The Aviator's Wife (17 page)

“And we’re proud of you,” Connie insisted. “But it’s his life, isn’t it? Not yours, exactly. When was the last time you did anything on your own, for yourself?”

I frowned; remembering Amelia Earhart’s patronizing, “
Have you ever read
A Room of One’s Own
?
”

“It’s been ages,” Connie continued in her forceful way—as if the notion of disagreement was
not to be entertained. “And Charles never goes anywhere, does anything, unless it’s related to
him
. And he never allows you to, either.”

“That’s not true, really, it’s not.” I glanced at Elisabeth, hoping for help. She appeared only too ready to let Connie speak for her. “He—well, he is on so many boards, you know, for aviation, and naturally he wants me to accompany him to all the banquets and
dinners. And he’s been helping Daddy out with his campaign—and, of course, I should accompany him there, too. Mother does, you know.” My father had left his ambassadorship and was preparing to run for the vacant Senate seat in New Jersey.
Charles had been extremely supportive, lending his name and flying Daddy about the state for appearances.

Connie snorted. “When was the last time you insisted
he
accompany
you
somewhere? When was the last time you did anything on your own—joined a committee, or a club?”

“Well, today,” I retorted gaily. “I came here, didn’t I?”

“And it’s been ages, Anne. Since before you graduated.”

“No—really? It can’t be.” I couldn’t bear Connie’s pitying, yet challenging, gaze, so I glanced down at the handbag in my lap and tried to remember. When
was
the last
time I had initiated an outing on my own? I used to come to the city at least once a month when I was in school, accompanied by Elizabeth Bacon, seeing shows, shopping, even once patronizing a speakeasy, although the entire time I’d been terrified we’d be raided. And Bacon—why, was it possible that I hadn’t seen her since before the wedding? I’d wanted her to be my bridesmaid. But Charles had insisted
only family be present, which, of course, I understood; there was just too great a risk of some member of the press getting in. But why hadn’t I seen her since? She’d sent a lovely present, I supposed. I honestly couldn’t recall; all my wedding presents were still packed away in crates, since we had no home of our own yet in which to display them. Still, that was no logical reason why I hadn’t
seen her; I had some memory of her phoning, at least a few times, and none of me returning her calls. I was probably too busy studying navigation, or flying, or riding into the city with Charles for one of those innumerable banquets that all blurred together, always ending with the two of us exhausted in the backseat of the car, a loving cup or plaque or diploma of some kind between us, engraved
with his name.

His
name. Never mine.

I glanced up at the two of them. Elisabeth was studying me,
sympathetically but patiently—as if waiting for me to come up with the correct answer to an unasked question. Well, what did they want me to say? That I had no friends, no life of my own any longer? That I hadn’t seen any of my classmates since graduation?

It was true, all of it; Carol Guggenheim
was the only woman outside my family to whom I was remotely close, and again, that was because of Charles’s friendship with her, first.

I slumped down in my seat. No wonder I had felt such panic earlier, walking alone on the sidewalk. Charles hadn’t been there, hadn’t arranged it for me, as he arranged everything else. It was an entirely impulsive act; possibly the first one I had taken in almost
two years—since I decided to become handmaiden to the most famous man in the world.

“I, that is—I
have
been meaning to do things,” I explained lamely. “We’ve—
I’ve
just been so busy. And now, with the baby—we’re finally getting our own house, you know. We’re talking with an architect about a place outside of Princeton, in the country!” I looked up now, hating myself for nodding so eagerly, for
seeking their approval so obviously.

And I realized, my face burning with embarrassment and confusion, that all the time that I had been feeling sorry for Elisabeth, she had been pitying me. The rest of the world admired my husband—and admired
me
, for taking care of him, for keeping up with him, and now, more than ever, for providing him with an heir.

That my own family did not admire me for
this stunned me.

“A new house? That’s wonderful,” Elisabeth enthused. “Connie, isn’t that wonderful?”

Connie nodded, not nearly so excited. “Yes, it is. It’s about time.”

“And I can’t wait to see the drawings,” Elisabeth gushed, her smile fiercely bright. I looked away, then glanced at my wristwatch.
I rose in a great huff, which was somewhat marred by the fact that I had to hold on to Connie’s
shoulder to get my balance.

“It’s getting late, and I should be going. I need to interview for a nanny, at some office on Park Avenue. A friend of Mother’s recommended a service—they specialize in Irish nursemaids, which Charles—which
I
gather is the thing to do.”

“Of course it is. And we must get back to interviewing these poor families, although I don’t really think we’re going to find anyone
willing to travel to Englewood.” Elisabeth became animated, as if everything was all right again. “You know, Anne, you really should consider hiring someone from this neighborhood. Don’t you think it’s a good idea, in these terrible times? Everyone needs work, and Mother’s always so snobby about the servants. But you’re in a position to do some real good, you know.”

“Do you really think Colonel
Lindbergh would allow such a thing?” Connie snorted with amusement, almost as if I wasn’t there. She was right—Charles never would allow such a thing. But my cheeks blazed with anger at hearing Connie say so in such a derisive way.

“
I
will be making the decisions concerning the household staff,” I told them coolly, if not entirely truthfully.

“That’s marvelous! Then you’ll consider it?” Elisabeth
slid her arm about my nonexistent waist. “Anne, dearest, please don’t go away feeling as if we were ganging up on you.”

“I’m afraid I do feel that.” I sniffed, fussing with my gloves.

“I know, and I’m so sorry, dear. It’s just that we hardly ever get a chance to talk with you alone. And you know I am very—fond—of Charles, but—well, he’s such a
strong
personality, while you’re—”

“Weak?” I met
my sister’s gaze head-on; she was the one who looked away first, her cheeks flushing prettily.

“No, of course not, Anne. Just sweet, and eager to please. What Connie and I are really saying is that you’re in such an important position now
—you
, on your own. Think what you could do with it—how much you could help others.”

“I had planned on an Irish nursemaid,” I repeated weakly—or, rather,
sweetly
.

Connie sat on the sofa, looking at me, her thick eyebrows arched in amusement. At that moment, I despised her solid self-righteousness. I also quaked at the idea of hiring a girl with no training, from a questionable background, to look after my baby.

“I’ll consider it,” I finally said, desperate to get away, to rush back to my refuge—back to Charles, who would be waiting for me. We always
dined together; it was a rule. If one of us had to leave the house, we were always back in time for dinner unless we both went out; he said it was important for a husband and wife to establish this habit early. I agreed, of course. Why
shouldn’t
I agree to my husband’s desire to spend time with me? It was what I wanted, too.

“Fine, that’s all we’re asking,” Elisabeth said, as she walked me to
the door. “I’ll see you back at home tonight.”

“No hard feelings, now, mind you,” Connie added. “You know I think you Morrows are the tops.”

“Good. Then take care of Elisabeth, will you? Make sure she gets home in plenty of time to rest.” I couldn’t help it; I wanted to treat my sister as childishly as she had treated me. Although I was worried about her. She seemed so delicate, so
temporary
, somehow. So wispy that even memory couldn’t hold her.

I hurried away from the two of them, standing side by side, framed by the doorway. Rushing down the hall to the reception room, I was truly worried now; I was going to be late for that appointment.

Just outside the window, Henry and the Rolls were waiting to whisk me away in luxury. I wouldn’t have to worry about a taxi. I never had to worry
about a taxi. Or the subway. Or even dinner—of course, it would be waiting for me when I got home. I never had to worry about anything these days.

Our flying trips, when I had been so strong, so independent—so
vital
—seemed like a dimly recalled dream to me now. Could Charles and I be true partners only when we were in the sky, cut free from everyone else’s expectations?

I suddenly stopped in
the middle of the crowded, stale room, and I made myself look around, meeting the gaze of every woman there. I needed to look at these women, these normal, earthbound women, with lives so very different from my own. I needed to see what they were like; who I might be if I were one of them. And I needed to see through my own eyes, not Charles’s. I was so used to seeing the world from behind him, or
beside him; our view was always exactly the same. It was as if there was only one set of goggles between us.

So I took in the old-fashioned dresses, the head coverings, some tattered lace, others simple black. Most had dark eyes, thick hair, sallow skin; there were a few fair Irish-looking faces. But they were all women, tired women; women simply wanting help, wanting more for their children.
Just as I would want for mine—with a warm flush of recognition, I felt a kinship with them that I could never feel while flying above them, looking down.

My coaxing smile only made them uneasy; most looked away. The few that did not stared at me with unconcealed resentment flickering in dark, hungry eyes. A couple looked frankly at my stomach; one wagged her head and said something that I couldn’t
understand—and then she laughed.

“What’s
she
doing here?” I heard someone else mutter. “
She’s
rich.”

“She’s Colonel Lindbergh’s wife,” another whispered. “What’s she want?”

“
I
should go visit
her
,” a woman said loudly. “I bet they don’t have nits in
their
house!”

Several women burst into knowing laughter. I was rigid with mortification. There was no way I could walk outside the door and get
into the Rolls now, for everyone would see that it belonged to me, and I was sick with shame for it; shame for who I was. Elisabeth and Connie ridiculed me for being a wife; these women ridiculed me for being rich.

Was it any wonder I stayed safely in my husband’s shadow, where, if anyone noticed me, they only admired me for keeping up with him? Was it any wonder I took refuge in the clouds,
where I was strong and capable, more myself than I had ever been, could ever be, here on earth?

And what did two spinsters know, anyway? If I were married to a physician, I would be Mrs. Doctor. If I were married to an attorney, I would be Mrs. Lawyer. No married woman had a separate identity, not even my own mother, with all her education and energy. She was the senator’s wife, first and foremost.
That I was married to an aviator made me different but no less dependent on my husband. That was one thing these women and I knew that my precious sister, with all her education and lofty ideals, did not.

Spurred by this discovery, I spun around and marched back to Elisabeth’s office. Without knocking, I opened the door.

“Elisabeth, what you don’t understand is—”

I froze, unable to speak; unable
to absorb the scene before me.

Elisabeth was sitting in Connie’s lap, their arms about each other, their lips
—their lips
—upon each other’s. They didn’t spring apart—oh, why didn’t they spring apart? They remained where they were, only turning their heads to look at me for the
longest moment. A moment in which I gasped, my insides lurching and plummeting as if I had just plunged down an elevator
shaft. And I felt that I must have; I must have fallen into another world, another reality. This was not my sister. This could not be my sister.

And yet even as we three gazed at one another, and Elisabeth finally slid off Connie’s lap, her face scarlet, her body trembling, so many things suddenly made sense. The secret looks they always shared, the insouciance with which Elisabeth had always
treated men, as if she had no use for them at all—and now, I saw, she hadn’t.

What I had assumed to be her jealousy at my marriage to Charles I now realized was her distaste for him, pure and simple. The strained awkwardness, the brutal shifting of our relationship, was not because I had stolen something from her that she wanted. But this realization was accompanied by a childish sense of disappointment.
For deep down, hadn’t I enjoyed thinking that I had?

“Anne, please,” I heard my sister say, in a voice that sounded a million miles removed. “You mustn’t—”

I never heard what I mustn’t do; I turned and stumbled blindly through the lobby and out the door. Henry tucked me into the backseat with a rug, as if I was an invalid.

As we drove away, my mind still reeled from the image of the two women
so entwined. Elisabeth? Kissing a woman—
Connie?

No irregularities
, Charles had said that night, when we camped out under the stars.
Our children will be pure
. I laid my hand upon my unborn child; it swam within my flesh, restless, innocent—

Pure.

“Are you all right, Miss Anne? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”

I shook my head. “Just drive, please, Henry.”

And I knew I could never tell
anyone what I had seen. Not even—especially—Charles. Too many people could be hurt. For the sake of my child, my marriage, myself, no one must ever know. For the sake of my sister, most of all.