And soon more people were running toward us; from where, I had no idea. They all wanted to touch him, shake him, ask if he was all right. A few men headed toward the plane, but Charles, in a startling, harsh voice, yelled for them not to. A few souls realized that I was there, too, and asked me my name. “Miss Morrow,” I replied, over and over, in a daze. I didn’t have a scratch on me, however—my clothing wasn’t even torn—and soon enough they turned back to Charles, who was trying to organize some men to help flip the plane back over, once the engine had cooled.
“How will we get home?” I shouted over the din, tugging on the sleeve of his good arm. It would soon be dusk, and I suddenly remembered my brother. Dwight would be worried if I wasn’t home for dinner.
“I’ll call Harry,” Charles shouted back. “He’ll come pick us up. I hope that farmhouse has a telephone.”
I finally pushed my way through the crowd and sat down on a tree stump, so conveniently placed it was as if someone had cut the tree down just for me. No one followed, and so I felt strangely detached from the entire scene. The plane, still upside down like a turtle on its back, didn’t even look familiar anymore. The only thing I did recognize, and couldn’t take my eyes off, was the slim, sandy-haired figure that moved to and fro, directing, controlling. And on the occasions when he stopped and looked my way, an anxious expression on his face as if he was afraid of misplacing me, my heart soared, as it had the moment I first took flight.
After a time I began to get sleepy just sitting there, watching. I believe I actually did doze off, until I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me awake.
“Miss Morrow? Miss Morrow?”
I opened my eyes, yawned, and looked up to see a homely man about ten years older than Charles. He had the slicked-back hair of a banker but the earnest grin of a fellow aviator.
“Come along with me,” he said, and I followed him obediently, because Charles had suddenly appeared and was doing the same. The man ushered us into a shiny black car, introducing himself to me as “Harry Guggenheim.”
“Of the mining Guggenheims?” I stifled a yawn.
“Yes, I believe I know your father.”
“Oh.” Then we drove away, all the farmers and their families waving goodbye as merrily as if we had just dropped in for tea. Charles had fashioned a sling out of a scarf, and didn’t appear to be in any pain; in the front passenger seat, he happily filled Harry in on our adventure, while I sat in the back. I caught a glimpse of my face in the window; I was grinning again. Harry Guggenheim saw me looking at my own reflection, and he smiled, as well.
“Very nice to meet you, Miss Morrow,” he said, when we pulled up to his estate, where Charles’s cream- colored Ford roadster awaited; had it been only this morning when he picked me up in it? “I hope we can meet again, under less exciting circumstances.”
“I hope so, too.” Charles opened the door for me, and I stepped out.
“Sorry about the plane, Harry,” Charles said, although he didn’t sound very sorry at all. “I’ll make it right.”
“Don’t worry, old man. I’m just happy you’re safe.” And the two shook hands with real affection.
Charles and I got into his car in silence, and we drove in silence through the gathering darkness. He turned the headlights on, and drove—somehow he was able to work the gearshift and steer the wheel, both, with only one hand—even more leisurely than he had earlier; suddenly neither of us was in a hurry to reach our destination.
And we talked. For the first time, truly, we had a conversation; it was as if the adrenaline was still rushing through both of us, turning two shy people into chattering magpies.
Charles shared with me some of his hopes for aviation’s future; his feelings of obligation to ensure that future, to convince the average American that flying was no more dangerous than riding in an automobile, maybe even less so.
He also discussed some of the flights he was planning; he wanted to map out the shortest routes between not only cities but continents. “Can you imagine flying to Australia in less than a week’s time?” he asked, and I could only shake my head in wonder.
“But I do like ocean travel,” I confessed. “It’s very restful.”
“Oh, I do, as well. The best sleep I got after landing in Paris was on the boat coming home. They wouldn’t let me fly back, although I wanted to. That was the first time I realized my life was no longer my own.”
“I can’t imagine how that felt.”
“It was quite surprising, of course. I hadn’t counted on that aspect; I was concerned with the flight only, for so long. And initially, all I felt was the kindness of many people—my backers, the mechanics who built the plane. But almost as soon as I landed, I began to feel it—the awful realization that I’m never going to be left alone. People always want more from me, and I don’t know what I can give them. I already flew across the ocean.”
“How did you know you could do it—fly to Paris? When so many others had failed?”
He nodded, so earnest. “I did the calculations. I would never take an unnecessary risk. See, no one else had ever thought of flying alone—it was a two-pilot job, everyone knew that, because of how long it would take. Well, I realized that if I flew alone, I could carry much more fuel and have a better chance, even if I went off course. And I’m the best flyer I know.”
His confidence was so sure, yet so understated, that all I could do was marvel at it. Unlike men who needed approval, he didn’t speak loudly or use hyperbole. He simply
“Would you have done it, if you knew what lay ahead—all the attention, the press?”
“Yes. It was that important a thing to do. Still, I wish they would leave me alone.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Oh, the press, the people, old school chums, total strangers. All those people who put my name on everything from jackets to songs to dances.”
I colored, grateful for the dusk that shielded me. I had earnestly learned the Lindy Hop at a dance, the fall of my senior year at Smith.
“Even movie men,” Charles continued eagerly, and it seemed to me he was almost grateful to have someone to say these things to. “William Randolph Hearst offered me what would have amounted to a million dollars to appear in a movie, which I turned down. He couldn’t believe it when I said no—he said everyone has a price. But I don’t. And yet he keeps asking—they all keep asking, for so many things.”
“You can’t live your life for them.”
“No, I can only live my life for myself. Yet the ironic thing is I do feel as if I have a responsibility. So many people look up to me, of course.”
Startled, I tore my gaze away from the road. Even in the darkness, I tried to study Charles through eyes that were no longer quite as starry. Now his confidence bordered on arrogance; with his humorless mouth, steely eyes, and steady hand on the steering wheel, for the first time I sensed the darker side of accomplishing so much, so young.
“Well, naturally they do now, but you know—‘power corrupts, but absolute power corrupts absolutely,’ as they say.”
“What? What is that?”
“You know, the famous quote by Lord Acton—haven’t you heard—never mind.” I faltered, because I saw his features harden. I imagined that since Paris, not many people had dared to contradict or school him.
I couldn’t quite forget, however, those long months when he hadn’t thought to drop me even a note, so I blurted out, “It’s just that I think it might be a dangerous thing to believe, that’s all—that everyone looks up to you, even if they do. It’s probably not a good idea to believe it too much. It could change a person, you know. Harden him.”
“You think that, do you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you think I’m hard?”
“No. Not yet, anyway.” I refused to worry that I had offended him. He had asked my opinion, and I had given it to him.
Neither of us spoke for a few moments. Then he grunted and nodded once, as if granting me a rare privilege. We drove on in silence.
“I fear I have done all the talking,” he finally burst out, and I secretly rejoiced that he had felt the need to break the silence first; I had proven to be his equal, in stubbornness, anyway. Then I almost laughed; compared to
