Shaking off her weariness, Erin began to feel better. She stopped and had a cup of coffee with the manager of the airfield, went over the flight for the next day, and then left.
She caught a taxi and rode to her uncle’s house, where Andrew and Dorothy greeted her. They persuaded her to have a meal, even though she would rather have gone directly to bed.
“Did Stephen call while I was away?” she asked as they were finishing their meal.
“No, he didn’t,” Dorothy answered. “Were you expecting him to?”
“Well, I told him I’d be gone for another two days, but I finished quicker than I thought. I just thought he might call. I’ll be leaving early in the morning.”
Andrew and Dorothy exchanged guarded glances. They knew something had happened between the two young people during the summer, though exactly what they couldn’t be sure. Erin still spoke of him occasionally but seemed anxious whenever she mentioned his name.
Andrew was happy to change the subject. “How long will this keep up, Erin?” he asked. “The flying, I mean. It seems you’re awfully busy. Is there any end to it?”
“I hope not,” Erin said, surprised that he should ask. “I’d like to keep flying for a long time. I enjoy it more than anything I’ve ever done.”
Erin talked for a while to her uncle and aunt about her business plans, then showered and went to bed. She left quite early in the morning, allowing time to pay Stephen a surprise visit first. She was hoping he would be pleased to see her, and just maybe he would be willing to talk about their future. She got out of the taxi in front of his apartment, paid the driver, and hurried into the building. Finding the number of his apartment, she knocked on the door with anticipation, a smile on her lips as she waited.
The door opened, and a woman stood before her. “Yes? Can I help you?”
“I . . . is Stephen here?”
“Yes, he is. Do you want to see him?” The woman was in her late twenties or early thirties. She had black hair and wore more makeup than was customary in Africa. There was an attractiveness about her, but also a hard glint in her eyes as she stared at Erin.
Erin was confused, wondering who the woman was. She asked hesitantly, “If . . . if he’s here, could I have a word with him?”
The woman turned and said, “Stephen, somebody to see you.”
Not being asked in, Erin stood in the hallway. The woman did not move but turned and watched her with careful eyes. She was wearing a blue robe—and had apparently stayed for the night. Erin’s heart sank, and then Stephen appeared before her. She saw his face suddenly go stiff, and at that instant she knew everything.
“This woman wants to see you, Stephen. Who is she?”
Erin’s anger flared. “Who are you, I might ask?”
The hard light in the woman’s eyes got even more intense, while her lips curled upward in a sardonic smile. “I’m his wife. Does that answer your question?”
“Stephen . . .” Erin tried to speak but could not. She saw the truth written on his face. There was no need for him to explain. The guilt was plainly there, along with pain and embarrassment.
“Erin, I wish you hadn’t come,” he whispered.
Erin knew all she needed to know. She turned and walked stiffly away down the hall. When she got to the lower part of the stairs, she heard footsteps and turned to see Stephen following her. “Erin, I didn’t want it to be like this.”
“Is she your wife?” Erin, by some miracle, kept her voice steady.
“Yes, she is, but I’m getting a divorce. We haven’t lived together in two years now. She showed up yesterday and wants us to get back together again, but I’ve told her I can’t do that.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were married?”
“I don’t know, Erin,” he said, his face twisted. “I didn’t want to hurt you, I guess. It didn’t seem to matter, really—since I was getting a divorce anyway.”
Erin stood watching him—not sure anymore that she could believe anything this man might say to her. She didn’t even bother to wipe away the tears that coursed down her cheeks. Nbuta had indeed spoken truly. Something had died in her in these few brief moments, and she stared at Stephen as if he were a complete stranger. “You should have told me.” She turned quickly and walked away, ignoring his protests and shutting his voice out. The taxi was gone when she stepped outside. Blindly she walked down the street, knowing that part of her would never forget him, and yet already that which had been in her was beginning to wither and die. She did not know how long it took love to die, but now she knew she would find out.
****
Erin made her flight and delivered the businessman to Mombasa. Following that she made three other flights, during which she performed mechanically. Her love of flying seemed to have died with her love for Stephen. Her mechanic, Roscoe, asked her once, looking carefully at her expression, “Don’t you feel good, Miss Erin? You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine, Roscoe.” This had been her standard answer to anyone who asked how she was.
But it could not go on, and she knew it. During the hours in the air she could not get Stephen out of her mind. His betrayal was like a knife in her. Perhaps if she had had more experience with men, it might have been different, but he had been the only man she had ever cared for.
Finally she knew what she had to do. She made the trip back home again to the mission station and spent a day with her parents, trying to think of a way to tell them what had happened. She went on long walks, and finally late one afternoon as she walked alone, burdened under the pressure of her emotions, she came to a decision. Her life had been hard, but nothing was harder than this. “I’ve got to get away,” she said aloud. “I can’t stay here anymore.”
****
“You want to go to America? But, dear, why?”
Erin stared at her mother and knew that there was no way to make this any easier. In plain, blunt language she told them about Stephen and watched their eyes. It was obvious that they were both distressed. She knew they had been worried about her and her relationship with Stephen for some time. Finally she said, “It’s all over. I’m putting it behind me.”
“That’s the wise thing to do,” Barney said. “But why go to America?”
“I’ve got to get away for a while,” Erin said almost desperately. “Please don’t fight me on this—and please don’t suggest that I go stay with Uncle Andrew and Aunt Dorothy. I’ve got to have a complete change of scene.” After talking with her parents for some time, Erin finally agreed to wait a few days. The extra days would make no difference to her, and it was little enough to ask.
****
Two weeks had gone by, and now Erin Winslow stood on the deck of the Queen Alice. She had said good-bye to all of her relatives. There had been a small bon voyage party with Dr. Burns and his wife, Ruth, as well as Andrew and Dorothy and their two children. Annie and Jeb Winslow, her distant relatives, had been there as well, and, despite the circumstances, Erin had enjoyed herself.
Now standing on the deck of the ship, Erin reflected with satisfaction on her behavior. She had managed to hide her hurt from all except her parents. The others—even Patrick—were convinced that her desire to go to the States was just something she had to do. And indeed it was.
As she watched the coast of Africa grow smaller, a resolution came to her. I can take care of myself. I can work—I can fly—and I can do it on my own, she thought almost bitterly, without the help of any man.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On Her Own
As the Queen Alice moved up to the New York dock and nudged at the slip, Erin stood at the rail, curiously unmoved by her new venture. On the entire voyage she had struggled to put thoughts of Stephen Charterhouse out of her mind, but without noticeable success. For hours she had walked the deck of the ship, despite the bitter cold weather and the freezing rain that sometimes swept the deck. All her efforts to erase the past had failed, and as she watched the stevedores attach the enormous ropes tha
t tied the ship securely to the dock, it seemed to her that the past was tarnished and dull, like a cheap antique that was not worth saving or even looking at. A ship that was departing about a half mile away down the harbor loosed a shrill blast that rocked the air. Snow was falling now in slanting lines, which covered the harbor in a pristine whiteness, making it almost beautiful. Erin watched as the flakes, some of them as large as quarters, came floating down, touched the water, and vanished. She thought of one of Robert Burns’ poems with a sudden tinge of bitterness:
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed.
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white—then melts forever.
The poet had known something of bitterness, and now as Erin stood there she summoned her thoughts before her as a king would summon his bodyguard—thoughts as clear as they were bitter. If I have to leave the place I’ve lived in and loved, and I have to put behind me all the yesterdays, then I’ll bury them deep! It’s better to do it as quickly as I can. It’s better never to turn back. I refuse to believe that an hour that’s remembered is a better hour just because it’s dead. Those old times seem safe, and even though I don’t know where I’m going now, no matter what happens, I won’t look back.
The steward hurried down the walkway and stopped to say, “Miss Winslow, do you need help with your baggage?”
“Yes, please, Freddie, if you don’t mind.”
For the next hour all was noise and confusion, but Erin paid no heed. With Freddie’s help she got her luggage safely down the gangplank and passed through customs. The customs officer looked at her passport carefully, then asked, “Are you here for a vacation, Miss Winslow?”
“No, I’m here to stay.”
“Welcome to America.” The official, a thin man with a sharp line of a mustache and careful gray eyes, stamped her passport and handed it back to her. “First time away from home?”
“Yes, it is—by myself, that is.”
“Be careful. A young lady like you needs to watch her step.”
Erin was confused by the crowd in the building, everyone talking and running about as if they were all late for an important appointment. She made her way through the door that said Exit and stepped outside. The snow was falling even harder now, and she turned to the black man who was helping her with her trunk and her bags. “I need to get to this address, but I have no idea where it is,” she said.
Snow had already turned the man’s black hair white. He had pulled off his cap and given her a friendly smile. “Yes, ma’am. Well, what you need to do is get in a taxicab and give the driver that address. These fellows who drive the cabs, they know every place in New York.”
“Thank you very much.” Erin had exchanged some Kenyan money for American currency. She pulled the cash out of her purse and said, “I don’t know what’s right to give you.”
The black man looked around with alarm and then leaned forward and whispered, “Ma’am, keep that money in your purse.”
“What?”
“It ain’t safe to show that much cash. And keep a good hold on your purse, too. There’s men in this city that would snatch that purse, and you’d be left with nothin’.”
Erin handed him a bill, and he protested, “That’s too much!”
“No, I insist. Just help me get in a cab, and we’ll call it square.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll do that.”
The porter found her a cab and put her luggage inside. The driver was a short barrel-shaped man who wore a huge fur coat and heavy mittens. “Where to, lady?” he said when he’d settled back behind the wheel.
“This is the address. I don’t know where it is or how far it is.”
The driver took the slip of paper and whistled. “Lady, this is a long drive. It’s gonna cost you.”
“That’ll be fine. Just get me there.”
The trip seemed to last forever, as first trips to an unknown place usually do. Erin stared out the windows and asked questions from time to time, which the driver answered readily enough. She was aware finally that they had left the downtown area with the enormous, towering buildings and were driving through a residential section. “Is it far?” she asked.
“Maybe another forty minutes, miss.”
Erin sat back and watched the snow as it collected into a downy blanket over the houses and streets. There were more trees now, sculpted by the heavy, wet snow into grotesque shapes. Long icicles hung like icy daggers from the eaves of the houses, and flights of small, bedraggled birds crossed in front of the cab as it made its way down the road.
Finally, after what seemed like a very long time, the driver stopped in front of a driveway that led back off the main road. “I think this is it, but the snow’s covered the sign.”
“The name is Winslow. Would you go up to the house and see if this is it?”
“There’s a sign there. Lemme get out and knock the snow off of it.”
Erin waited while the driver waded through the snow, which was more than eight inches deep now. She watched as he brushed it away from the sign, nodded, and came back. “That’s what it says. Winslow.”
“This is it, then,” Erin said with a rush of relief. She sat there while the driver got in and drove down a broad drive edged on both sides with shrubs that had become round as balls. When she came in sight of the house, she took her breath in, for she had forgotten how grand the house was. There wasn’t anything like this in Africa, even in the cities.
The Winslow house was a tall three-story structure made of red brick with four massive white pillars along the front and black wrought-iron railings surrounding balconies on the second and third floors. A long walkway lined with small evergreen bushes led up to six wide brick steps and onto the front porch, where a massive white door gave entrance to the house. Flanking the door were long, narrow stained-glass windows in the pattern of lilies in red, white, and green. The house looked very inviting to Erin.
The cabdriver pulled up in front of the door and said, “You want me to start carrying the luggage in?”
“Let me go in first,” Erin said. “I’ll pay you now, though. How much is it?”
The driver named the figure, and she fumbled in her purse with fingers numbed by the cold. She gave him what he asked, then added an extra five dollars. “You’ve been so kind. I appreciate it.”
The cabdriver gave her a quick smile. The grin spread over his face like a ripple in a pond, expanding until there was no room for both the grin and his eyes, which disappeared almost completely. “I wish there were more folks in the world like you, lady. I’d get rich! You go see if your folks are here, and then I’ll carry your trunk and your bags in.”
Erin stepped out of the cab, walked down the walkway, then climbed up the steps to the porch. A brass knocker hung in the center of the massive door, and she struck it three times and waited. In less time than she would have imagined, the door opened, and a tall, thin black man stood there, dressed in black trousers and a white shirt. He said, “Yes, ma’am?”
“I’m here to see Mr. and Mrs. Winslow.”
The man looked at the cab and said, “Come right in, ma’am. Do you intend to keep the cab waiting?”
“Just until I see my grandfather and grandmother.”
“Oh.” The man’s face broke into a grin. “Yes, ma’am. You’re a Winslow, then. Come right in.”
Stepping inside, Erin glanced around the foyer, which was not ornate but carefully furnished. There was an air of ease and comfort and yet a taste of luxury in the thick carpets, the fixtures decorating the walls, and the heavy chandelier lighting the foyer. “I’ll get Missus Winslow right now if you’ll just wait here, miss.”
“Yes, I will.”
The man disappeared, and Erin took a deep breath. Ever since she was a child she had heard many stories about her grandparents—Mark Winslow and his wife, Lola. She knew the Winslows were fairly wealthy people, Mark having risen from working on the t
rack of the Union Pacific to the vice-presidency of the company.
A woman came out, followed by the black man, and smiled at once as she came toward Erin. “Erin, my dear, it’s so good to see you again!”
Lola Winslow was older than Erin remembered her, but she was still a very beautiful woman indeed. Her hair, which used to be coal black, was pure silver now, and there were lines in her face. But when she embraced Erin, the young woman remembered how gracious she had been when Erin had come on her only previous visit. She was but a child then, yet she still remembered the beauty and grace of this woman.
“Your grandfather isn’t feeling well, but I’m sure he’ll join us for breakfast tomorrow. James, will you help with the luggage?”
As the driver and James brought the luggage in, Lola took Erin to a room on the second floor of the house. It was a beautiful room with pale blue painted walls and a large mahogany canopy bed covered with a gauzy white-and-blue-striped fabric. A matching mahogany chest of drawers and a desk sat between the two long windows, which were draped with a sheer fabric in light blue. The floor was carpeted with a thick rug with a rose, blue, and white design.
Erin said, “This is the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen. I’ll be afraid to touch anything.”
Lola laughed. “Don’t be afraid to do that. This house isn’t a museum. It’s here to be used. You get settled in and then come downstairs. We’ll have a bite to eat and some tea or coffee.”
****
Erin awoke early in the morning, as was her custom. She was buried under a pile of fragrant blankets and luxuriated in the softness of the featherbed. She hadn’t experienced such physical comforts since her first visit to America. Lola had told her she had picked the down for the featherbed herself from ducks over the years.
Now Erin got out of bed and dressed quickly. She had not brought clothes warm enough for the American winter and knew she would have to buy flannel underwear and a heavier wardrobe all around. She finally picked out a light green dress but slipped a tan sweater over it, for it was chilly in the house. When she went outside the room, she found a maid coming down the hall, a short girl with merry blue eyes and yellow hair. “Miz Winslow says for you to come down to breakfast as soon as you get up. My name is Mary.”
The Golden Angel Page 9
