eat.”

  “That’s good,” Ruth laughed. “I’m hungry myself.”

  Lindbergh took Mrs. Coolidge’s arm and they entered the dining room, where President Coolidge led Ruth to her seat.

  “You are right next to me,” he said, pulling out her chair. Ruth was happy to see George sitting across from her.

  To his right was Mr. Levine, whom Ruth recognized from the newspapers, except that she had just noticed he had a black eye.

  “So you have just returned from Cuba?” she asked.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “We returned yesterday.”

  “Your flight went well?” President Coolidge asked.

  “Very well, thank you,” Levine answered. “Smooth ride both ways.”

  “Turbulence?” President Coolidge asked, clearly curious about the shiner that had swelled Levine’s eye shut.

  “Not a bit!” Levine smiled.

  “Was your injury a consequence of the flight?” the president finally asked.

  Levine looked surprised. “Oh, no!” he exclaimed and pointed to his face. “That? No, that was at roulette.”

  Silence laid a conspicuous blanket over the table.

  “I’m sure the weather was a nice change for you,” Ruth finally commented.

  “It’s a little warm down there, yes,” Levine said, and then chuckled to himself. “It helps if you’re not wearing five pounds in gold.”

  At the end of the table, Mrs. Coolidge asked Admiral Byrd—who looked quite young to have received the Medal of Honor, Ruth thought—what he had planned next.

  “I’m going to the South Pole,” he announced. “I’m forming a team as we speak.”

  “That sounds so exciting,” Mrs. Coolidge responded. “Is it hard to recruit those who accompany you?”

  “Not at all,” Byrd replied. “I just look for the loneliest men I can find.”

  The whole table chuckled and lunch arrived, with the first course a cold crab salad. To the right of her plate, Ruth had several forks to choose from, just like at those fancy dinners in Paris. She did what she’d done then: plucked out the middle one. She had found it very charming that there was a choice of fork for how big your mouth was. She figured she had a medium-size mouth, so naturally that was the most obvious choice.

  The president, noticing Ruth’s foible, picked up the middle fork, too.

  “President Coolidge,” she whispered as she leaned over, “I’d pick the next size up if I were you.”

  “Why, you’re right,” he replied. “That is my favorite one after all.”

  After the crab salad came roasted lamb, new potatoes, and vanilla trifle for dessert. Ruth dug in and was not shy about eating beyond ladylike portions; she was a guest at the White House and found it only polite to eat everything that was put in front of her. The conversation consisted, naturally, of flying, as President Coolidge was an avid supporter and fan, and saw that it had a big future in American transportation. He asked about various flights the pilots had made, and kindly did not concentrate solely on Lindbergh but was generous with his words and time to every guest at the table.

  When a photographer asked to capture a group portrait, they assembled in the sitting room, and in the shuffle Levine somehow ended up next to Lindbergh. If there was a discrepancy in atmosphere between Ruth and Lucky Lindy, it was magnified even further when the two men stood side by side.

  “Good to see you, Mr. Levine,” Lindbergh said, and unlike when he spoke to Ruth, there was no trace of blush on his face. “Congratulations on your flight to Paris and, apparently, Cuba.”

  Levine avoided looking at Lindbergh, which would require looking up.

  “That’s quite a shiner you have there,” Lindbergh said, then added quietly, “Wish it had my name on it.”

  Levine wiggled out of formation and found a place at the end while Byrd closed the gap and everyone smiled.

  “May I say something, Mr. President?” Clarence Chamberlin asked when the photo was complete.

  “Please,” President Coolidge encouraged him.

  “Miss Elder and Mr. Haldeman,” Clarence Chamberlin said, “yours was a remarkable flight, considering the time of year. The Atlantic abounds with storms and dangerous wind and fog during the fall. Miss Elder, you had good nerve; and, Mr. Haldeman, you deserve immense credit for accomplishing what you did.”

  Ruth looked at George and beamed. He lowered his head a bit, the way bashful George always did, and merely said “Thank you” with a smile. Ruth was ecstatic he had been recognized for being the amazing pilot that he was; it was always people complimenting her, cheering for her. She knew George shrank visibly from the limelight, but in a group of their peers it was glorious to see him get the credit he deserved.

  “Miss Elder and Mr. Haldeman,” President Coolidge interjected, “I am glad to be here with these men, your fellow aviators, to present you with a token.”

  Both Ruth and George were surprised, unsure of what was about to occur when Lindbergh left his place next to Mrs. Coolidge and came around to Ruth.

  “As we are all members here, we would like to invite you to join the Quiet Birdmen, a secret association of avid fliers,” he said, holding out a pin, a blue shield with the letters QB in silver, flanked by a pair of silver wings. “We hope you accept.”

  “Really? Well, of course!” Ruth cried as Lindbergh pinned it to her dress. “See? You really are a peach!” she told him. He grinned and blushed again.

  George smiled and agreed as well, and was also pinned on his jacket.

  “Miss Elder,” Chamberlin added, “you are the only female member of the Quiet Birdmen as it stands today. We welcome you as we would welcome any pilot.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen, thank you,” she said, shaking all of their hands.

  “Miss Elder, it was a pleasure,” President Coolidge said, and gave her both of their beautiful hand-lettered place cards with the presidential seal on it.

  “You are a darling, darling man,” she told him, and as a matter of course he blushed, too.

  * * *

  Ruth put her suitcase down by the door and collapsed onto the bed. The springs squeaked loudly, and there was a small water stain on the ceiling.

  So much for a four-star hotel in Memphis, Ru
th thought. The fountain in the lobby was nice, though.

  She and George had just arrived by train and had a four-show day. After that, they would both go home for Christmas: George to Lakeland and Ruth to Anniston. She had heard from Lyle, but only an inquiry about when he should expect her home.

  Ruth didn’t bother to answer.

  After the New Year, she and George would reunite for several more stops, and then she would go on alone; George wanted to return to his family and flying quickly.

  The work wasn’t hard: the bulk of her hours were spent backstage, waiting for her cue, all day long. It was the easiest work she’d ever done, but she was tired.

  On a typical day she woke up early, caught the train to the next town, found the hotel, brushed her teeth, smoothed her hair, and headed for the theater. She did this seven days a week. For a thousand dollars a day.

  Seven thousand dollars. For one week. More than she had earned in her lifetime.

  Tomorrow she would leave for Alabama. Tomorrow she would see Mama and Daddy. Tomorrow she would sleep.

  * * *

  As the wall of bagpipes whirling “Will Ye No Come Back Again?” traveled down the cobblestone High Street in Ballantrae, Elsie smiled with delight. This was the part that she loved the most: the parade in which all of the players, in their kilts and sashes, marched down the main street in the village and gave it an instant shot of festivity.

  It was beautiful. The bagpipers surrounded the tree, every child was given a candle to clip onto a branch, and each family was invited to bring a decoration or token of Christmas to add. When the last candle was clipped, the tree was aglow with golden light, almost mirroring the stars in the clear sky above.

  Elsie signaled for the fireworks to begin and, within a minute or two, colored sparks rained from the sky as the bagpipes played along, and the people of Ballantrae stood together and watched.