“Mabel! Mabel! Mabel!” a newspaper reporter shouted out to her as she, LeBoutillier, and Argles were giving their update for the day, which was the same update as the day before and the day before that: nothing. But that didn’t stop a very eager writer from yelling until he got Mabel’s attention, and—always smug when a question came her way—she turned in the direction of the voice and flashed her best sixty-two-carat smile.
“Yes?” she replied, hoping that the question was pertinent, perhaps something to do with her hair or her suit. Or maybe her new shade of lipstick.
“Well, whaddya know, Mabel!” the reporter shouted. “I’m from Rochester, too!”
Mabel emitted a little cackle and shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m from Connecticut. Old Connecticut stock.”
“Really? Are you sure?” the reporter went on. “Because I did some checking and, uh, your father was a bartender at Dicky’s on Meigs Street, and you—”
The reporter laughed and looked at the other reporters and shrugged.
“—you were the cigar girl!”
“I’m sorry,” Mabel said, her smile vanishing quicker than anything in a magic act. “You’re mistaken. I’m from Hartford.”
“That’s funny,” called out another reporter, “because your husband lives in Rochester still.”
“My husband, Señor Rocha, is dead,” she blurted. “And I don’t think your little joke is very funny!”
“No, no,” the second reporter continued. “Your first husband, Robert Scott.”
Mabel shook her head adamantly. “No. I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“You should!” the first reporter chimed in. “He’s the father of your son!”
Mabel went still, as if she had looked back at Sodom and Gomorrah.
She took in a deep breath through her nostrils and wished she could shoot it back out as fire. She glared at the two men, who were smiling, very pleased at their scoop.
LeBoutillier and Argles looked embarrassed, as if they had just walked in on something rather unseemly, and eagerly stepped into the background.
“How dare you!” Mabel finally said. “How dare you!”
“Cheer up, Mabel!” the second one said. “It’s not every day you remember that you’re a mother!”
“Even if you haven’t seen the little guy in a while,” the first one said, “my colleague upstate said he’s doing great! Living with your parents in a four-room house on the allowance you give them. In Rochester. Ring a bell?”
Mabel shot them both one last dirty look and stormed off. Not denying it was the same thing as confirming it. Then they, too, ran off to file their copy about the real Mabel Boll and her secret life as a cigar girl/mother/divorcée before their deadline hit.
* * *
“Why are you calling me?” Sarah Elder cried into the phone. “You should be in bed!”
Ruth just laughed. Her mother was always getting the time zones mixed up.
“It’s only eight o’clock here, Mama,” she said with a giggle. “How early do you think I go to bed? I’m not even twenty-five yet!”
“Oh, no,” Sarah replied. “I mean because of your sickness. I read in the newspaper yesterday that you’ve been in bed all week with a cold!”
“Oh, that was last week!” Ruth reassured her mother. “Last week there was a piece in the paper about me cutting my hair into a bob. The studio went crazy and called me right away, saying I would be in breach of contract if I did! Can you imagine? Who cares if I’m going to cut my hair? Who wants to know if I have a cold?”
“Well, you’re going to be in the movies now, Ruth,” her mother advised her. “People are going to want to know. They’ll want to know all sorts of things about you.”
“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,” she replied quickly. “Writing stories about my hair! Have you ever?”
“You’re still the most famous girl flier,” her mother cheerfully added.
“I don’t know when I’ll get to fly again,” Ruth said mournfully. “I’ve signed contracts for three movies, and that takes me clear until winter. And I am certainly not flying anywhere after August ever again!”
“I’m very excited about your cowboy movie,” Sarah said. “That Hoot Gibson is such a fine actor and a handsome fellow.”
“I might get to fly in that movie,” Ruth said hopefully. “And in Moran of the Marines, they promised that I’d get some on-screen flying time. I’m awful excited.”
“As your mother, I’m very happy that you’ll only be flying in the movies for the time being,” she said. “I don’t know how I lived through that last terrible scare, Ruth. I honestly don’t think I could do that again, you know.”
“Oh, Mama,” Ruth said, biting her fingernail. “I was just fine all that time.”
“Oh, Ruth,” Sarah said, mimicking her daughter. “You were just as afraid as me.”
Ruth laughed and then paused for a minute, recalling the ice bringing them down, the lightning storms crashing, and the American Girl sizzling as she hit the water, disappearing beneath the waves and shooting down into the ocean. Where was her little plane now? she wondered, but knew she should be glad she wasn’t still inside of it.
“I know,” she said quietly. “There were some times that I could only hold my breath and not do anything else. Sometimes I just can’t believe we made it back.”
“Well, you did,” her mother confirmed. “And I know you may have gone through some hard times with . . . well, Lyle, but, Ruth, everything is going to work out for you. I can just feel it. Have you been studying your part?”
“Yes,” Ruth said with a smile that her mother could sense over the telephone. “But it’s not really like a play. I have to remember expressions more than I do lines, being that it’s silent, so I feel a little like a monkey mugging around for the camera.”
“You said it’s a comedy,” Sarah replied. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”
Ruth sighed. “I suppose,” she said. “It just feels . . . a bit thick, I’d say. I just hope I do it right. I’d hate to act like an idiot and then actually be an idiot.”
“Ruthie,” Sarah said slowly, “it’s the movies. Men wear lipstick. It’s all idiotic.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SUMMER 1928
Captain Arthur Argles, Mabel Boll, and Captain Oliver LeBoutillier prepare for flight, June 1928.
At his somewhat modest brick home, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle greeted Emilie and Mrs. Earl cordially and was eager to hear of the session results with Eileen Garrett. When both of the women said how impressed they were with the sitting, he was pleased and mentioned that he had spoken to Garrett earlier that day and asked her how the session with Mrs. Hinchliffe had gone.
“I haven’t seen a Mrs. Hinchliffe,” she replied.
“You did, actually,” Sir Conan Doyle informed her. “She came with Mrs. Earl.”
Eileen Garrett had no idea, he told them.
Emilie was made very comfortable by the famous author’s demeanor, which was warm and sincere and, she noted, very unaffected. He suggested warmly that she continue sessions with Eileen; she could see them as comforting and she might even find the same sort of spiritual faith he had. He would definitely keep tabs on the progress of “the case,” as he called it, and hoped that if she wanted any guidance, she would call on him.
When Emilie returned home, things were as expected: the girls were hungry, and there had been no word from Lord Inchcape—still. She rang Sir Sefton Brancker to tell him about the sitting and the mention of his name, but once on the line, she changed her mind. He told her that Lord Beaverbrook, owner of the Daily Express and the Evening Standard, was keeping a close eye on the financial situation. Lord Inchcape and the entire Mackay family, however, had been keeping such a low profile that there was no news at all.
Emilie’s financial state was getting more precarious by the day; she could only wait and hope Lord Inchcape would honor the agreement between her husban
d and Elsie. She had borrowed money from anyone who offered, but felt like a pauper, the poor relation whom friends and family begin to dodge.
She decided to go back to Eileen Garrett. The thought was oddly soothing to her, as if she could actually be with her husband again, talking to him, feeling his presence. She wasn’t even sure if she did care if it was a hoax anymore. It loosened the tightness in her chest, where grief had coiled itself around her heart like a snake.
She went alone and told no one. A neighborhood girl, Betty, was watching the children. If it really was Ray, she wanted him to feel the freedom to say anything to her, whatever that might be. Still wanting to keep her anonymity, it was agreed that she could enter the room after the medium had gone into a trance.
“You have been here before,” the deep voice that was present at the last sitting remarked. “There is a gentleman who seems very close to you. He is in great trouble. He is young, bright. He is a rather strong man. He held a commission in the army.”
That was true, Emilie noted: Ray had been in the army before his squadron became a part of the newly formed RAF.
“He was killed very quickly,” the voice went on. “He wants to speak with you privately. He says he is your husband. He is anxious to speak to you of financial matters.”
Emilie nodded and waited, her pencil poised over her shorthand pad.
“Have you seen his mother? She still believes he is alive,” the voice told her. “He knows you have told Joan he went on a journey. She asked when he was coming back.”
This was true; she had asked the night before as Emilie was putting her to bed.
“He does thank you for keeping it from her. Betty is careful. She is trustworthy with both children. Give a little kiss to Joan. How is the baby girl?”
The hairs on Emilie’s forearms stood up when the name Betty was mentioned. She had never said that name to Eileen Garrett or Mrs. Earl, she was sure of it.
“His great responsibility is with monetary things,” the unwavering voice said. “He is desirous and anxious to bring things to a head. From the father of the girl there should be some recompensation forthcoming. If he will not listen, here is a way out of it: your husband refers to someone at the Daily Express. He says you know who he means.”
Emilie thought, but her head was swimming with the message and the dictation.
“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?” she asked.
“No, not him, but Doyle would know. If Inchcape would not agree, write him again or get someone else to approach him. Tell him you are without funds, tell him about the children, and also tell him that you are a stranger in this country. Tell him that it is all very well for him to say that I am responsible. But tell him that it takes two to make this arrangement, and that I am not morally responsible for the flight, or the conditions. If it is made known through the press to Elsie’s father, I think he will give them some money. Talk this over with the Express. They will understand what I mean. The Daily Express. The name is Lord Beaverbrook. Please do not worry, even though monetary conditions are low. But you are going to get some money so you can maintain the house and make it possible to carry on. I have the impression that you are getting the money in July. Perfectly certain. It may run to the last day in July, but it will be July.”
Again Emilie was stunned. She had just spoken to Sir Sefton Brancker about Lord Beaverbrook; certainly it was common knowledge who the owner of the newspaper was, but to just have spoken about him?
The voice did not stop.
“I saw Hamilton,” the voice said, referring to the reluctant pilot on Princess Löwenstein-Wertheim’s ill-fated flight. “I believe they had a terrible time. There was also Minchin. Hamilton says they never had a hope, and they caught fire. I saw them. They struck very bad weather conditions.”
Then the voice went on to name a list of other airmen they knew and rattled off ten pilots to ask if they were all right. There were so many that Emilie had a hard time keeping them straight, but they all sounded familiar.
“It has not been so bad. I have met a lot of the old crowd here, and those who were killed in the war. I am getting my memory back, bit by bit,” the voice informed her.
Then the voice paused.
“He will keep you near until you are free from worry. God bless you and your household. Remember that there is no Death but everlasting life,” it said, and fell silent.
The next day Emilie read in the newspaper that Lord Inchcape had bequeathed Elsie’s fortune and estate—the Elsie Mackay Fund in its entirety, five hundred thousand pounds sterling, or 2.5 million dollars—to the British government to be applied toward the national debt. There was no provision for anything else.
Cheers rang out in the House of Commons when the announcement of Lord Inchcape’s gift was made by Winston Churchill, chancellor of the exchequer.
Emilie decided it was time for her to talk to the press.
* * *
For nearly two weeks, the crews of both the Friendship and the Queen of the air had been stranded in their respective small Newfoundland towns. The grind was becoming unbearable. Each night they went over the weather report for the next day; every morning they studied the new weather report to see if anything had changed. It rarely did.
News arrived to both Earhart and Mabel that Thea Rasche, a German aviatrix, had had a Bellanca airplane delivered to her at Curtiss Field. In a move filled with bravado, she guaranteed the press that she would take off and fly to Berlin within three days.
Neither camp panicked: Long Island had its benefits—less fog and rain—but the outlook over the ocean would still be the same. If they couldn’t fly, neither could she.
Earhart referred to the long, grey days as “cruel.” She was busy trying to keep booze away from Stultz, but to no avail. Reporters brought alcohol with them, and spent nights passing the bottle in Bill’s room. Most days he didn’t get up until noon.
“The days grow worse,” Earhart wrote in her log. “None of us are sleeping much anymore. I think each time we have reached the low but find we haven’t . . . We are on the ragged edge.”
In Harbour Grace, things weren’t any easier. All Mabel wanted to do was go, and—believing that she was beyond any risks—she tried to talk LeBoutillier into taking off again.
“I plan to retire someday,” he told her. “Meaning today we won’t be taking off.”
She was briefed about the Friendship camp every hour, and when she heard they were thinking about not flying direct but stopping to fuel in the Azores, she smiled and then she laughed. Their stupidly heavy plane! She had no doubt that she would succeed.
The weather off the western side of the Atlantic Ocean finally grew acceptable, but in Europe, wind and rain wreaked havoc. On one day alone, four planes crashed in France because of storms. In the midst of waiting, the Canadian National Railway announced that they were naming four new stations after aviators: Fitzmaurice, Lindbergh, Alcock, and Hinchliffe. The next one after that, they added, would be named Endeavour to honor Elsie Mackay.
Thea Rasche was having problems concerning the ownership of her Bellanca plane and abandoned her transatlantic attempt abruptly. Earhart was relieved, but Mabel barely heard it. She was at a luncheon in St. John’s hosted by the colonial secretary, and then, as a reward for being so patient, bought herself a gorgeous Labrador silver fox coat that would cause Peggy Hopkins Joyce to shrivel up and hopefully die of jealousy.
On June 16, Bill Stultz spent the day drinking. It was a Saturday, and that night Earhart stormed into his room and demanded that he stop: Kimball might give them the all-clear to take off the next day. The plane was packed and she spent a restless night hoping that she was successful in keeping a bottle out of Bill’s mouth.
In Harbour Grace the next morning, LeBoutillier looked at the reports and shook his head. Both coasts were clear, but there were mid-ocean storms he didn’t like. Terrific gales, he said. One in particular looked quite ominous.
In Trepassey, Amelia Earhart coerced Bill Stultz o
ut of his room, so clearly drunk and stumbling that the photographer filming the Friendship crew mentioned it.
“We are going today, and we are going to make it,” Earhart demanded as she and other crew members dragged their pilot on board.
At eleven ten a.m., with the crew of the Friendship on board, Slim Gordon, the navigator, crossed the pontoons and started the roaring engines. He cast off the mooring lines, taxied to the head of the harbor, and tried to take off. Fuel was dumped overboard. Another attempt failed. More gas went. On the next try, the plane caught a little bit of air before it came back down. Gordon returned to the top of the harbor and headed out again. After about a mile, the plane lifted, came back down, but kept going. Gordon persisted, and after three minutes, the Friendship was finally airborne at sixty miles per hour. Earhart later said to Putnam that it was the most dangerous hour of her life.
When Mabel heard that the Friendship was on its way, she glared at LeBoutillier, so speechless and stunned that she didn’t even think about throwing the nearest deadly object. He shrugged and stuck to his initial decision.
“There are two big storms approaching on the ocean,” he said simply. “I plan on being the oldest living aviator. We’ll do this safely or we won’t do it at all.”
Mabel considered her options, and was surprised to find she had none. Levine, who was still the backer of this flight, had made it clear that LeBoutillier was the commander and master of the vessel, and she essentially had no say. She thought briefly of Frances Grayson and admired her inventive and creative means to get what she wanted. Then again, she remembered, Grayson’s body still hadn’t been found. She could only hope that the storms were as horrific as LeBoutillier’s reading of them suggested.
Crossing the Horizon Page 38
