The Aviator's Wife

student just released from school—until I felt that wave of nausea, that panicked, crowded feeling. I would have sat down on a stoop had I not been aware that Henry was patiently following me in the Rolls, staring so intently at me he failed to notice the jeers and cries of the neighborhood boys who ran alongside the car, daring to touch its gleaming surface with their grimy hands.

So I walked on, keeping my eyes focused straight ahead, on the backs of people’s heads, and soon that closed-in, hot feeling passed and I was able to relax. What was I afraid of? I’d flown through countless storms, never once doubtful of the outcome.

Yet why did I always feel danger lurking around every corner, when my feet were firmly planted on the ground?

I did not meet anyone’s gaze, acutely aware that I was not wearing my disguise, and wouldn’t allow myself to smile. For whenever I was photographed, that was how I was recognized: by my cheerful, tomboyish grin that never failed to surprise me when I saw it. Never in my life had I felt as carefree as that smile implied.

Someone jostled my elbow, trying to pass; as he did, he stopped and stared right at me. It was a man, unshaven, wearing a torn black overcoat. I heard the sharp intake of breath, the heavy step toward me, and I steeled myself for the moment of recognition, the inevitable “Say, aren’t you—you look just like her—is it Mrs. Lindbergh?”

I hurried on, walking quickly but not allowing myself to break into a run, which would only call more attention. And nothing happened. Heart thudding, I slowed, and then I couldn’t stop myself from turning and looking back at that man. He was still staring at me, but he did not smile, did not ask for an autograph, did not bless me or wish me well. His face was a blank. Then he spat on the sidewalk, unmistakably in my direction; he scratched his nose, gave me one last bleak stare, and turned and went on his way.

He had recognized me, I was sure of it. Yet the fact that he hadn’t done anything about it, had simply watched me instead, felt more sinister than if he had shouted my name.

Then I shook my head, laughing at myself. Well, I didn’t want anyone to cause a fuss, did I? This was precisely why I needed a good stroll out in the open: to reacquaint myself with life back on the ground—real life, as most people called it.

I also needed, perhaps, to rid myself of some of the darker thoughts that seemed to intrude, much more than they used to, now that I was about to bring another life into the world.

Still, when I reached a narrow brick building with determinedly cheerful yellow chintz curtains hanging in the front window, tender young geraniums in neat pots on the scrubbed stoop, I hurried up the steps, eager to hide within its shelter. Opening the front door, I found myself in a room packed with tired-looking young women and small children. Every head turned toward me as I entered, and I couldn’t prevent myself from recoiling and shielding my face with my handbag; it was an instinctive gesture by now, not intended to be rude. Although I knew it appeared that way.

Head still averted, I approached a woman in a starched white nurse’s uniform seated at a desk. The nurse looked up, a helpful smile on her face, and immediately recognized me. With a small cry, she jumped up and grabbed my arm, ushering me past all the poor mothers and their children, most of whom were not adequately clothed even for this temperate day. As we hurried past, I felt their weary, resentful gazes taking me in—my fresh flowered dress, silk stockings, polished leather pumps, expensive handbag, immaculate white gloves. I even felt guilty about my scent—Chanel No. 5, a gift from the president of France.

“Mrs. Lindbergh,” the nurse whispered, but some of the women heard. I saw them sit up straighter, lean toward me with a frank, curious look. “Miss Morrow is with someone just now, but I know she wouldn’t want you to wait out here.” And she led me down a short hallway, knocked on a door, opened it, and pushed me inside.

So on edge did I feel that it took me a moment to process what she had said—and so I gave a little start at the sight of Elisabeth perched on the edge of her desk, talking earnestly to a young woman holding a small child on her lap. Both the child and the woman had red, watery eyes; all three looked up as the door closed behind me. Elisabeth smiled, a conspiratorial little smile, which I returned; we had both run away for the day.

My sister had suffered a mild heart attack two months ago. Nothing to be alarmed about, the doctor assured us; just a lingering effect from the rheumatic fever she’d suffered as a child. Elisabeth had always been a bit fragile, although, like Dwight’s illness, it was not something we Morrows ever discussed. But like me, she was supposed to be resting at Next Day Hill, not out gallivanting in the city.

Even in all the brand-new spaciousness of my parents’ home, however, I couldn’t help but feel hemmed in there, suffocated by Mother’s boundless energy; her endless committee meetings, her constant urging for me to sit in, take a role, play a part. Charles was so restless now that we were grounded due to my condition that he escaped to the city most days, attending meetings he usually avoided like the plague. And I knew Elisabeth felt the same way, which was why she and Connie Chilton planned this outing in the city. I hadn’t told her that I’d planned the same thing, though.

“Anne! What are you doing here? Mother will absolutely kill the two of us when she finds we’re gone!”

Connie Chilton rose from her seat behind the desk. “For the record, I had no part in this. Someone has to remain on your mother’s good side.”

“I arranged to interview for a baby nurse here in the city,” I confessed. “I just had to get out. And I couldn’t resist seeing what you were up to.”

Elisabeth glanced at her slim wristwatch, a frown faintly creasing her smooth, high forehead. She shook her head, her curls—held back by a severe-looking snood—remaining in place. “We’re not up to much, I’m afraid.” She rose and escorted the woman and her child out. “Thank you so much, and I understand,” she told them, and then shut the door with a sigh. She looked at Connie, who shook her head and crossed a name off a list.

“Perhaps we were a bit misguided,” Connie said. She didn’t appear daunted, however; she grinned so that her freckles danced across her apple cheeks and broad nose.

Connie Chilton was a primitive, earthy force; had it not been for her impeccable upbringing, she would have been viewed with some trepidation by my parents. But her doctor father was a Yale graduate, her mother a Smithie; they had a penthouse in New York and a house in Saratoga. Despite all this, I often thought Connie would have looked much more at home leading a covered wagon across the prairie than she did sitting in a box at the racetrack, sipping champagne.

“We should have known better,” Elisabeth admitted. “We can’t expect people from the Lower East Side to be able to bring their children to Englewood for school. Maybe someday we can open a school here. But for now, I suppose we’ll have to content ourselves with educating the middle-class children of northern New Jersey.” She smiled faintly; she was still so awfully thin, her complexion so waxy, that I worried about her.

I wasn’t the only one. Connie firmly bustled my sister into the desk chair, and then she turned around and did the same thing with me, practically pushing me down onto the small sofa. “There! Someone has to look after you two Morrow girls—oh, excuse me, Mrs. Lindbergh.”

For some reason, Elisabeth laughed at this, and although I was puzzled, I laughed as well. Despite our shared imprisonment at Next Day Hill, we actually saw each other very little, only at mealtimes. And there was still a strangeness between us; she was polite, always, to Charles, although never completely at ease with him. I so wanted him to know the old Elisabeth—the relaxed, witty creature he first had met. Not this overly courteous, stiff acquaintance she seemed to have become around him. With me she was always careful to show her affection by draping an arm about my shoulders, hugging me before I had a chance to reach out for her, but I felt, sometimes, that it was just that—show. With Charles always looming in the background, we had yet to revert to our old, teasing relationship.

Finally here, away from Englewood, surrounded by grinding poverty, filth, and purpose, I caught a glimpse of the sister I missed. Yet as soon as I sat down and studied my ankles, swollen even from my short walk, I felt that unyielding politeness return.

“Are you well, Anne?” she asked. Connie sat next to me on the worn leather sofa. I wondered how many young mothers, like the one I had just seen, had sat here in the same condition, but in very different circumstances.

“Yes,” and I felt guilty even saying it, surrounded by so many reminders of others not so fortunate. I was; I was monitored, cared for, saw a doctor every two weeks, had a beautiful nursery already prepared for my child—more blankets, diapers, bonnets, and gowns than he or she would ever use. When I felt ill, I was urged to rest. When I craved the oddest dishes—creamed herring on toast, just last night—they were prepared for me. My child wasn’t simply expected; it was awaited, like royalty. There was