It was a garden scene, with bougainvillea and gardenias and hibiscus, flowers I’d never seen except in books, but as I cut and stitched and pricked my fingers I could smell a sweetness in the air that seemed to float in from far-off trade winds. When it was finished I embroidered my name and the date on the back in purple thread and shipped it off in the mail.
About two weeks later, I received a manila envelope from Dallas, fat with checks and a letter from Ruby’s aunt.
Dear Miss Glennon;
I can’t tell you how happy I am to have received my quilt at long last. It is more beautiful than I could have imagined. You were right to insist on designing one just for me even though I pressed you so to make a copy of dear Ruby’s. I have always loved gardens and flowers. There is nothing that brings me as much peace as kneeling in my flower beds, working the earth and finally seeing the fruits of my labor in full bloom. How did you know I raise gardenias? How beautifully you’ve captured them in color and cloth! Now I shall sleep surrounded by elegant white blossoms even in winter. Thank you so much.
I have enclosed letters from three of my friends, Mrs. Pryor, Mrs. Byrd and Miss Shelton, who would also like to commission quilts from you. Please find enclosed three checks for $25 (as a deposit) along with a $50 payment for my own quilt. At my suggestion, the ladies have sent photos of themselves and letters to give you a bit of information about their backgrounds so you can “think on” the type of quilt you want to design for them. I told them not to expect the finished product for at least six months as I know how many hours you put into each creation. Several other friends have also expressed interest, but I have suggested they wait until these first three are finished so you are not overwhelmed by the work.
Please give my regards to dear Ruby and to your family. Thank you again, Miss Glennon, for your beautiful work. You wield your needle like an artist’s brush.
Affectionately,
Mrs. Cora Shaw Daniels
Personally, I thought she went a bit overboard with the “artist’s brush” comment, but I was flattered by her praise and only too happy to make some money of my own. Most of the money went into a bank account I’d started for Morgan. I tried to give some to Papa and Mama to help with expenses, but they wouldn’t accept a dime. Instead, I was doing some little things to treat them. I’d bought a new pair of boots for Papa, and now I was taking Mama to town for an ice-cream sundae and a movie. It wasn’t much, but I wanted them to know how much I appreciated all they’d done for me and Morgan.
It was pleasant sitting at the drugstore counter with Mama and watching her eat ice cream, delicately spooning the last swirls of chocolate out of her parfait dish without even a clink of spoon on glass. I thought of how she’d lived all her life without any little luxuries, and now here we were, fine as anybody in town. Two months before I hadn’t had five dollars to call my own and now, all at once, I was practically rich.
“Eva,” Mama said, interrupting my daydream, “it’s almost time for the picture to start and you’ve hardly touched your sundae. Better hurry up before we’re late.” She relished a last dribble of chocolate syrup. “My, that was delicious! Thank you, Eva.”
“Mama, out of my next quilt money I’m going to buy you a dress. I bet you never had a store-bought dress in your whole life.”
“No, I haven’t,” she confessed, “but then again, I never really needed one—still don’t. You save your money for little Morgan; you might need it someday. Things look fine now, but that can change in a moment; crops fail, doctors’ bills come due. You’ve got to be ready for everything.”
“Oh, Mama. Don’t be so pessimistic! I saw in the paper where Oklahoma and Kansas are some of the best areas in the country for business,” I lectured between gulps of strawberry ice cream. “New people moving in all the time, and more and more land being bought up for farms. There’s four hundred times more wheat being produced here than there was just ten years ago.”
“I’m not a pessimist, Eva. I’m a realist. Are you finished? Let’s go. I don’t want to be late for the picture show.”
We hustled over to the theater, and I bought a bag of popcorn for us to share. The theater was small and lacked the elegance of the movie house I’d seen on our trip to Oklahoma City years before. There was no balcony, no gilt angels peering down from the proscenium, but it was pretty fancy for Dillon, with seats upholstered in red plush and armrests of polished oak. As it was Saturday night, the theater was full, and we saw several people we knew. One or two acknowledged Mama with a surreptitious incline of the head, though most pointedly ignored us. I was still considered a disgrace by most people in town. Their obvious contempt made me feel ashamed, and I sank a bit lower in my seat. However, for every inch I retreated, Mama rose up two, her face looking as determinedly proud as I’d ever seen it. I was relieved when it was time for the show to start, the red velvet curtain pulling back to reveal a gauzy white scrim. As usual, the projector started playing while the scrim was still closed, showing images behind that looked slightly fuzzy and dreamlike.
The cartoon and the newsreel were shown before the feature. Mrs. Poole, whose husband owned the theater, sat at a nearly in-tune upright piano, banging out marches, or rags, or dirges depending on the mood of what was being projected on the screen. Mama and I sat in the darkness munching on popcorn and laughing at the cartoon. When the newsreel began, I couldn’t help but lean forward in my seat. It seemed like all the news was about aviation that day, at least that’s all that I remember of it.
The first story was about two Frenchmen, Nungesser and Colli, who had set off for New York from Paris, attempting to be the first men to fly across the Atlantic nonstop to win fame and the $25,000 Orteig prize being offered to whoever broke the record. Everybody knew about the Orteig prize. Many planes had crashed and several pilots had disappeared making the attempt to win it. The same had happened to the two Frenchmen. They’d taken off on May 8th, and no one had heard from them since. They were assumed lost and dead at sea. Reaching for some more popcorn, Mama leaned over to me and whispered, “I think they’re crazy even trying. You can’t fly across a whole ocean!”
She was probably right, but wouldn’t it be wonderful, I thought, if you could fly across the sea. Imagine rising up into the clouds and over the waves one day, and the next day touching down next to the Eiffel Tower, or Big Ben, or even the pyramids of Egypt. The screen flickered, and the next story headline appeared in bold white letters: NEW AVIATION RECORD SET. CHARLES LINDBERGH FLEW SOLO FROM SAN DIEGO TO NEW YORK, BREAKING RECORD FOR TRANSCONTINENTAL FLIGHT.
The screen showed a sleek little plane flying low over a field thronged with reporters. She had only one wing, a closed cockpit, and, as near as I could tell from the film, no real window. I wondered how the pilot could see out of a plane like that. It seemed a shame to fly closed in like that, cocooned from light and sound and all the things that made flying so wonderful. The plane landed shakily while Mrs. Poole pounded out a triumphant, tinny march before the picture on the screen changed to these words:
Fresh from his new record breaking flight, Lindbergh waits at New York’s Roosevelt Field for a break in the weather to try his chance at winning the Orteig prize. Some call him “Daredevil Lindbergh,” others call him “The Flying Fool.” Small wonder. Young Lindbergh will make his flight alone and with only a single engine!
The screen flashed to reveal a handsome young man in a leather flight jacket standing next to the strange-looking plane I’d seen earlier. The pilot turned to face the camera, grinned, and pushed his curly hair off his forehead in a gesture that was engraved on my heart. My hand flew to cover my mouth and for a moment I forgot to breathe.
“My Lord!” whispered Mama, “It’s Slim!”
Chapter 5
If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. He seemed the same and yet not. The grainy black-and-white film image made him look older, but, of course, I reminded myself, he was older. Nearly five years had passed since I’d se
en him last. We were neither of us as young, naive, or trusting as we’d been.
It was his eyes, though, that helped me know for sure it was my Slim. They were harder and more cautious, but unmistakably his. I could see the same hunger, the need for something more that pulsed though him as he lay next to me scanning the sky for something he knew existed only by faith. The pull was so strong it blocked out every other source of light and compelled him to drop all the baggage of life, excess or essential, to make himself light enough the journey he had to take alone.
Outwardly, he was changed, but the most important part of him wasn’t diluted. He stood tall, a celluloid image stopped in time, young and strong and sure, ready to face whatever it was that had woken him on so many nights, be it dream or demon, or one and the same. One thing I understood, though I still can’t understand how, was that no matter what he met over the dark and seamless ocean, he had to meet it alone, and it would change him; he would be drawn into a tide over which he had no control and from which there was no possibility of retreat.
All the while, as this cloudy vision circled in my mind and an indefinable sense of dread rose within me, the one-dimensional image of Slim smiled, waved, and patted the plane with deceptive confidence. No one but me realized there were more angles in this picture than the screen could possibly reveal.
“God help you,” I whispered to the shadow. “God protect you.”
Mama was as transfixed as I. Her mind was filled with thoughts of her own, but when she heard me speak she leaned closer and patted my arm. “Eva, don’t worry. He’ll be all right. It’s a wide ocean, but if it can be crossed I’d bet on Slim. He’ll make it.”
“Oh, Mama,” I moaned as the screen went black and the end of reel slapped a circular clack. “I’m so afraid for him. It’s not the flight that threatens him, but what lies on the other side, something that stretches out much farther.”
“What do you mean?” Mama asked uncomprehendingly.
I shook my head, trying to force everything into focus, “I don’t know exactly, but it is stronger than the ocean and more powerful. He’s prepared for that. What’s ahead is unknown and more dangerous, something that can kill your soul, not just your body. I can’t tell you how I know that or exactly what it is, but he’s not ready for it.”
We drove home in silence. I lay my head back on the seat and stared out at the black night sky, the same sky that blanketed Slim, and wondered if the stars shone as brightly over New York as they did over the prairie and if he would sleep this night. I knew I wouldn’t.
For the next few days it seemed people everywhere were talking about him: Charles Lindbergh, who was standing by on a lonely field somewhere in New York, watching the skies and hoping that they’d clear just long enough to welcome him inside before closing behind him so the long awaited match could commence in private, as it was meant to be.
Charles Augustus Lindbergh. How strange his name sounded. Colder and more closed than the man I knew. “Slim” seemed more human and real to me than “Charles Lindbergh.”
People in town remembered his visit. Now it seemed everyone had a story to tell about the time they flew with Lindbergh, even the ones who’d never in their lives had five dollars to spend all at one time and couldn’t possibly have made the trip, but I couldn’t blame them. Nobody famous had ever been born in Dillon or even passed through before. It didn’t hurt anything for them to take a little slice of the fame for themselves and keep it in their pockets.
Papa and I walked into Dwyer’s drugstore just in time to hear one of the many debates about Slim’s chances. “Well, if you ask me,” Mr. Dwyer drawled, “I think the papers are right. They’re callin’ this Lindbergh fellow the ‘Flyin’ Fool’ and that’s about the size of it. Here he is, getting ready to fly across the ocean all by himself and with only one engine in a skinny little plane that looks like a tin can and is probably just about as safe. I don’t call that bright.”
The other men standing around the counter guffawed at Mr. Dwyer’s description of the plane, which the papers had told us was named The Spirit of St. Louis.” Dwyer grinned and went on, encouraged by his audience. “Is there a Saint Louis? For Lindbergh’s sake, I hope so. That boy’s gonna need a whole choir loft full of saints on his side to make it to Paris—two on each wing, two on the propeller, and one real big one, Gabriel maybe, holdin’ up the tail.” Mr. Dwyer howled and slapped his knee in appreciation of his own joke, and the rest of the crowd joined in.
I smiled inwardly to think of the men of Dillon suddenly becoming aviation experts. Mr. Dwyer was a big man. Not big the way some farmers are, with wide, muscled shoulders and spreading midsections hard as rocks; he was just fat from a life of eating well and working indoors. Looking at his stomach bulging under his white work apron, it was hard to imagine a man of such girth squeezing into the cockpit of a plane.
“Morning, Glennon.” The storekeeper smiled at Papa and nodded to me. “What can I get for you today?”
“I need some alum,” Papa said, “and what have you got that’ll help this foot of mine. It keeps swelling up on me ever since Ranger stepped on it last month.”
Mr. Dwyer squinted in thought. “Well, stayin’ off it’d be the best thing, but it being time to plant I don’t suppose that’s a possibility. Let’s see if soaking it in Epsom salts does the trick.”
I walked to the candy counter and eyed the sweets, considering which kind to take home to Morgan for his birthday the next day while Mr. Dwyer gathered up the rest of our order.
“Say, Glennon,” Mr. Parker, Clarence’s father, called to my father across the crowded shop. “What do you think about this Lindbergh boy? Seems I recall he stayed with you folks when he was here, didn’t he? You think he’s got a chance in the world of seeing Paris?”
Papa rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “He’s going on only one engine, it’s true, and it seems that all the other, more experienced flyers have thought that backup engines and teams of pilots are the way to go. Maybe they’re right. Admiral Byrd’s team is using the same strategy, and he’s quite a pilot. On the other hand, so far all those boys with all that experience have failed. Young Lindbergh seems to think the thing is to fly lighter and faster. He might be on to something. I don’t know him well. He camped out in the field and only ate one meal with us, but I’ll tell you one thing, that young man is awfully smart and determined. I went out with him one day to help him work on his engine, and he sure knew the inside of the plane.” Picking up the box of alum Mr. Dwyer had set down on the glass counter, Papa continued: “He might crash, and he might die, but no matter what the papers say, the boy’s no fool. Whatever his plan is, he’s thought it through. I guess he’s got as good a chance as anybody.”
The men were quiet for a moment before Mr. Dwyer spoke. “You might be right at that, Glennon. I suppose you might. It’ll sure be something if he does make it.” Papa paid him for the medicines and the striped paper bag full of lemon drops for Morgan. We nodded our good-byes. As we left I could see that, despite their dire predictions, every man in that store was rooting for Slim. Every pair of eyes reflected a touch of jealousy and admiration for the young man with courage enough to live large. Being farmers and naturally pessimistic, they were sure it was impossible, practically impossible anyway, but if he did make it all the way to France, wouldn’t that be something? They’d be able to say they’d seen him in person, so they’d live a little larger too, just by virtue of having known him.
It wasn’t just people in Dillon who were excited about Lindbergh’s flight. The whole country waited to see what would happen to the good-looking young flyer in the tiny, lonely plane. The newspaper reports did everything they could to foster the image of a wholesome, midwestern boy fresh off the farm. They had him perpetually grinning and affable, simple and humble, and nothing like he really was: an ambitious and serious young man, much more complex and interesting than a cheerful boy-next-door.
“Listen to this, Mama,” I said, opening the paper. “
After a test flight the reporter has him patting the plane and saying, ‘Boys, she’s ready and rarin’ to go!’ He’d never say that,” I scoffed, “especially not to a bunch of strange reporters. He doesn’t talk like that at all! Why are they doing this? Making him into someone he’s not.”
Mama shrugged her shoulders as she stirred the batter for Morgan’s birthday cake. “Eva, people expect a lot from their heroes. On the one hand, they want them to be like their sons and brothers, not too educated, not too proud, not too smart. Probably because if people really do have to be remarkable to accomplish remarkable things it means most of us never will. If you have to be born with a great destiny it might mean the rest of us are here just taking up space. Nobody wants to read that in their morning paper, even if it’s true.
“On the other hand, people want heroes to be without human flaws—unfailingly honest, immune to temptation, fearless. And if they aren’t, the same crowd that was so quick to put them up on a pedestal will pull them down even quicker.”
“But that’s crazy, Mama.” I tossed the newspaper aside in disgust. “If heroes aren’t just as flawed as the rest of us, where is the bravery in that? I would think that heroism means overcoming your fears and failures long enough to do something great. Isn’t that more difficult than not having fears in the first place?”
Mama shrugged her shoulders again. “Eva, if you haven’t already, you’ll find out soon enough that just because something is true doesn’t mean it gets reported that way in the paper.”
“Well, it ought to be,” I answered irritably. Then I picked up the paper and began reading again, because no matter how annoyed I might be, when it came to hearing about Slim, even shallow or badly written news was better than none at all.
Fields Of Gold Page 7
