The Aviator's Wife

even a column in the Herald Tribune devoted to speculation about the sex, name, and astrological significance of the date of the Lindbergh baby’s anticipated birth.

“You look it.” Connie patted my arm. “Plump and pretty. You’d been looking awfully thin after the wedding.” She looked over at my sister for confirmation; Elisabeth nodded vigorously, appeared to want to say something, then shut her mouth.

Connie’s eyebrows shot up, and she turned back to me. “Too thin,” she insisted. “He pushes you too far.”

“He?” I asked, knowing perfectly well whom she meant. Connie, unlike Elisabeth, did not conceal her dislike of my husband, who likewise did not conceal his dislike of her. “She’s too inquisitive,” he once grumbled after an unpleasant dinner during which Connie quizzed him relentlessly about his religious and political beliefs. “Too concerned with other people’s business.”

“Charles, that’s who,” Connie told me. “The sainted colonel himself. Dragging you here and there without asking what you want, forcing you into that kind of life. That latest flight—breaking the speed record, and you pregnant and miserable. He didn’t even consider your health.”

“I wanted to go along,” I insisted, although, in truth, I had been violently sick the entire trip. Just a couple of weeks ago, we’d picked up our newest plane, a Lockheed Sirius, in California, and then flown at a high altitude— twenty thousand feet—across the country in fourteen hours and forty-five minutes, three hours under the previous record. I’d had a pounding headache from the altitude and gas fumes, and was so nauseated I couldn’t climb out of my cockpit at first. It was only after Charles hissed that I had to because of all the cameras that I was able to climb, shaky but still grinning that unreal, jaunty grin, out to wave at them all.

But I’d wanted to do it, and was proud of my accomplishments. “I like flying, you know,” I insisted with a small laugh, trying to lighten the mood, for I had the oddest feeling that Elisabeth and Connie had been waiting patiently, like two cats, for the right time to pounce on me about this subject. “I enjoy it. I’m good at it, too,” I couldn’t help adding, defensively. “Very good. Even Charles says I’m one of the best pilots he’s known.”

“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—”