The Aviator's Wife

by Melanie Benjamin

  “How will we get home?” I shouted over the din, tugging on the sleeve of his good arm. It would soon be dusk, and I suddenly remembered my brother. Dwight would be worried if I wasn’t home for dinner.

  “I’ll call Harry,” Charles shouted back. “He’ll come pick us up. I hope that farmhouse has a telephone.”

  I finally pushed my way through the crowd and sat down on a tree stump, so conveniently placed it was as if someone had cut the tree down just for me. No one followed, and so I felt strangely detached from the entire scene. The plane, still upside down like a turtle on its back, didn’t even look familiar anymore. The only thing I did recognize, and couldn’t take my eyes off, was the slim, sandy-haired figure that moved to and fro, directing, controlling. And on the occasions when he stopped and looked my way, an anxious expression on his face as if he was afraid of misplacing me, my heart soared, as it had the moment I first took flight.

  After a time I began to get sleepy just sitting there, watching. I believe I actually did doze off, until I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me awake.

  “Miss Morrow? Miss Morrow?”

  I opened my eyes, yawned, and looked up to see a homely man about ten years older than Charles. He had the slicked-back hair of a banker but the earnest grin of a fellow aviator.

  “Come along with me,” he said, and I followed him obediently, because Charles had suddenly appeared and was doing the same. The man ushered us into a shiny black car, introducing himself to me as “Harry Guggenheim.”

  “Of the mining Guggenheims?” I stifled a yawn.

  “Yes, I believe I know your father.”

  “Oh.” Then we drove away, all the farmers and their families waving goodbye as merrily as if we had just dropped in for tea. Charles had fashioned a sling out of a scarf, and didn’t appear to be in any pain; in the front passenger seat, he happily filled Harry in on our adventure, while I sat in the back. I caught a glimpse of my face in the window; I was grinning again. Harry Guggenheim saw me looking at my own reflection, and he smiled, as well.

  “Very nice to meet you, Miss Morrow,” he said, when we pulled up to his estate, where Charles’s cream-colored Ford roadster awaited; had it been only this morning when he picked me up in it? “I hope we can meet again, under less exciting circumstances.”

  “I hope so, too.” Charles opened the door for me, and I stepped out.

  “Sorry about the plane, Harry,” Charles said, although he didn’t sound very sorry at all. “I’ll make it right.”

  “Don’t worry, old man. I’m just happy you’re safe.” And the two shook hands with real affection.

  Charles and I got into his car in silence, and we drove in silence through the gathering darkness. He turned the headlights on, and drove—somehow he was able to work the gearshift and steer the wheel, both, with only one hand—even more leisurely than he had earlier; suddenly neither of us was in a hurry to reach our destination.

  And we talked. For the first time, truly, we had a conversation; it was as if the adrenaline was still rushing through both of us, turning two shy people into chattering magpies.

  Charles shared with me some of his hopes for aviation’s future; his feelings of obligation to ensure that future, to convince the average American that flying was no more dangerous than riding in an automobile, maybe even less so.

  He also discussed some of the flights he was planning; he wanted to map out the shortest routes between not only cities but continents. “Can you imagine flying to Australia in less than a week’s time?” he asked, and I could only shake my head in wonder.

  “But I do like ocean travel,” I confessed. “It’s very restful.”

  “Oh, I do, as well. The best sleep I got after landing in Paris was on the boat coming home. They wouldn’t let me fly back, although I wanted to. That was the first time I realized my life was no longer my own.”

  “I can’t imagine how that felt.”

  “It was quite surprising, of course. I hadn’t counted on that aspect; I was concerned with the flight only, for so long. And initially, all I felt was the kindness of many people—my backers, the mechanics who built the plane. But almost as soon as I landed, I began to feel it—the awful realization that I’m never going to be left alone. People always want more from me, and I don’t know what I can give them. I already flew across the ocean.”

  “How did you know you could do it—fly to Paris? When so many others had failed?”

  He nodded, so earnest. “I did the calculations. I would never take an unnecessary risk. See, no one else had ever thought of flying alone—it was a two-pilot job, everyone knew that, because of how long it would take. Well, I realized that if I flew alone, I could carry much more fuel and have a better chance, even if I went off course. And I’m the best flyer I know.”

  His confidence was so sure, yet so understated, that all I could do was marvel at it. Unlike men who needed approval, he didn’t speak loudly or use hyperbole. He simply was.

  “Would you have done it, if you knew what lay ahead—all the attention, the press?”

  “Yes. It was that important a thing to do. Still, I wish they would leave me alone.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “Oh, the press, the people, old school chums, total strangers. All those people who put my name on everything from jackets to songs to dances.”

  I colored, grateful for the dusk that shielded me. I had earnestly learned the Lindy Hop at a dance, the fall of my senior year at Smith.

  “Even movie men,” Charles continued eagerly, and it seemed to me he was almost grateful to have someone to say these things to. “William Randolph Hearst offered me what would have amounted to a million dollars to appear in a movie, which I turned down. He couldn’t believe it when I said no—he said everyone has a price. But I don’t. And yet he keeps asking—they all keep asking, for so many things.”

  “You can’t live your life for them.”

  “No, I can only live my life for myself. Yet the ironic thing is I do feel as if I have a responsibility. So many people look up to me, of course.”

  Startled, I tore my gaze away from the road. Even in the darkness, I tried to study Charles through eyes that were no longer quite as starry. Now his confidence bordered on arrogance; with his humorless mouth, steely eyes, and steady hand on the steering wheel, for the first time I sensed the darker side of accomplishing so much, so young.

  “Well, naturally they do now, but you know—‘power corrupts, but absolute power corrupts absolutely,’ as they say.”

  “What? What is that?”

  “You know, the famous quote by Lord Acton—haven’t you heard—never mind.” I faltered, because I saw his features harden. I imagined that since Paris, not many people had dared to contradict or school him.

  I couldn’t quite forget, however, those long months when he hadn’t thought to drop me even a note, so I blurted out, “It’s just that I think it might be a dangerous thing to believe, that’s all—that everyone looks up to you, even if they do. It’s probably not a good idea to believe it too much. It could change a person, you know. Harden him.”

  “You think that, do you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you think I’m hard?”

  “No. Not yet, anyway.” I refused to worry that I had offended him. He had asked my opinion, and I had given it to him.

  Neither of us spoke for a few moments. Then he grunted and nodded once, as if granting me a rare privilege. We drove on in silence.

  “I fear I have done all the talking,” he finally burst out, and I secretly rejoiced that he had felt the need to break the silence first; I had proven to be his equal, in stubbornness, anyway. Then I almost laughed; compared to most of the boys I knew, he had revealed almost nothing about himself. I’d learned nothing about his family, for instance. Or his childhood—it was as if his life had only begun after Paris. And maybe, with the incessant press coverage and public mania, the newsreels, the parades and honors—it had. The p
art of his life he was willing—or forced—to share, anyway.

  “No need to fear,” I assured him. “I’ve enjoyed it. All of it. This whole day—even with the broken wheel.”

  “Not many women would say that.” He grinned approvingly, and I sat up straight, feeling much taller than my five feet. “Tell me something about yourself, Anne. What do you want to do?”

  “That’s quite a large question.”

  “No, it’s simple, really. What do you want to do? The one thing you can’t stop thinking about? For me, it was Paris. On all those long flights delivering the mail, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, puzzling it over until I had the answer, and when it came to me, I did it. So what do you want to do?”

  See the Pyramids. Make my brother healthy and happy. Marry a hero—so many thoughts to choose from, so many ideas coming to mind, that I had to gather them to me, quickly, before I blurted them all out.

  Charles Lindbergh continued to wait patiently, but he expected an answer; I could see it in the upward thrust of his dimpled chin, the level gaze of his eyes. Reliving our day together—trapped in the sky in that hot cylinder with such a man, such a courageous, noble man; feeling, for the first time, a woman tested and not found wanting, a schoolgirl no longer—I was aware of something blossoming within me. So I said the thing I had never allowed myself to say out loud to anyone; not even to myself.

  “I would—I would like to write a great book. Just one. I would be satisfied with that. To paint pictures with words, to help people see what I see, through my language—oh, to be able to do that!”

  Charles studied me in silence, his face impassive. And the man who had flown across an ocean on the power of his own belief and no one else’s told me, “Then you will.”

  Was it as simple as that? I leaned back in my seat and stared at the road ahead; we were nearing the city now, streetlights were lit, buildings closer and closer together. As simple as stating a goal, then doing it? All my life I had grappled with doubts and fears; I wasn’t as pretty and smart as Elisabeth, I wasn’t a boy like Dwight, I wasn’t witty and fun like Con. I had brilliant, driven parents. Always had I felt eclipsed and, I had to admit, there was a part of me that took comfort in that feeling. For it absolved me of ever having to decide, of ever having to do anything but think, think, think, every minute of every day. What I needed was to stop thinking, start planning, or better yet, simply act. Just as I had done, so magnificently, today after the plane flipped over.

  Here, I understood, was someone who would not allow me to take comfort in inertia. Already, I was different with him. Better. More.

  At last, we pulled up the circular drive of home. I felt a rush of warmth and belonging—I could have wept at the sight of the familiar green shutters, the fairy-tale façade with trimming rather like a gingerbread house, the wide porch with its brick columns, all the green and pink chintz-covered wicker furniture clustered about in cozy arrangements. Soon we all would be leaving this house for the new one, almost finished in a different part of Englewood. Still, I felt that here, in this snug house, my family was present, waiting for me even though I knew that Dwight was the only one inside. And perhaps this was the reaction I had been waiting for; this sudden, overwhelming sense of home.

  I turned to Charles, wanting to share this feeling, wanting to wrap my happy home around him as well, for I remembered that he didn’t have much of a family; suddenly I couldn’t bear the thought of him driving off alone to face the world. “Would you like to—” I began, but then stopped. He was staring at me so intently that I shivered, involuntarily. He was searching me, searching for something important within me; all I could do was stare back and hope, desperately, that he would find what he was looking for.

  “There’s something else,” he said, and he didn’t sound as sure of himself as he usually did. “Something unexpected.”

  “Oh?” I thought back to my behavior earlier; had I embarrassed him somehow?

  “You may not be aware—no, of course, you’re not. I’ve been rather on a project lately. A mission, of sorts. To find—to find someone to share my life with.” He paused, as if waiting for me to say something. I couldn’t; I could only continue to stare at him. So he cleared his throat and went on.

  “It’s lonely—it’s been lonely these past months. It occurred to me that it would be better to have someone to share this—all—with. From the moment that we met in Mexico, I confess I’ve wondered—I’ve thought about you. And then today. You handled that very well. Like an aviator.”

  “Thank you,” I replied solemnly, understanding that this was perhaps the highest praise he could offer.

  “Also, there’s one other thing,” he said with an odd, pained smile. “I can’t quite get it out of my mind. While we were up there today, for the first time I was afraid. Not for myself—I’ve never been afraid for myself. I’ve always known I would be all right. The strange thing is, I was afraid for you. Afraid of you being injured in some way. I must tell you, I’ve never felt such a thing before. At first, I wasn’t sure I liked it, to tell the truth.” He laughed—or, rather, tried to; it was more of a gulp. “But now, I believe I did—not that you were in danger, but—it seems I have a strong desire to protect you, and that must mean something. It must.”

  “What must it mean?”

  “It must mean that I should ask if you would consider marrying me,” he replied softly.

  “You must be joking!” I couldn’t help it, I did laugh, and then instantly was horrified, for I knew, by a quick flutter of his eyelids that allowed me an unexpected glimpse into his heart, that he was not.

  I looked back up at the house, the house of my childhood. The house that had always sheltered me; too much? I wondered. I knew nothing of the world, other than what my parents had wanted me to know. I didn’t even know everything about my own family. I only knew that I had to work hard, study hard, prepare myself—for what? That, they had not bothered to teach me.

  But nothing could have prepared me for this moment. Nothing could have prepared me for marriage to a man like Charles Lindbergh; a man so unlike any other man I had ever known, those bankers, lawyers, academics. Here was a man who was good, brave, driven; these were the qualities I knew about him. That there were many more qualities, as yet hidden, occurred to me as well. But they could not be as important as what I did know.

  That he was a quiet man, a disciplined man. A man who did not take responsibility lightly. A man who needed a partner, so that he would never have to fly solo across an ocean again.

  The most famous man in the world, who saw me standing in the shadows and somehow knew that I was braver than I supposed. Already, I had flown an airplane because he believed that I could. What else might I do?

  “I would like to think about it,” I said gravely, understanding he would not approve of me answering impulsively. Suddenly, all those months apart made sense. He had been planning, preparing for this moment as rigorously as he had for his flight to Paris. I would never take an unnecessary risk, he had told me. I knew that meant with his heart, as well.

  Charles nodded, his face inscrutable. He then got out of the car, walked around and opened my door, and escorted me, his good arm through mine, up the stairs and to my parents’ front door.

  And it was this—this touchingly gallant gesture, this nod to courtship—that ensured the successful outcome of his latest mission, although I did not tell him. Not then; not for a long time after.

  He kissed me good night, as chastely as possible; his lips brushed mine but did not linger, although I felt, as his lean body surged briefly toward mine, that he would have liked them to. But it was enough for me. I knew with a certainty this was the beginning of everything. Everything I had been waiting for my entire life.

  Charles refused my invitation to come inside, citing his injury. I told him, in the gently nagging manner of one who had a right to, that he should see a doctor. He grinned—in the gently mocking manner of one being nagged—and promised that he would.<
br />
  I watched as he walked down the porch steps and got into his car. I waited until he had driven away before turning to go inside the house of my childhood, feeling as if I were entering it for the very first time. And in a way I was; for the first time I crossed that threshold as an adult.

  It was only later—much later, after letters and telegrams and a hurried visit to my parents, and then a carefully worded press release followed by an explosion of astonishment and joy from every newspaper in the land, and learning to disguise myself whenever I left my house, trying to go to sleep at night still seeing the blinding pops of light from flash powder even through tightly shut eyes…

  After I had to dismiss a servant who sold some of my letters to a reporter, and then realizing that I could never say a word or write down a thought that I did not want the entire world to know, and having to sneak into the city late at night to be fitted for my wedding dress, and even then, seeing my entire trousseau, including garters and negligees, detailed excruciatingly in the front pages of The New York Times as well as the Smith alumni newsletter, and then, finally, that tremulous day in the living room of my parents’ new house, christened Next Day Hill! After the minister declared us man and wife and I leaned up, my heart swelling so that I was sure everyone could see its outline through my silk bodice, to be kissed by my new husband, only to have my cheek chastely pecked, while all our friends and family applauded…

  It was only then that I looked back on that wondrous evening. And I saw myself at that threshold watching Lucky Lindy, the Lone Eagle—no, no, my fiancé—drive away and marveling that of all the women on earth, he had chosen me.…

  It was only then. After my life had altered so irrevocably that I would never again be able to recognize it without help—photographs, maps, battered passports, and yellowed newspaper clippings—only then did I realize that not once that evening had either of us mentioned the word love.