Papa didn’t respond when I said good morning and kissed him on top of the head. He slurped up a last taste of coffee before springing to his feet, grabbing his barn jacket, and heading out the door after kissing Mama and mumbling something about the sow being off her feed.
Mama smiled brightly at me and said, “Good morning, Eva. Did you sleep well?”
“Too well. I guess I must have been tired. I didn’t hear a thing this morning. I’m sorry, Mama. Here, let me get the dishes for you.”
“No, no,” she waved me off and stood up to clear the plates. “Sit down and I’ll fry you an egg and some bacon. Here, Eva,” she scolded as I poured my coffee, “take a new cup. You don’t have to drink out of Papa’s. We’ve got plenty of clean ones.”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” I protested as Mama took away my cup and thumped a new one down on the table. “Clean cup or dirty, the coffee tastes the same.”
Normally this would have roused Mama to launch into a lecture on cleanliness. Instead she just cracked two eggs into the iron skillet and busied herself slicing bacon.
“Too bad I missed Morgan,” I said. “I had a chocolate bar for him. Valentine’s present.” Mama didn’t respond, just stared into the pan like she could make the eggs cook faster if she looked at them hard enough. She was so quiet I thought she must be angry with me. I sipped my coffee as quietly as possible trying to think back on what I could have done wrong. Maybe she was still upset because I’d overslept. Finally she set the plate of eggs down in front of me and handed me the salt shaker. “I’ve got to go out and hang the wash,” she said.
“Oh,” I mumbled, my mouth full of bacon, “Let me help you. It won’t take me a minute to finish.”
“No, I can do it.” She picked up the morning paper that had been lying on Papa’s chair and gave it to me. “Finish your breakfast, Eva. Then you need to read this. There’s a letter, too.” She drew a clean white envelope out of her apron pocket and handed it to me with a little frown before she walked out the back door, balancing the laundry basket on her hip.
I started to rip open the envelope first, but the picture on the front page caught my eye. It was a picture of Slim and a young woman. The eggs got cold on the plate while I picked up the paper and read, finally understanding what had made Mama act so strangely. The story was set off by a fancy border edged with Valentine hearts. The headline was bold and big enough that if I hadn’t been so distracted trying to figure out what was wrong with Mama, I’d have surely noticed it first thing.
ST. VALENTINE’S DAY SURPRISE: LUCKY LINDY LANDS LOVE!!
Ambassador Dwight Morrow issued a surprise statement to reporters in Mexico City on February 12th announcing the engagement of his daughter, Anne Spencer Morrow, to Colonel Charles Lindbergh. No date was given for the wedding, and the happy couple were unavailable for comment.
Lindbergh is an aviator and 1927 winner of the Orteig Prize awarded to the first man to cross the Atlantic in a heavier than aircraft. Beloved by millions throughout the world, “Lucky Lindy” is the most recognized and idolized celebrity in the world, as well as the most reticent. Famously shy of the press and publicity regarding his private life, Lindbergh denied rumors of a romance between himself and one of the Morrow’s three daughters. As early as November of last year the famous flyer told reporters his only reason for returning to Mexico City so soon after his previous visit in December, 1927, was that his first visit had so favorably impressed him that he had “determined to come back as soon as possible.”
Colonel Lindbergh had never been seen in the company of any young women since his record-breaking flight and indeed, had never been photographed in public with Miss Morrow before the release of the engagement photo shown below which was given to reporters on the day of the announcement.
The bride elect is 23 years old. She is a graduate of Smith College and the second of Ambassador and Mrs. Morrow’s three daughters. The Morrows are well-known members of New York Society and own a large estate in Englewood, New Jersey. A former senior partner in J.P. Morgan and Company, Ambassador Morrow held many important positions for the U.S. government in both Washington, D.C. and Europe before being appointed ambassador to Mexico.
Miss Morrow, a popular debutante, was noted for her engaging manner as well as her shy grace and fresh, pretty good looks. She distinguished herself at college, receiving excellent marks and many prizes for essays and literature ...
I didn’t need to read anymore. I already knew what they would say, that she was pretty and petite and smart and educated, of good family and good fortune, an appropriate bride for the man who was the nearest thing we Americans had to royalty, a fitting and proper princess-in-waiting. Everything I wasn’t. Her picture told the whole story.
She stood next to Slim (a sleek little plane served as background, as though it were one of the bridal party), dressed in a modest but fashionable suit, smiling peacefully for the camera, already having the gaze of a calm and settled young wife. Her face was pretty rather than beautiful, and her eyes were bright with a depth and intelligence that matched Slim’s. She would be his equal, I could see, in intellect and wit. They were properly matched, and their faces dared anyone to say otherwise. Only her hands, a slight nervous gesture betrayed by the way her left hand clutched at the right thumb, gave away anything of what she was really feeling, her doubts of keeping up with his ambition and restlessness.
She’d needn’t have worried. She was up to the task. Anyone with eyes in their head could see that just by looking at her picture. She would dedicate her life to keeping up with him. She would be the steadying foundation for his life of relentless action. She would be his safe haven and his constant supporter. She would be to him all the things I wanted to be but couldn’t.
She loved him completely. It was there in her eyes. She could have lived her whole life on the warmth of just one of his smiles, and now they were to be one forever. The magnitude of her good fortune was still just a bit beyond her grasp, wonderful and overwhelming; they were to be joined until death, for better or worse, though the idea that there might be any worse involved was beyond her imagining just then.
I put down the paper with the picture turned facedown and stared out the window to the bright morning sky, so even and blue; nothing had changed.
She was perfect for him. Wasn’t that what I wanted for Slim? Hadn’t I told Papa just that? I was the one who had refused to go looking for Slim in Oklahoma City because I said he deserved more than I could give him and I was willing to sacrifice my own happiness for his. Had I meant it? At the time, I did. Back then it had felt so selfless and heroic. But the truth was, I’d never really believed that anyone would be better for him than I would. So easy to be noble when you think there’s nothing to lose.
Over and over I told myself I had no right be feel betrayed, and yet I did. “Damn you to hell, Charles Lindbergh!” I cried to the empty air. “I know you. Why can’t that be enough for you?”
As though in answer, the letter Mama left for me slid off the table and into my lap. I recognized Slim’s large, looped handwriting on the face of the envelope. The script on the inside was smaller and neater, but still Slim’s, as though he’d been ashamed to lay the words out on paper where anyone might see them.
Dear Evangeline,
I hope this letter reaches you before you see it in the papers, but I wanted to tell you myself. I am getting married. Anne is a lovely girl and I think you would like her. You have a lot in common; intelligence, imagination, wisdom and strength. I need that in my life. I would have sought it in you if circumstances had not stood in the way but, as you said yourself, that was impossible.
For a time, I thought the furor that surrounds me would die down and I could come back and claim you and Morgan and no one would notice much. But now I realize that will not happen. I hope you won’t hate me for my weakness, but I can’t stand the loneliness anymore. In Anne I think I have found someone I can feel completely at ease with, as I did with you.
I won’t say that I am marrying Anne merely as a substitute for you. That would be disloyal and untrue. You are each unique, but you each possess that same core of strength I so admire. If you’d asked me a few months ago, I’d have said it wasn’t possible for me to care for more than one person at the same time, but the world is so much more complicated than I thought it was.
When I was a boy, I only ever wanted to be a farmer. What a peaceful life that might have been. You and Morgan and I together on the farm. Morgan. I only saw him once and yet I miss him. You’ve done a good job, Eva. He’s such a bright, quick little lad. I think of him every day and it makes me happy. “I have a son!” But then I remember that I can’t touch him, or talk to him. I can’t teach him to read or throw a ball, and it depresses me, eats away at me.
Shall I be completely truthful with you? The life of a farmer would have been enough for me, if I’d never seen a plane, or if I’d failed and never touched down in Paris, but I did. Since then it seems as though I’m never at home in my own skin except when I’m flying. Nothing can compete with that, not even you, not even Anne. I think she knows that already, as you have had to learn only too well, or maybe you knew from the start. In any case, I’m sorry for it. I have given you so little and it pains me terribly. Perhaps when you read this you will feel relieved that I’m out of your life after all. I surely wouldn’t blame you.
I feel torn apart. With Anne, I think I can finally patch the pieces together and find some peace in my life. Anne understands me and accepts all my flaws, but is strong and loyal enough to help me present the brave face the public demands.
I will not be able to write as I used to. To continue to do so wouldn’t be fair to Anne or to you, but know that I love you and I love Morgan and I always will.
Of course, I will continue to support you financially. It concerns me that you have not asked to have another deposit made to your account. Please, don’t feel shy about doing so. I don’t like to think of you wanting for anything. It’s the only thing I can do for my son and it’s so little. If you or Morgan are ever in trouble, please contact my attorneys in New York. They have instructions to help with whatever you might need.
I wish I could think of something more to say. I’d like to say that I hope this won’t hurt you, but I know it will. It hurts me too, even as it brings something I want so much. I wish, for your sake, I was as brave and wise as my press clippings, but they’ve got me all wrong. I’m just a man. No matter what I do it seems I hurt those I care about. Please forgive me.
Love,
Slim
If you love someone, you want the best for them even if it hurts. That’s what Mama would have said. I could almost hear her voice in my mind. God, it did hurt. Like a physical blow, a breathless sharp pain like giving birth. How could he throw us off like that? Talking about the money as though money would make up for all that Morgan could never have. As though he were some minor god and raining down money on us would absolve him of any guilt so he could forget us and move on—new wife, new sons, while Morgan and I, the hushed and pliant skeletons, were locked away in a closet, paid to forget. How did everything change from one moment to the next? And yet, how could it not? I was foolish to think things could stay as they were, to expect him to live out happily the story I’d written for us both.
He had told me, that day, “I can’t stand it out there alone anymore, not one more minute.” But he had endured being alone for two whole years more because he loved me and didn’t want to hurt me. I could have pushed for marriage, but I’d released him because I was afraid of what would happen to him if we’d married and the public had turned on him. All that pain and loneliness, and we both ended up hurt anyway. But at least we’d tried. There was something in that.
Mama was right. The pain was part of it, maybe the most important part. I had to bear it, or all we’d been to each other would be worthless.
My place at Slim’s side had been filled, but until then it had been my place. I had not imagined it or wished it into being. He was part of me—then, now, and long before. Nothing could change that. At least I could find peace in that.
My eggs sat cold and untouched on the plate. Outside, I could hear the chickens clucking and scratching in the dirt and Mama’s voice humming a worried little tune as she hung the wash. I knew I should go outside and stand beside her and pin shirts on the line so she’d know I was going to be all right. Instead I sat by myself a moment longer. There was nothing else to do. I said a little prayer for their happiness and mine too. I wished them well.
Chapter 9
The 1930s
“Dirt, dust, grime, powder, sand. Just plain filth, that’s what it is,” Mama muttered as she swept the floor, a gray mound accumulating after just a few swipes of the broom. It was the third time she’d swept that morning, and the wood of the floor looked no cleaner for her efforts. “I hate it.” She grimaced and smashed the bristles even harder against the floorboards.
The storm had come the afternoon before, a howling black cloud of dust that surrounded the house and worked its way inside through the cracks and crannies. Our attempts to block the invasion by stuffing rags in the windowsills and doorjambs were fruitless. Wet sheets and croaker sacks hung over every door and window. They were our only protection against the dust that had become a living enemy to us. Yet, no matter what we did, or how often we swept, the dust overcame our lines of defense, sticking in our throats, creeping into piles of freshly laundered bedding, covering our lives with a fine gray grit that never washed away.
The year 1931 brought a bumper crop. Unfortunately, there was too much wheat on the market, so prices dropped like a stone. Everyone counted their losses and hoped for better times. After that the rains stopped falling, and any seeds that sprouted thirsted and died in the fields. With no moisture in the ground, what topsoil there was kicked up with the winds and created black-brown clouds that rained dust instead of water. Everyone in Dillon had endured dust storms from time to time, but this was different. The storms just kept coming, day after day, for months that stretched into years. Everyone said it had to end sooner or later, but after a while I wasn’t so sure.
We stayed in the small protection of the house as much as possible whenever the storms roiled. Even Morgan, who always complained when he was cooped up inside the house for long, was content to sit quietly and read when the dust winds howled and scratched at the house like a cat trying to break into a mouse hole. Papa was the only one who went out in the storms. No matter the weather, he had stock to feed and crops to plant. He was driven out in spite of the odds against him, as much from the belief that it simply had to end soon as from the conviction that a man couldn’t simply leave his life to lie fallow for lack of knowing the day and hour when the barrage would cease and the rains would come. Perhaps this crop would be the one to take, or if not this one, then the next. Surely it would all be over soon. Papa had waited out droughts before, and he was determined to wait out this one too, but it was too much for a lot of people.
Ruby’s mama, who’d always been sickly, passed on soon after the dust storms came. Mr. Carter packed up and moved to Florida the day after the funeral. He sent Ruby a Christmas card every year until 1936, but after that she never got another one and all her letters came back stamped “Return to Sender.” The prairie winds blew away a lot more than dust. They blew away people, too. Some never found their way home.
Clarence and Ruby were among the first to go. They rented their place, working the land on shares. Clarence tried his best, but after working the land and proudly bringing in his first bountiful crop only to lose money on it because of the overburdened wheat market, he hadn’t enough money left to try again. They didn’t own the land, so they couldn’t even get credit against their house as so many others were doing. There was nothing for them to do but pick up and try somewhere else. Clarence decided to go out to California and send for Ruby once he’d found some work.
We had a farewell supper for Cla
rence. It was meant to be a party, but no one was in the mood to celebrate. Clarence was quiet. He already wore the shamefaced expression of a drifter, a look I had come to recognize on the ragged, hollow-eyed men who knocked on our door looking for a plate of food to sustain them as they traveled westward to someplace greener and kinder. Even Ruby, who normally talked and laughed at a typewriter-paced clip, was silent and barely touched her food. Mama had cooked the sort of feast we had taken for granted in better times, two whole chickens and a chocolate cake made with the last of the white sugar. Papa told some funny Will Rogers jokes he’d heard on the radio and everyone chuckled politely, but only Morgan’s laughter was genuine.
The next morning, I got up before the sun to wish Clarence farewell and bring him a boxed lunch Mama had made from the cold chicken and leftover cake. She even put in a little bottle of spirits thinly disguised as cough medicine that Mr. Dwyer sold by prescription in his store. In these days of Prohibition it seemed every man in town had developed a cough that required liquid medical attention. Dr. Townsend wrote prescriptions for a dollar apiece with the speed and ease of a bartender pouring glasses of neat whisky, but in Papa’s case the need was legitimate. Sometimes he would come in from the fields gasping for breath, choked wordless by dust and discouragement, to stand over the washbasin and spit out streams of swallowed black earth that looked like tobacco juice and smelled like defeat. Mama dosed him with whiskey nearly every day to ease the chronic sore throat Papa had developed from swallowing so much dust, but it didn’t seem to help much.
While packing Clarence’s lunch, Mama climbed onto a chair to retrieve the little flask from the high shelf where she kept it hidden. “You know I normally don’t approve of a man who carries a bottle,” she answered as though reading the surprise on my face, “but a fellow so far from home and comfort is entitled to carry a little of his own on the road. Just don’t tell your papa about this, will you?” She tucked the whisky under a napkin where it wouldn’t be readily seen and returned to her work without looking me in the eye.
Fields Of Gold Page 11
