India—I need more time to respond to what you wrote. It feels as if my head is full of the sounds, the touch of the things you describe so eloquently.
Although you are much missed here, I would not trade places in that Jamesian paradise you find yourself in. Instead, I will await your return, which seems increasingly far off, and content myself with the company of people who eat chicken salad and nod their heads at every piece of wisdom trotted out. My God, this is a bad age for singular thought.
Work is quite busy—with what, I am not entirely sure. If I figure it out, I will write it in my next letter.
Yours,
Gerald
Cannes
May 6, 1914
Dear Gerald,
I am glad spring has finally come to you. Have you seen your cherry blossoms? We have left Rome and are now in Cannes with its extremely muscular casinos. I’ve been wondering about something you wrote to me, a small thing, really, but…
New York
June 1, 1914
Sara,
Your last letter made your absence even keener. Will you not come back…
Deauville
July 6, 1914
Dear Gerald,
It’s strange, how finally your voice, the true one you allude to, has reached me over these thousands of miles and many months. Can it be true…
New York
July 18, 1914
Dear Sara,
I know exactly how you feel. It’s stifling in New York, but all I can think of is that it will be exactly in this kind of weather that you return, and I therefore feel extremely amiable towards it. Still, everything here whispers of your absence. What you said has changed how I see things…
London
July 18, 1914
Dear Gerald,
Your reply has not reached me (and may never, at this rate). But this crossed my mind in the meantime: Will you…
Southampton
England
July 31, 1914
Dear Gerald,
I will be with you before this letter is, but writing about this in my diary doesn’t seem enough. Perhaps things have started to feel unreal unless I tell them to you. All talk is about war, and as we wait for the Lusitania to set sail, we have heard rumors that Germany is preparing to enter the dispute over the murdered archduke. Everyone on board is twitchy. We’ve been told that we will be sailing without lights, and the ship’s officers are loading the cruiser guns. She is, of course, a British ship and no one knows where we’ll be in five days, so these are the precautions. I long to read an American newspaper to see where we really stand, but alas, we can’t get hold of anything less than a week old.
Is it really possible for these great old nations to move this fast? Things always seem just that little bit slower in Europe, a little more refined, and yet in four days, it seems as if everything has been thrown up in the air, the music going at a dizzying pace.
I remember once longing for the Ritz to burn. I am sorry for that now. I hope we will get there safely and that yours shall be the first face I see.
S.
The day Owen went up in the flying machine had broken bright and clear over the island. He’d risen far earlier than he needed to, but he’d been waiting for this day for four years. Four years since he’d stolen his first look at her in the barn.
Europe had just declared war on itself and it was all anyone could talk about. Even Mr. Glass. Well, especially Mr. Glass, who last evening, on one of their walks, had spoken only of that, as if the next day they wouldn’t be flying in an aeroplane in the sky.
“Bad business, what’s happening in Europe,” he’d said. “Still, they’re always fighting about something, some small border or other. It’ll be over before you know it. We just have to keep those shipping lines clear and make sure we don’t get dragged into their mess.”
But Owen didn’t care about shipping lines or border disputes in faraway places. All he could think about was that he was finally going to take flight, like the Wright brothers. But he’d tried to nod thoughtfully anyway as they’d ambled through the old cemetery.
They often walked there. Mr. Glass liked looking at the headstones, and also, it wasn’t far from Owen’s farm. It had become a weekly excursion, if the weather permitted. Mr. Glass would drive his motorcar out to the cemetery and he and Owen would walk its perimeter and chat. Sometimes about the farm, what Owen was planting or harvesting, sometimes about Owen’s plans for the future.
In the years since Mr. Glass had come to the island, he’d gained a reputation for being a bit, well, different. He didn’t seem to take any notice of age or station when choosing his friends. On any given evening he was as likely to be found playing cards and talking cotton with Councilman Perry, the second-richest man among them, as he was to be drinking whiskey and discussing infectious diseases (a particular interest) with the old schoolmaster Mr. Cushing.
He was generous with his money, even if, for the most part, he stayed out of local politics. His only real cause, and the only thing Owen had ever heard him be unreasonable about, was what he called sexual vice. As far as Owen could tell, this encompassed any kind of unwedded contact. Mr. Glass could work himself red in the face on the subject of perversion.
Owen suspected it might have something to do with what had become of Mrs. Glass, whom the mainlander never spoke of and whose fate was unknown to the islanders. Other than that one subject, though, Mr. Glass was as kind and warm a man as Owen had ever encountered.
Of all the favors Mr. Glass bestowed, the most unlikely were reserved for Owen, who was far below him in both age and station. Yet Mr. Glass had adopted him, somehow, as his own. There had been many kindnesses over the years: a pair of church shoes at Christmas, books for his birthday (this year, the very funny Ransom of Red Chief and Other Stories and the somewhat bewildering Scarlet Plague), paying the vet bill when Lettuce’s calf was breech. And no doubt Mr. Glass would have done more if Owen’s mother hadn’t made it clear, through silence and declined invitations, that she didn’t approve.
In the four years Owen had known Mr. Glass, his life had unfolded as anyone might have guessed it would: he went to school until he knew enough to stop and devote himself full-time to running his farm and taking care of himself and his mother. Now, at nineteen, he was strong, tall, and built for labor. He was expected to marry eventually, have children of his own, and teach them how to run the farm. The only unexpected things that had happened to him originated with Mr. Glass.
Specifically, Owen’s special status when it came to the flying machine. Ever since he’d met Mr. Glass that day when he’d snuck into his barn, Owen had been deemed vital to every launch, every repair, every small discussion of Flora.
Owen knew his mother thought it was odd that a man like Mr. Glass would be interested in someone like him. More than odd; he knew she felt it might be dangerous. But Owen understood, or at least he thought he did. There was an emptiness in Mr. Glass, and Owen filled it. It was that simple. A need to impart something, to leave something behind. He had his son, Charlie, of course. But, well, Mr. Glass seemed disappointed in him. It wasn’t like he didn’t love him, just that somehow he wasn’t what Mr. Glass had hoped. And Owen could tell that Charlie knew it; the few times Owen had met him, he’d felt the younger man’s eyes on him, following him, watching him, with a trace of disgust or mockery or some other emotion Owen couldn’t quite put his finger on.
This morning, though, he tried to put all these things out of his mind, even his mother’s unspoken disapproval of his impending flight. She’d agreed to give him the morning and early afternoon off, and he’d promised he would be back in time to do his afternoon chores, and the hired man could do the rest in his absence.
To his surprise, though, when he went into the kitchen, she handed him some bread and cheese and let her hand linger on his shoulder.
“Wind’s from the south. That’ll be fine,” she said.
It was the first time that his mother had indi
cated that she’d been listening to his obsessive chatter about Flora, all his long explanations over the years about how the machine worked, how the elevator at the front helped regulate pitch and balance, how the lever controlled both roll and yaw, how it was best to take off into a headwind.
Owen looked at the clock for the hundredth time that morning. Then he gathered up his things and set out.
The farmland went from a cool and lush emerald to a fine, light green as the dew on the beach grass evaporated and the stalks took on a razorlike quality. By the time he arrived, everything was hot, sharp, bright, and the sound of the beetles whined in his ears.
A small crowd of people stood around the edge of the cut field, drinking lemonade, dressed in their finery, some with boaters and some with bare heads, depending on which part of the island they belonged to. More boaters than bare heads on the Glass land.
It was breezier here than inland, and off to one side stood Mr. Glass’s daughter, the flesh-and-blood Flora, her white dress pushed close against her body in the wind. She reminded him of those blades of beach grass before the sun hit them, slightly curved under the weight of the condensation. She was looking at the ground, and her hat obscured her features. But her posture suggested to him that inward quietness, that waiting, that seemed to come off her like a perfume.
Next to her stood her brother, also slight, with a mouth like a girl’s. His hands were stuffed in his jacket pockets, his eyes wary.
Owen didn’t really know them, the Glass children. They’d both been away at school in the early days of his acquaintance with Mr. Glass. Now Charlie was at university, and Flora, whom Mr. Glass referred to as his little domestic angel, lived in Boston with an aunt.
“Owen.” Mr. Glass’s voice carried from the barn. He gestured for Owen to come over.
Mr. Glass was wearing the same thing he always wore to go up: a one-piece suit, like long johns but made of sailcloth and fastened at the front with pearl buttons, and a flat cap secured by motoring goggles, which at this moment rested above the brim. The first time he’d seen this getup, Owen had felt strange about those pearl buttons. But Mr. Glass had explained that they had been sewn on by Flora herself, from her own little sewing box, for good luck.
“Owen, we don’t have all day.”
He hurried to reach Mr. Glass, and the five other men, including Mr. Cushing, gathered to help push Flora out and onto her track. He felt Mr. Glass grip his shoulder hard as he entered the barn.
“Perfect headwind.” He smiled at Owen. “You ready, son?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, but his eyes were on Flora, her clean lines and shapes rising before him.
They all took their places and, on the count of three, lifted the machine so her skis were just barely off the ground and stepped her out sideways onto a small trolley. Then they began to push her down the field, the smell of freshly cut grass rising both bitter and sweet, to the derrick.
Once there, they backed her up onto the track and bridled her with the rope, white as bone and waxed, that attached to the weight. Owen put the trap in place to hold her. Mr. Glass climbed into his seat and opened the compression release and adjusted the spark while Francis Carey and Mr. Cushing turned the propellers.
The engine came to life, a noise louder than any motor engine’s, dark and vibrating. The propellers turned on their own, biting through the air, and the machine pushed against the trap like an anxious racehorse.
It’s time, Mr. Glass’s mouth said; Owen couldn’t hear the actual words.
Owen took a look at the crowd, seeing all the pairs of eyes staring back, then climbed up and arranged himself in the passenger seat. His hand brushed the red velvet under him. Mr. Glass touched his arm, making him flex the muscle involuntarily. The older man handed him a pair of motoring goggles. Owen pulled them down around his eyes, and the world became a little less clear, less stable, like he was looking through a thin film of water.
Mr. Glass raised his left hand in the air, and the men began hauling the weight, hand over hand on the rope. When it reached the top of the derrick, Mr. Glass gave the signal and Flora shot forward, pushing wind into Owen’s surprised mouth.
The machine cleared the track and lifted slightly before dropping again and hopping a bit. Then she was no longer making for the ground but for the sky, and with the rumbling of the engine in his ears, Owen thought: It’s happening, it’s happening right now. His stomach seemed to be pulling downward, as if it didn’t want to be separated from the earth. His heart, however, felt strangely light, like it was traveling in the opposite direction.
The sun was on his face. On the horizon, past the farmland and beach grass, he could see Katama Bay to the left and the open Atlantic in front of him, growing from light blue to a blue darker than winter pine.
Mr. Glass kept the lever pulled back and Flora’s nose pointed ever upward. They were clearing the property now, and Owen looked at Mr. Glass; Mr. Glass smiled at him, his teeth a brilliant white, and Owen felt afraid and filled with joy.
He looked down. To his left, he saw a flock of Canada geese take flight in a clean V formation, their black heads like arrow tips. To his right, an expanse of farmland, a patchwork quilt of corn crops and the now-shorn hay fields, the fallow land, brown on top. He couldn’t believe how beautiful it looked from the sky. Owen thought about his own farm, the land he worked. He knew its edges and colors, its smells. He knew when it was harvesttime by touch, knew its quickening beneath his fingers. But never had he imagined that it had this kind of logical symmetry.
Before they reached the dunes guarding the beach, Mr. Glass rolled the plane slightly, and, with pressure on the right-hand lever, Flora began to turn. They were circling round to begin the journey back and the descent. Owen tried to memorize everything he could see, his island, its contours and geography. It was like a body, like his own body, he thought, its curves and dips, the places it was hard and soft, its imperfections.
Mr. Glass stared at him, then took Owen’s hand in his own. Owen looked down at his hand and back at Mr. Glass, who nodded as if they were in agreement. And perhaps they were; perhaps Mr. Glass had that same feeling, thrumming, weightless, altered. Like his insides had been scrambled up, changed forever.
The moment hung between them for what seemed a long time, everything suspended, and then all at once they were down, hitting the ground in hard fits as they rushed across the field towards the barn. Mr. Glass was pushing Flora’s nose down as if grinding her into the earth. Then she stopped, and it was all over.
Stepping back onto the firm ground, Owen felt dizzy. He looked around and saw some of the watching crowd moving towards them, men clapping Mr. Glass on the back.
Owen, though, was still up there with the black arrows of the geese, the line of dunes, the outlines of the fields. And then there was the feeling, the feeling of not being bound to anything.
“Would you like a lemonade?”
He turned and saw Flora, swaying slightly in her white dress, holding a cup out to him.
“Thanks,” he said, taking it; he drank it down in one swallow.
“Did you love it?” She was talking to him but looking at the ground.
“Yes.”
“Was it like it is in dreams—I mean, when you can fly in your dreams?”
“I don’t have those dreams,” Owen lied.
“Oh.” She blushed a little.
He’d embarrassed her. Then he realized he’d wanted to embarrass her, but he couldn’t say why. Maybe it was his irritation at the interruption. Or maybe just to see what she’d do. He felt giddy at the thought.
“You looked very happy when you came back.”
“I was,” he said. “I am.”
Behind her, Charlie Glass made his way across the field. He was walking slowly, but Owen could see his gaze was firmly fixed on them. When he reached them, he draped an arm over his sister’s shoulders.
“So, was it everything you hoped for?” He smiled lazily.
Owen frowned. �
��It was.”
“I’d like to go up,” Flora said. “I think it must be wonderful.”
“Father won’t let her,” Charlie said. “Too precious, aren’t you?” He looked at his sister. “We can’t have you miles up in the air. We need you here.”
There was an unkind edge to his tone. “And you?” Owen asked. “Have you never wanted to go up?”
“Oh no.” Charlie waved his hand, dismissing the idea. “We’re earthly beings, Flora and I. Unlike Father. And you, of course.”
“I’m just a farmer.” Owen looked down and shifted his feet. He felt uncomfortable. He couldn’t tell if Charlie was making fun of him or being serious.
“Well, you’re a farmer who flies in aeroplanes and talks to cows.”
Owen looked up sharply.
“Don’t be angry,” Flora said. “Father told us about your cow. Lettuce. How you talk to her. It’s perfectly lovely.”
“You’re like a magical farmer,” Charlie said, his eyes on Owen. “Look,” he said, running his hand through his hair, “Flora and I have been wanting to take a trip up-island for a picnic and a swim. We were hoping you’d join us. Weren’t we?”
“Oh yes,” Flora said. “Say you will.”
“I have my chores.” Owen could hear himself, a terse rube, a country bumpkin with no manners. He hated it.
“Well, how about next Sunday? You can’t work on Sundays.”
“Thank you, but I have church, and the farm doesn’t know Sunday from any other day of the week.” He could imagine what his mother would say, or not say, about this.
“Oh, please. We’ll arrange everything,” Flora said. “We can pick you up after church.”
“Exactly,” Charlie said. And when Owen remained silent, trying to find a way out of it, he added: “Excellent. It’s settled, then. It’ll be a grand adventure.”
Owen wasn’t sure how it had been settled exactly, but they were quick, he had to give them that. He couldn’t help but admire how they’d worked in tandem, like two birds of prey. He was thinking about this when their father came over and, touching his daughter on the shoulder, said: “Are we nearly ready for lunch?”
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