The Aviator's Wife

most of the boys I knew, he had revealed almost nothing about himself. I’d learned nothing about his family, for instance. Or his childhood—it was as if his life had only begun after Paris. And maybe, with the incessant press coverage and public mania, the newsreels, the parades and honors—it had. The part of his life he was willing—or forced—to share, anyway.

“No need to fear,” I assured him. “I’ve enjoyed it. All of it. This whole day—even with the broken wheel.”

“Not many women would say that.” He grinned approvingly, and I sat up straight, feeling much taller than my five feet. “Tell me something about yourself, Anne. What do you want to do?”

“That’s quite a large question.”

“No, it’s simple, really. What do you want to do? The one thing you can’t stop thinking about? For me, it was Paris. On all those long flights delivering the mail, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, puzzling it over until I had the answer, and when it came to me, I did it. So what do you want to do?”

See the Pyramids. Make my brother healthy and happy. Marry a hero—so many thoughts to choose from, so many ideas coming to mind, that I had to gather them to me, quickly, before I blurted them all out.

Charles Lindbergh continued to wait patiently, but he expected an answer; I could see it in the upward thrust of his dimpled chin, the level gaze of his eyes. Reliving our day together—trapped in the sky in that hot cylinder with such a man, such a courageous, noble man; feeling, for the first time, a woman tested and not found wanting, a schoolgirl no longer—I was aware of something blossoming within me. So I said the thing I had never allowed myself to say out loud to anyone; not even to myself.

“I would—I would like to write a great book. Just one. I would be satisfied with that. To paint pictures with words, to help people see what I see, through my language—oh, to be able to do that!”

Charles studied me in silence, his face impassive. And the man who had flown across an ocean on the power of his own belief and no one else’s told me, “Then you will.”

Was it as simple as that? I leaned back in my seat and stared at the road ahead; we were nearing the city now, streetlights were lit, buildings closer and closer together. As simple as stating a goal, then doing it? All my life I had grappled with doubts and fears; I wasn’t as pretty and smart as Elisabeth, I wasn’t a boy like Dwight, I wasn’t witty and fun like Con. I had brilliant, driven parents. Always had I felt eclipsed and, I had to admit, there was a part of me that took comfort in that feeling. For it absolved me of ever having to decide, of ever having to do anything but think, think, think, every minute of every day. What I needed was to stop thinking, start planning, or better yet, simply act. Just as I had done, so magnificently, today after the plane flipped over.

Here, I understood, was someone who would not allow me to take comfort in inertia. Already, I was different with him. Better. More.

At last, we pulled up the circular drive of home. I felt a rush of warmth and belonging—I could have wept at the sight of the familiar green shutters, the fairy-tale facade with trimming rather like a gingerbread house, the wide porch with its brick columns, all the green and pink chintz-covered wicker furniture clustered about in cozy arrangements. Soon we all would be leaving this house for the new one, almost finished in a different part of Englewood. Still, I felt that here, in this snug house, my family was present, waiting for me even though I knew that Dwight was the only one inside. And perhaps this was the reaction I had been waiting for; this sudden, overwhelming sense of home.

I turned to Charles, wanting to share this feeling, wanting to wrap my happy home around him as well, for I remembered that he didn’t have much of a family; suddenly I couldn’t bear the thought of him driving off alone to face the world. “Would you like to—” I began, but then stopped. He was staring at me so intently that I shivered, involuntarily. He was searching me, searching for something important within me; all I could do was stare back and hope, desperately, that he would find what he was looking for.

“There’s something else,” he said, and he didn’t sound as sure of himself as he usually did. “Something unexpected.”

“Oh?” I thought back to my behavior earlier; had I embarrassed him somehow?

“You may not be aware—no, of course, you’re not. I’ve been rather on a project lately. A mission, of sorts. To find—to find someone to share my life with.” He paused, as if waiting for me to say something. I couldn’t; I could only continue to stare at him. So he cleared his throat and went on.

“It’s lonely—it’s been lonely these past months. It occurred to me that it would be better to have someone to share this—all—with. From the moment that we met in Mexico, I confess I’ve wondered—I’ve thought about you. And then today. You handled that very well. Like an aviator.”

“Thank you,” I replied solemnly, understanding that this was perhaps the highest praise he could offer.

“Also, there’s one other thing,” he said with an odd, pained smile. “I can’t quite get it out of my mind. While we were up there today, for the first time I was afraid. Not for myself—I’ve never been afraid for myself. I’ve always known I would be all right. The strange thing is, I was afraid for you. Afraid of you being injured in some way. I must tell you, I’ve never felt such a thing before. At first, I wasn’t sure I liked it, to tell the truth.” He laughed—or, rather, tried to; it was more of a gulp. “But now, I believe I did—not that you were in danger, but—it seems I have a strong desire to protect you, and that must mean something. It must.”

“What must it mean?”

“It must mean that I should ask if you would consider marrying me,” he replied softly.

“You must be joking!” I couldn’t help it, I did laugh, and then instantly was horrified, for I knew, by a quick flutter of his eyelids that allowed me an unexpected glimpse into his heart, that he was not.

I looked back up at the house, the house of my childhood. The house that had always sheltered me; too much? I wondered. I knew nothing of the world, other than what my parents had wanted me to know. I didn’t even know everything about my own family. I only knew that I had to work hard, study hard, prepare myself—for what? That, they had not bothered to teach me.

But nothing could have prepared me for this moment. Nothing could have prepared me for marriage to a man like Charles Lindbergh; a man so unlike any other man I had ever known, those bankers, lawyers, academics. Here was a man who was good, brave, driven; these were the qualities I knew about him. That there were many more qualities, as yet hidden, occurred to me as well. But they could not be as important as what I did know.

That he was a quiet man, a disciplined man. A man who did not take responsibility lightly. A man who needed a partner, so that he would never have to fly solo across an ocean again.

The most famous man in the world, who saw me standing in the shadows and somehow knew that I was braver than I supposed. Already, I had flown an airplane because he believed that I could. What else might I do?

“I would like to think about it,” I said gravely, understanding he would not approve of me answering impulsively. Suddenly, all those months apart made sense. He had been planning, preparing for this moment as rigorously as he had for his flight to Paris. I would never take an unnecessary risk, he had told me. I knew that meant with his heart, as well.

Charles nodded, his face inscrutable. He then got out of the car, walked around and opened my door, and escorted me, his good arm through mine, up the stairs and to my parents’ front door.

And it was this—this touchingly gallant gesture, this nod to courtship—that ensured the successful outcome of his latest mission, although I did not tell him. Not then; not for a long time after.

He kissed me good night, as chastely as possible; his lips brushed mine but did not linger, although I felt, as his lean body surged briefly toward mine, that he would have liked them to. But it was enough for me. I knew with a certainty this was the beginning of everything. Everything I had been waiting for my entire life.

Charles refused my invitation to come inside, citing his injury. I told him, in the gently nagging manner of one who had a right to, that he should see a doctor. He grinned—in the gently mocking manner of one being nagged— and promised that he would.

I watched as he walked down the porch steps and got into his car. I waited until he had driven away before turning to go inside the house of my childhood, feeling as if I were entering it for the very first time. And in a way I was; for the first time I crossed that threshold as an adult.

It was only later—much later, after letters and telegrams and a hurried visit to my parents, and then a carefully worded press release followed by an explosion of astonishment and joy from every newspaper in the land,