The Aviator's Wife

by Melanie Benjamin

  The baby reacted by crumbling into a sobbing, cake-covered mess; his eyes scrunched up, his face turned red, and tears streamed down his cheeks, dribbling off his chin.

  “Oh, Charles!” I hated it when he did this; when he got in what Betty called, in her Scottish burr, his “awful devilish” mood, teasing and tormenting everyone in his path. It was as if the crude, practical-joke-playing young airmail pilot was trying, with one last, mighty push, to break free before he was forever trapped inside the marble statue my husband was becoming.

  “Charles, give it back to him,” I pleaded, trying to take the spoon, but he held it high above my head.

  “No, we need to teach him that sometimes you don’t always get to keep what you want,” Charles replied, waving the spoon so that the baby could see.

  “He’s just a baby!” My heart constricted, then leaped toward my child as if to provide him the comfort my arms could not. I knew that if I took a step toward him, Charles would block my way. I glanced at Betty; she, too, was standing so rigid, yet every muscle seemed to be straining toward the baby. Then she looked right at me, her chin raised, her blue eyes challenging; I was shamed by that look. I’m only a servant, it seemed to taunt me. But you’re his wife, the child’s mother. You can do something about this.

  But I couldn’t; I could only watch helplessly as Charles Junior continued to wail as his arms flailed about, looking for his spoon, for comfort, for something. And Charles Senior watched his son with a maddening smile on his face, and I told myself he really didn’t enjoy hurting him so. I told myself this was just his way of toughening up his son, even at such a tender age; that he really felt he was helping him, being a good father; the father he himself wished he’d had.

  Tears stung my eyes, and I blinked and blinked, my arms, my chest aching to comfort my child. Just when I thought I couldn’t stand it any longer, my mother came hurrying out onto the terrace.

  “What on earth?” She ran to her grandson and snatched him up out of his high chair, not caring that the front of her silk dress was instantly covered in a mixture of tears, saliva, and cake crumbs. She soothed and patted, and while Charles narrowed his eyes, he heeded my silent warning as I grabbed his arm. “Why were you all standing around? My poor little man!” She began to walk little Charlie around the terrace, bouncing him up and down in her arms so instinctively that I was jealous; I was even more jealous when he quieted immediately and nestled his head against her shoulder, his face still wet with tears.

  But jealousy was overshadowed by frustration; why couldn’t I simply ignore my husband the way my mother just had?

  Because she would soon go back to Washington. And I would remain here with my husband, dependent on him for everything.

  “She’s spoiling him,” Charles growled, throwing the spoon back down on the high-chair tray.

  “It’s his birthday. He deserves to be spoiled on his birthday.” I joined my mother and son at the table, which was soon towering with the birthday presents that Con and Daddy brought out. And I couldn’t help but contrast this obvious, ostentatious display of affection for my son with the cruelty—yes, cruelty—just exhibited by Charles. I felt my loyalties torn, not for the first time, between the two; between my child and my husband.

  After we helped open all the presents—the baby was more interested in playing with the ribbons than any of his actual gifts—we lingered. It was such a beautiful afternoon that no one in my always bustling family seemed in a hurry. For once, we were all content simply to sit and be.

  “Daddy, you’re looking a little tired.” I turned to my father with a smile. “Are they working you too hard in Washington?”

  “Nobody can work a Morrow too hard,” he replied. Yet he remained slumped in his chair, unaware that he had crumbs of cake on his necktie.

  “Well, just you wait. I’m afraid it’s going to get much, much worse.” Mother shook her head. Her gray hair, bound simply in a low knot, looked almost white in the sun. She had new lines on her face, too, just like Daddy; lines that were not there before he became senator.

  “I know,” Daddy predicted, stirring slightly. “Hoover hasn’t exhibited any grasp of the situation, I’m sad to say.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Charles replied. He turned his gaze elsewhere, to that far-off star on the horizon only he could see. Once I had found this inspiring, a symptom of his courage, his vision. Now I had to admit I sometimes found it aggravating: It was as if those of us nearest to him could never really matter enough.

  “Hoover’s a good man,” my husband continued, squinting into the distance and sighing at what he found there. “It’s the system that’s broken. Capitalism is inherently flawed. Look at what’s happening in Germany. There’s an example of something broken, but at least its leaders are looking for solutions. They’re not content just to sit back and slap a bandage on a gaping wound, and hope the fat cats get around to doing what’s right.”

  My parents exchanged a look. I knew they didn’t want to contradict Charles; no one ever wanted to contradict Charles. When they looked at him, everyone still saw that brave boy of ’27—that unique and fearless boy who had captured the world’s heart and imagination. The man of ’31, however, was harder to love.

  “Well, let me tell you, young man,” my father began, as I tried to distract him by waving at the baby, who was still in Mother’s arms, reaching for a strand of pearls that she deftly pulled away from his chubby hand.

  “Dwight, Charles, no politics at the table,” my mother murmured, but Daddy couldn’t be stopped.

  “You want to become a socialist nation?” he continued. “Like Germany? Where there’s very little in the way of free press these days?”

  “They’re not socialist yet, Daddy,” Con interrupted, with her sunny, earnest smile. “Hitler didn’t quite steal the election from Hindenburg, although he might on the next ballot.”

  “I doubt the German people will elect Hitler,” Charles said with authority. “Although I don’t disagree with some of his party’s practices, really. At least he has vision.”

  “I don’t know what to think of the situation over there,” Daddy said, with a shake of his head. “I don’t like either of them. Hindenburg’s a holdover from the days of the kaiser.”

  “Hindenburg’s just a puppet. It’s immaterial. Germany doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things; it will never recover from Versailles, although if it does, it will be because of a man like Hitler—someone who has energy, anyway. Someone who can engage the people. But the truth is, we have dangers enough here at home.”

  “Dangers? From without or within?” My father glared at Charles.

  “Both,” Charles replied mildly.

  My father nodded and slumped back down in his chair, breathing heavily. He stirred himself a little, turning to Con. “It’s good to see you taking an interest in current events, missy.”

  “How could I not?” She shrugged. “With a senator for a father?”

  “My daughters,” Daddy complained. “They run the show, the women in this family. Be glad you’ve got a son,” he said to Charles.

  “As do you, dear,” Mother said, so mildly that it took a moment for her words to register. Con and I exchanged wary glances, while Daddy merely nodded, and slumped even farther in his chair.

  “It’s been so long since we were all together as a family,” he said wearily. “Anne, just when we get you and Charles to stay put for a while, your sister has to go missing. What’s so important in Maine that Elisabeth can’t come out here even for her nephew’s birthday?”

  “She still needs her rest,” I reminded him.

  “Has she even seen little Charlie since he was born?”

  “Oh, Daddy, of course she has,” I answered as I felt the tips of my ears burn, and I looked down at my lap. Although, to be truthful, she hadn’t seen him very much, so busy was she with her new school—and with avoiding me. Taking trips to Nassau, to Maine, all in the name of recuperation; at least, that’s how s
he put it to the rest of the family.

  With me, however, she was more honest. Woundingly so.

  I remembered her first visit after the baby was born. I was still in bed, my breasts painfully hot and engorged, my lower body wincingly tender, when Elisabeth swept into my room, an enormous stuffed giraffe in her arms.

  “Goodness, look at you!” she exclaimed, while not doing precisely that—looking at me. Her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes so bright I suspected tears. She made a beeline to the changing table, where the temporary nurse was fussing over the baby. Elisabeth gazed at my child in awe for a moment before abruptly turning away and fumbling in her purse—for a cigarette, I suspected—until she seemed to remember where she was, and shut the clasp with an exasperated sigh. She looked about the room as if she’d never seen it before, jumpy, ill at ease; I knew she would vanish again in a moment if I didn’t speak first.

  “Could you see about some tea?” I asked the nurse, who nodded, returning the baby to his bassinet before she left the room. Then I patted my bed, beckoning to my sister. “Elisabeth, please. Sit for a moment. I’d like to—I’d like to talk to you, like—”

  “Like we used to?” Elisabeth smiled ruefully but joined me. As she settled herself carefully at the foot of my bed, I studied her. She was still so thin, pale; almost translucent. I could see the blue veins beneath her porcelain skin. Her blond curls seemed to have lost their luster as well, although it was hard to tell; she had them so tightly encased in a plain brown snood.

  “Well, not quite like we used to.” I smiled over at the bassinet in front of the window, where my newborn was cooing and sighing.

  “No, it will never be like that,” Elisabeth admitted, nervously pulling on the tips of her gloves.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you—” I began, before Elisabeth held up a hand.

  “No, don’t do that, Anne. I know you haven’t. I haven’t, either. We’ve been like weekend guests in this house, always so terribly polite to one another, but that’s all.”

  “I know,” I admitted. “It can’t be easy for you, with all this fuss.” I gestured around the room at all the flowers, the enormous baskets of fruit and candy sent by congressmen, senators, the president of Smith. Even President Hoover sent a bouquet from the White House.

  “Anne, that day—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I interrupted. My face was glowing with embarrassment; suddenly I saw her again, seated in Connie Chilton’s lap, so helplessly compliant.

  “Yes, it does. It does matter, and we both know it. The thing is—I’m so ashamed, Anne. You don’t know how it is—I’m just so ashamed.”

  I didn’t reply; I didn’t know how to.

  “Connie and I—the way you saw us—it’s something I’ve fought for so long. I don’t want to be that way—truly, I don’t. I think we can be friends, working next to each other, but then something happens—something comes over me. She isn’t ashamed, though, and I think that’s what makes it worse. It seems I can’t please anyone! I can’t have a life—the life that you—and now the baby—oh, Anne! I want that, I do! I want a normal life, with a husband and a child, and I don’t know how to do it. I just don’t! Not with my illness, not with my weakness!” She bit her lip, tears falling down her cheeks before she could brush them away. Still, she wouldn’t look at me.

  “Elisabeth, I don’t understand. Although I want to.” And it was true; I desperately desired to know what was within my sister’s obviously tormented heart. But it was so beyond my understanding, my imagination, even. And my imagination had never failed me before.

  “I know you do, Anne. Just know that I love you—truly, I do! And that I’m happy for you. I’ll be all right—somehow, sometime. I’ll figure this all out. Oh, look at the time!” She consulted her watch and gave a little start. “I need to get down to the school, Connie will be expecting me. She sends her love, too. Anne … Anne, please try to understand—for me, it’s hard right now, seeing you this way. With the baby, a husband, so happy. I want that so much, and yet—it’s just hard. I seem to make a mess of things lately, so many things, and I don’t want to do that to you. Please understand if I spend some time away. Please understand if I keep to myself—and for goodness’ sake, try to make Mother understand. Will you?”

  I nodded, suddenly, terribly, sad. Now that I was a mother, I wanted fully to be a sister again. And a daughter. I felt a powerful need to reestablish ties, to define roles, to understand the mysteries and frustrating intricacies of family. I’d hoped, somehow, naively, that the baby would bring Elisabeth back into my life—but now, I knew he would do the opposite. I watched as my sister stood over his bassinet, gazing down at my son while her entire body trembled—with longing, I thought. With absolute, heartbreaking longing.

  “Elisabeth?”

  “What?” She wouldn’t turn around, and all at once I realized how fully our roles were reversed; she looked defeated, small, bending over her nephew.

  “You’ll be fine—” I sounded exactly like my father, with Dwight, and stopped. “I mean, please know you’re welcome here, always. This is your home, too—more than it is mine. And you know that we’ll be moving, anyway—it’s just, I want my son to have his family, just as we did when we were growing up. I want him to know what family means—I want him to know his aunt Elisabeth.”

  Her face lit up at that, and then she smiled, rushed over to kiss me, and whispered goodbye.

  That was the last time we’d had a real conversation. Almost a year ago, now. While dutifully present at most family gatherings, Elisabeth managed to remove herself from the rest of us, even Mother. And her health was not improving; the doctors warned her that her heart was permanently damaged from her rheumatic fever.

  I felt my mother’s piercing gaze upon me, but I looked away, smiling at my son. My blissfully innocent infant son, who looked up, recognized me, and beamed. I felt myself being pulled toward him. It was as if there was an invisible thread between his lips and my heart.

  “I think we’ll be able to leave in a month,” my husband said, snapping that thread. My chest tightened; why did he have to bring this up today, of all days—on his son’s birthday? On my birthday, too—for today was a twin celebration; there would be champagne and cake for me later that evening.

  “Oh, Charles, let’s not talk about it today.” I had to look away from my baby’s bright, trusting gaze; I wasn’t worthy of it.

  It had been four years since Charles’s historic flight to Paris. The Spirit of St. Louis, now hanging from a rafter in the Smithsonian, looked flimsy and old-fashioned compared to the huge, gleaming new planes and ships. Despite his fame, which seemed only to increase with each passing year, Charles worried that there were few routes left uncharted; few things left for him to conquer. After all, he wasn’t even thirty.

  So he was planning a bold, dangerous expedition to chart an air route over the Arctic, and then to the Orient. Naturally, I would be his copilot. This was what I had been training for since we were married; I understood that now. Charles had been training me not only to fly and navigate, but also—to leave those I loved, to loosen the ties of my family, to divorce myself from anything and everyone, except him. Including, even, our son.

  And I was an excellent student. I always had been; after all, I was a Morrow.

  I learned Morse code, so that I could earn my third-class radio operator license. I mastered celestial navigation. I had learned to fly our massive new Sirius seaplane, by far the largest aircraft I had flown.

  My heart was proving more difficult to conquer, however. Lately, whenever I had to say goodbye to my baby, I couldn’t do so without tears.

  “Charles, how long do you think we’ll be gone?” Nervously, I began to play with a cloth napkin, embroidered with an M, for Morrow. Charles had yet to reveal the true extent of the trip to anyone, least of all me. The Lone Eagle—sometimes I wondered if he would always be that, even with a wife and a child. In so many ways, he still lived his life as that young air
mail pilot, alone in his cockpit, planning his future without regard to others’ expectations.

  “At least six months. I’ve been thinking that if we get to the Orient safely, we might as well try to circle the rest of the globe. It would be foolish not to continue.”

  “What?” The baby, startled, began to cry again. “Six months? The entire globe? When did you decide all that?”

  “Just recently. There’s no rational or technical reason why we can’t undertake something of this scale. Juan Trippe at Pan Am is salivating at the opportunity.”

  “You discussed this with Trippe before me? Then let him do it! No rational reason? What about Charlie?” Reaching for my son, I kissed him on his cheek, tasting the salt of his tears. My arms were wrapped fiercely about his squirming body.

  “What do you mean? The baby will be adequately cared for by Betty. Isn’t that the whole point of having a nurse?” Charles turned to Mother, genuinely puzzled.

  “Well, of course, but—this is rather a long time to be away,” she replied, even as she looked at me, her eyes wide with sympathy.

  “I think it’s a bully idea,” Con said, her eyes dancing. “What fun! Will you bring me back a kimono?”

  “It’s a fine, fine thing.” Daddy’s voice was approving, although he looked wistfully my way, as if already missing me. “You’ll do our nation proud.”

  “Anne.” Charles moved his chair closer to mine. “You’re overwrought. We’ve been planning this trip for months.”

  “I know, but—it’s just that I didn’t realize we’d be gone quite so long. And, oh, Charles, the baby! He’s at an age where he’ll—he’ll know when I’m gone. He didn’t before, he was too small, and so it didn’t seem to matter whenever we flew away. But now—” Stifling a sob, I buried my face in my son’s soft curls.

  “Anne.” My husband’s voice was low and coaxing, like a well-tuned engine. “Come, now—I don’t want you to become a slave to domesticity. We’re too fine for that—you’re too fine. I don’t want to lose you to the nursery forever.”