Surviving Amelia

by Rand, Naomi;

  “I put away childish things,” she said, said it aloud then looked around furtively to see if anyone had overheard. Virgil was up at the cash register. Virgil, whose own wife had died over ten years ago, had chosen to stay faithful to her memory or at least not remarry. They’d had no children. He’d stayed put right here in Medford. His looks were the cause of a lot of gossip. He was originally from Minnesota, but his wife had been Medford born and bred. They’d met out west; Muriel didn’t really know the details. But she knew that he was Indian, or rather, Native American. Growing up, she’d spent some of the best summers of her life in Worthington, Minnesota. She guessed he was Chippewa. His black hair had finally turned salt-and-pepper gray and his face had gotten lined, but his coloring was still tawny, and his dark eyes gleamed.

  “Here’s one I think you’d like,” a voice said. Muriel started. How long had Virgil been there, watching her? It was horrible what happened these days. She went into some kind of trance. Better here than on the street, she thought. Sometimes she’d start out from home and the next thing she knew she was clear past Tufts and heading for the highway.

  Muriel took it from him. On the front she read uncorrected proof.

  “It’s a galley,” Virgil said. “We get them for free before the book comes out.”

  The cover was dark blue. There was a map on it, but not the kind you hang on the wall in the back of a classroom and pull down with a snap. Instead, it was from one of those old-world globes, like the ones on display in libraries and museums that showed bodies of water stretching out and the countries mashed together.

  Muriel read the title aloud, The Transit of Venus.

  “I’ll let you tell me what you think that means,” he said. Then he was off, waving to someone up at the front.

  Muriel opened the book and read the first line, “By nightfall the headlines would be reporting devastation.” Turning back to the cover, she tried to guess what the book would be about. Of course, there was absolutely no way to tell. That was part of why she liked to read; when you got deep inside, the suspense could be killing. But Muriel never let herself read the ending in advance. She held out, no matter how nervous she got for the characters. It was a point of pride.

  The book had been thumbed through. She guessed that Virgil’s hands had done that.

  Dust yourself off, get yourself up and start all over again. The lyrics came to her out of the blue. She’d loved that song when it was at the height of its popularity. It was a song meant for young people’s ears. Only the young could forge ahead so easily. They knew that there was so much to look forward to and so little left behind. At eighty, what lay ahead looked grim. All that had mattered most could be spotted in your rearview mirror.

  Two funerals. One had been more than enough. Muriel didn’t want to think yet here it was, the truth. Her truth. Your body was a husk. It had held onto what made you, you. Once you were dead, the person fled. Where they went was anyone’s guess. As for mourning, Muriel was intrigued by the Hindu tradition. There was an appeal to the idea of piling a man’s worldly possessions up with him and shoving it off into the Ganges or, in her case, the Charles. Muriel knew what she’d load onto Albert’s funeral barge. The Zeiss binoculars he’d used for bird watching, the power mower, the tools in the basement, the electric carving knife, and, of course, his beloved Caddy. She’d crawl onto the hood and have them shove the damn thing off. When the barge was a safe distance away from shore, she’d strike a match. Muriel smiled at the image of herself, perching atop the flaming wreckage of that once gleaming, wing tipped car.

  “How is it?” Virgil asked.

  She shivered and turned. Muriel blinked and looked past him. It was dark outside. The store was deserted.

  “Albert bought a gun for himself,” Muriel said. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

  Virgil took his time responding. Finally, he said, “Turn it in to the police.”

  She nodded. “It’s the shock, I guess. I didn’t even know he had it. I found it sitting in his desk drawer.”

  Virgil slipped into the other chair.

  It had been quite the surprise, finding that gun. Albert had carried on as if nothing were wrong. He’d been the one to go out every day, into the day. He’d been the one to try to force her out of bed. “Get up, girl,” he’d said, like she was a horse. Then she’d found the gun and known exactly what he’d bought it for.

  “Maybe he wanted it for protection,” Virgil tried.

  “From me?” Muriel let out a choking laugh. It was odd, telling him what she’d not told anyone. Why Virgil, why him, of all people?

  “I never did like how it felt killing things myself.” Virgil crossed his right leg reflexively over his left. “That’s one of the ways I diverged.”

  “Your family liked to hunt?”

  “We had to eat,” he said.

  Muriel smiled. There was her comeuppance. “The thing that bothers me most is that I can’t ask him about it.”

  She could see he knew what she meant. But she’d overstayed her welcome. Muriel stumbled to her feet. Her right leg had fallen asleep. She tottered. Virgil put his hand out, lightly, to steady her. She couldn’t help pulling away as he extended it, even with the pins and needles coursing up her leg.

  “Thanks for the book,” she said, feeling ashamed. Confiding in him had been a moment of weakness. She paused, realizing, it had been six months since she’d lost Albert. There, another euphemism.

  “You let me know what you think now,” Virgil said as he walked her to the door. He let her out then locked it behind her. Relocked it, she realized. He’d closed up without disturbing her.

  Outside, the air was so cold it almost robbed her of her breath. Muriel took her time. There was no reason to rush. What was the point? Dinner was leftovers from the night before, a roast she’d made that she would heat up, and some potatoes.

  A mother and son had a special bond. Sometimes she thought Albert was jealous. He’d come upon the two of them at odd moments and she’d see the look he gave them. Albert had his rules. “Keep your elbows off the table,” he’d say to their boy. “Stand up straight when I talk to you.” His advice always started off with one proscription, “Now if I were you. . .” That was the moment every child stopped listening, but Albert never realized.

  Letting herself in, Muriel smelled his scent. All this time and it lingered on, as if he still lived here with her. She set the book down on the side table, went into the living room, and attacked the mail. Inside the top envelope, Hallmark’s best sported a bouquet of white lilies on a pink pastel background. The inscription read, “Condolences for Your Loss.” It was from Charlotte, who had been on the board of Grace Church with Albert. She’d retired to Arizona and specialized in generic letters that began, “Dear Friend,” detailing the exploits of everyone in her entire extended family. There were cruises to the Galapagos, safaris in Kenya. Charlotte always enclosed a photo, a jumble of old and young perched on some rocky outcropping. Why bother? No one wanted to be treated as an interchangeable cog in the wheel of friendship. The card was oddly familiar. Then Muriel realized why. Charlotte had sent the exact same one after their son died. She must have a packet of them squirreled away.

  “Jesus,” Muriel said, chucking it in the trash.

  It was only the beginning of a floral avalanche. Roses. Mums. Lilies of the field. They were scattered between the bills. Inside, empathy in script, some with personal notes scrawled below.

  “When I lost Sy, I thought I’d never be able to breathe again. Please call me anytime.”

  “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I would do anything to help.”

  “You think life will be fair, but it isn’t. Dear Muriel, you’ve been such a rock for me. Such a beacon of hope.”

  Was she a beacon? Muriel saw herself more as a lighthouse, stuck on a promontory, a staid, brick-faced entity. When daylight came, it showed its true self. Erosion had battered it, the paint was chipping, the edifice was crumbling an
d who on earth cared? She wanted to crumble. She would have liked to be swept away. What I am, Muriel thought, is exhausted. Exhausted from bearing up under the weight of all of this. What I want is to go back to bed, to hide under the covers, to play that game that Amelia and I used to play where we would pretend to be asleep until she would tickle me mercilessly.

  But there was that poster Virgil had up on the wall in his store. “This is the first day of the rest of your life.”

  Goodie.

  An official cream envelope came next. The sender was a Dr. Fabian Price, chairman of the Biology Department at Columbia University. Perhaps he was a friend of Albert’s from his youth?

  Dear Mrs. Morrissey,

  We are most pleased to inform you that a generous benefactor has endowed a scholarship in your sister Amelia’s name. The deserving recipient will receive a full stipend for their remaining three years. It will be awarded to an undergraduate female chosen by our committee and deemed Barnard’s most promising pre-medical candidate. Obviously it is inspired by your sister’s example. These benefactors are alumni themselves. They are also great admirers of your sister and have only lately become aware of her short tenure here.

  The initial award recipient will be selected this year. A ceremony to honor her is planned for this January. We would be gratified if you would agree to attend and give the keynote address. Of course, we will gladly pay all expenses. Our anonymous donors have made a special request and are offering a generous honorarium. If you have any further questions, feel free to call.

  Yours,

  Dr. Fabian Price

  The man signed his name with a flourish. There was that joke about doctors not being able to write legibly. Here was an academic. You couldn’t make out one letter in his name. Muriel set it aside. A note fluttered into her lap.

  Dear Mrs. Morrissey,

  It’s Samantha Barry. I know you must get lots of invitations so I have no idea what you’ll think about this one, but I at least wanted to take the opportunity to write and say hello. I hope you remember me. You were so generous about my paper. I’m a freshman at Barnard now and work for Dr. Price. He had me typing up a press release about this new scholarship. I mentioned how I’d gotten a letter from you and knew how to get in touch. He was so gung ho, wanted to know your address and if I thought you’d want to speak. I know you’re probably too busy to come all the way down here plus New York in January isn’t exactly fun in the sun. Still, if you do decide to brave it, I promise to show you the sights and make sure they put you up wherever you want. I’d so love to actually meet you. Your words of encouragement meant so much.

  Always the best,

  Samantha Barry

  P.S. Thanks again for taking my work so seriously. I hope you don’t regret it now.

  That Barry girl had written quite the paper. Was it really only last year? The topic had been Amelia Earhart: The Icon. According to its youthful author, her sister had been a master of public relations, maximizing her popularity by inventing an innocent alter ego, a “perfect” Amelia. This alternate self had benefited from luck and timing; fame happened to her and kept on happening. The charmed and charming version of Amelia was both decent and all American, plain spoken and modest, although she was also a woman who opted to wear men’s clothing and fly planes. The public forgave her these eccentricities because her invented persona was so convincing and so disarming.

  “You’ve done an excellent job here,” she had written Miss Barry. “I was impressed with your research and your diligent analysis, though I will tell you that the thesis is, at the core, misguided.” Misguided, now there was a plum word.

  The girl had written a thank you note. That thesis was clever, and frankly a little too close to the truth for comfort. That young woman did know her subject. But Muriel wasn’t about to give Amelia away at this late date. She knew things about her sister that no one else knew. And she would go to her grave, keeping them secret. It was how Amelia would have wanted it.

  Muriel walked down the hall and into to her office. She opened the file drawer. Here was Miss Barry’s opus, typed on onionskin paper.

  Biographers have spent a great deal of time recounting the events of Earhart’s life. Some focus on her accomplishments and her outsized celebrity. Others delve into the mystery surrounding her last flight and disappearance. Her public pronouncements are a matter of record. Her private life is a mystery. Amelia Earhart was politically progressive and an ardent feminist. She went where no woman and few men had gone before. All that was known, but what we don’t know, we continue to guess at. Was she trapped in a loveless marriage with G.P. Putnam, or was it a mutually beneficial arrangement? Did she have lovers? Was she a bisexual? Was her ambition always there, or was it just luck that made her into a household name? It’s a very modern view, believing that our heroes and heroines owe us the truth and should expose themselves to us warts and all. Amelia still refuses. Who was Amelia Earhart? We know what she accomplished, but her story is incomplete mainly because even forty plus years after her death her image is still tightly controlled. That is the legacy of the real Amelia Earhart.

  It was a dare, the sort of dare young people specialized in making when trying to get a rise out of their elders. Her own children had done it.

  The yellow kitchen curtains rustled. A front was coming through. Out with the old weather and in with the new. There were changes one longed for, while others were too painful to contemplate. Muriel thought of those cables Amelia had sent to their parents once she was aloft and safely away, flying east, over the Atlantic.

  “No matter what happens it will have been worth the trying.”

  Muriel’s letter from Amelia arrived the same day. She didn’t tell Mother she’d gotten it. By the time she got a chance to read it, it was after two a.m. Their mother had been frantic with worry, imagining every possible horrible scenario, but she’d finally gone to sleep.

  “Dear Pidge,” Amelia wrote. “You’re thinking why didn’t I confide in you? You think I don’t trust you and of course that makes you angry. But if I did tell you about going, then I would have had to swear you to secrecy and that would have been cruel. You couldn’t have told Mother, yet every minute you’d have to be with her would have felt like a lifetime to you. And who’s to say you wouldn’t have blurted it out just to stop that feeling from overwhelming you. If you had, Mother would have tried to prevent me from risking my life. It’s what a mother is supposed to do, isn’t it? Protect her child and prevent her from doing something foolish and dangerous?

  “To be honest, there’s more. I suppose it scared me, thinking of how I would have to explain this to you. You would have asked me, ‘What if you die?’ What does someone say to that? How do you say that you only have a certain number of chances to try things in life, and that this is the one I couldn’t pass up? It was so much easier to pretend with you and go on as before. It wasn’t sisterly of me to hide this from you, yet I had to. I couldn’t let myself be dissuaded. I couldn’t take the chance of that happening. If not now, when? There was only one right answer for me. I know it was selfish. I only hope you can find it in your heart to understand and forgive me.

  Your loving sister, A.”

  Why not go back to Columbia? She hadn’t been there since Amelia served as her amateur guide, giving her a tour of the campus. She’d been so low, but the more she thought about it, the more the idea intrigued her. Besides, it was months away. She’d work on the talk. She’d put something in for the girl, this Samantha Barry, a sly response to the paper. An inside joke, as it were.

  Muriel opened the right hand desk drawer and pulled out some notepaper. Then got to work, composing her answer.

  4

  Amelia

  September 1980

  AMELIA OPENED HER eyes and discovered a cracked plaster ceiling. Scrambling to her feet, she knew where she was. She was in Muriel’s living room. Grandfather Otis’ secretary sat in the corner. The blue drapes were tied back. Sunlight streamed in. It was
hot in the room. It would be, it was boiling hot on the beach, where she evidently lay dreaming. Things in the room had shifted from the way she remembered them. The sofa was no longer upholstered in a plush maroon. It wore a natty plaid. Standing in for the matching loveseat were bookended Windsor chairs. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were the same and cluttered with family photographs. Here was Mother, showing off the string of pearls Amelia had bought for her. Her brother-in-law Albert wore casual attire, snapped on the garden seat. And Amelia waved to admirers from the cockpit of the Electra. Perched to her photograph’s right was one of a young man in uniform. Army? Navy? Marines? Amelia reached for the frame to lift it closer. Her fingers slid through. She gasped, pulling back as if stung, then tried again. And got the same result. It was going to be one of those dreams, rife with frustration.

  Amelia had had them before. In truth, not being able to grab hold of a picture was child’s play. On the nights before a potentially record-shattering flight, she’d fall asleep and discover she was taxiing down the runway alone, without a navigator, charts, or a working compass or Amelia would be driving to the airport when a wall of water appeared, lifting the car and tossing it down. Worse, a stream of burning lava, the source a seething volcano spewing dust and ash, barred her way. She’d put the car into reverse and find the gears stuck. Once, after all of this, she arrived at the airport to see her plane soaring off without her.

  Luckily, she’d learned that dreams were malleable. You had to have the stomach for it. And the presence of mind. It was a funny way to put it, but all too true. The mind was a surprisingly supple tool. Amelia had learned that if she took hold of her own dream, she could reinvent it. She redirected the flight back to the landing strip and retrieved Fred. If that didn’t work, she reminded herself to look under the jump seat. There she’d hidden a treasure trove of navigational charts. As the water from the tidal wave poured into the car, she rolled up the windows and hit the switch that turned it into a submersible. H.G. Wells had done it first. She was only following in his hallowed footsteps. Inside, she was safe in her underwater, motorized house. Boiling lava met an ice storm and froze in its tracks. As for that plane shooting off into the ether, it wasn’t her Vega at all. That was being prepped in a nearby shed.