The Aviator's Wife

“You mean Colonel Lindbergh?”

My heart sank at how quickly he supplied my sister with her logical beau. But I nodded.

“Well, Father’ll be pleased, anyway,” Dwight said, frowning. “He gave me the dickens when I was rude to the colonel over Christmas. He read me the riot act after that.” My brother’s face darkened; his eyes dulled.

“Dwight, he loves you, you know.”

“He’d rather have Colonel Lindbergh for a son.”

“No, he wouldn’t. You’re being silly.”

“Am I? When was the last time he was proud of me, Anne? When?”

“When—when you—now, Dwight, stop it! There were plenty of times!”

“Name one.” Dwight was so calm, not agitated at all; his voice didn’t rise and crack, his face didn’t turn from purple to scarlet and back again, like it usually did—and that was what frightened me the most.

Yet at that moment, I could not recall the last time my father had said he was proud of his son. He told Elisabeth and me he was proud of us, all the time. Often for no reason other than that we looked especially pretty, or had written a particularly pleasing letter to him.

“Dwight, I can’t suddenly be expected to come up with examples! Heavens, I can hardly remember what I had for breakfast this morning! All I know is that you’re wrong. Daddy loves you. We all love you.”

“Well, sure, you do. What’s that matter? You’re only a girl.”

“Only a girl? Dwight Morrow Junior, that’s a ridiculous thing to say!”

“Oh, you know what I mean, Anne. It still doesn’t matter—you’ll go off and marry your hero some day, and then you won’t have any time for me, either. Just like Mother and Father.”

“Dwight, you know they’d rather be up here. But this is Daddy’s job now. He has to be in Mexico City.”

“Don’t I know it. ‘Dwight, you must remember, we have duties now, obligations.’ ”

I had to laugh. My brother’s voice perfectly mimicked our father’s excited, breathless staccato.

“‘You have duties,’ ” Dwight continued. “‘Your sisters have duties. Remember, young man, remember, education—’ ”

“Education, education,” I chimed in—but then the phone on Daddy’s desk rang, startling us into silence. We both jumped, then giggled guiltily; had our father somehow heard us, all the way from Mexico? I don’t think either one of us would have been surprised.

Dwight was the first to recover. Picking up the receiver and leaning toward the transmitter, he said, “Hello, Morrow residence,” still in that urgent, high-pitched voice that sounded just like Daddy’s. I giggled again, and Dwight rewarded me with a sly smile. Then my brother suddenly colored, sat up straight in his chair, and said, “Miss Morrow? No, she’s away. Oh—are you sure? Yes, she is,” and thrust the receiver and transmitter out to me.

“It’s your hero, Anne,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

“Oh, sure, sure.” I stuck my tongue out at him, enjoying the teasing, wishing to prolong it for as long as possible. I pushed myself out of the chair with an exaggerated sigh. “It’s probably that milkman.” I sashayed to the desk, wiggling my hips just like Theda Bara, and took the receiver from him; holding it up to my ear, I leaned into the transmitter and crooned, in a deep, vampy tone, “Hello, this is Anne Morrow. Is this my hero?”

There was a pause; static crackled down the line into my ear. Then I heard a reedy voice say, “Miss Morrow? This is Lindbergh himself. Charles Lindbergh.”

I wanted to drop the phone; I wanted to hit my brother—who was leaning back in his chair, shaking with laughter. I wanted to do anything other than somehow think of a proper reply.

“It—it is?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No—no! My brother—Dwight—you met him, remember? He was just teasing me. I’m so sorry—I mean, no, I’m glad you called. Very glad. That is—wait—this is Anne Morrow. Not Elisabeth. I’m Anne.”

“Yes, I know. I had been led to believe that you would be at home today. I called yesterday, but you were out.”

“You did?” By now my knees were shaking and I had to sit down on the edge of the desk; Jo, my mother’s secretary, had said that he had called. But she’d said he’d called for Elisabeth, not me.

Finally Dwight had the good sense to get up and leave me alone in the room, his eyes still shining with merriment. For a moment I forgot all about his condition; I stuck my tongue out at him, just like any big sister would.

“Miss Morrow? You are still there?”

“Yes—oh, yes, I am!”

“I’m very sorry I could not make it to your graduation. It was nice of you to ask me. But I was afraid that if I came it would cause a stir, and that wouldn’t have been fair to you or your family.”

“Oh.” How thoughtful of him! “That was very thoughtful of you,” I said, my tongue just a few beats behind my thoughts.

There was a silence; I could hear him breathing, softly. Then he cleared his throat, and I was reminded, suddenly, of the engine of the plane that we flew in together, sputtering to life.

“I understand that you’re home for the summer?” There was a hesitation—like the catch of that motor before it finally found its groove—in his voice.

“Yes. I’m taking care of—I’m staying with Dwight while he’s home for the summer. Mother and Daddy are back in Mexico City.”

“The reason I called,” he said hastily, as if he regretted having done so, “is to ask if you would like to go up again? I promised you I would take you back up in a plane, I’m not sure if you recall. I do not break my promises.”

“Oh! Yes, I do remember—that is, I have some recollection of it.” Cradling the receiver between my cheek and my neck, I grasped the edge of Daddy’s walnut desk, grateful for its ballast; without it, I was certain I would have floated up to the ceiling.

“Then it’s settled. I’ll call for you tomorrow at ten o’clock in the morning, if you don’t have other plans.”

Of course, I had no other plans. Even if Mother had asked me to entertain the king of England, I would have canceled! But then I thought of how Elisabeth would have replied, and so I was able to say, coolly, “I believe I can rearrange things.”

“Well, if it’s any bother…”

“Oh, no! No bother at all! No, truly, there’s nothing I’d like more, if you really are sure you have the time.”

“I said I did.” Did I detect annoyance now?

“Yes, of course.”

“So. Ten o’clock, then?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, goodbye,” Charles Lindbergh said in a faint, almost strangled tone, and he hung up the phone.

I did not. I remained holding the receiver to my ear, the transmitter to my mouth, for at least a minute; long enough for Dwight to knock softly and stick his bushy head—he was in dire need of a haircut; his hair stuck up all over his scalp—inside the doorway.

“Anne? Was that really Colonel Lindbergh?”

“I believe so.” In a daze, I replaced the receiver.

“What did he want?”

“He wanted me.”

“You? I thought he was supposed to be interested in Elisabeth.”

“I know—I thought—I told him she wasn’t here! Right off! Dwight, I think he really wanted to speak to me, but—oh, it’s only because he once made a promise to me. That’s it.”

“What kind of promise?”

“He promised to take me flying again. He’s coming tomorrow at ten.”

“Ten? Huh. You sure he meant you?”

“Yes, Dwight!” How many times did I have to say it before we both believed it? I couldn’t even count that