The Aviator's Wife

skin. Her blond curls seemed to have lost their luster as well, although it was hard to tell; she had them so tightly encased in a plain brown snood.

“Well, not quite like we used to.” I smiled over at the bassinet in front of the window, where my newborn was cooing and sighing.

“No, it will never be like that,” Elisabeth admitted, nervously pulling on the tips of her gloves.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you—” I began, before Elisabeth held up a hand.

“No, don’t do that, Anne. I know you haven’t. I haven’t, either. We’ve been like weekend guests in this house, always so terribly polite to one another, but that’s all.”

“I know,” I admitted. “It can’t be easy for you, with all this fuss.” I gestured around the room at all the flowers, the enormous baskets of fruit and candy sent by congressmen, senators, the president of Smith. Even President Hoover sent a bouquet from the White House.

“Anne, that day—”

“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupted. My face was glowing with embarrassment; suddenly I saw her again, seated in Connie Chilton’s lap, so helplessly compliant.

“Yes, it does. It does matter, and we both know it. The thing is—I’m so ashamed, Anne. You don’t know how it is—I’m just so ashamed.”

I didn’t reply; I didn’t know how to.

“Connie and I—the way you saw us—it’s something I’ve fought for so long. I don’t want to be that way—truly, I don’t. I think we can be friends, working next to each other, but then something happens—something comes over me. She isn’t ashamed, though, and I think that’s what makes it worse. It seems I can’t please anyone! I can’t have a life—the life that you—and now the baby—oh, Anne! I want that, I do! I want a normal life, with a husband and a child, and I don’t know how to do it. I just don’t! Not with my illness, not with my weakness!” She bit her lip, tears falling down her cheeks before she could brush them away. Still, she wouldn’t look at me.

“Elisabeth, I don’t understand. Although I want to.” And it was true; I desperately desired to know what was within my sister’s obviously tormented heart. But it was so beyond my understanding, my imagination, even. And my imagination had never failed me before.

“I know you do, Anne. Just know that I love you—truly, I do! And that I’m happy for you. I’ll be all right— somehow, sometime. I’ll figure this all out. Oh, look at the time!” She consulted her watch and gave a little start. “I need to get down to the school, Connie will be expecting me. She sends her love, too. Anne… Anne, please try to understand—for me, it’s hard right now, seeing you this way. With the baby, a husband, so happy. I want that so much, and yet—it’s just hard. I seem to make a mess of things lately, so many things, and I don’t want to do that to you. Please understand if I spend some time away. Please understand if I keep to myself—and for goodness’ sake, try to make Mother understand. Will you?”

I nodded, suddenly, terribly, sad. Now that I was a mother, I wanted fully to be a sister again. And a daughter. I felt a powerful need to reestablish ties, to define roles, to understand the mysteries and frustrating intricacies of family. I’d hoped, somehow, naively, that the baby would bring Elisabeth back into my life—but now, I knew he would do the opposite. I watched as my sister stood over his bassinet, gazing down at my son while her entire body trembled—with longing, I thought. With absolute, heartbreaking longing.

“Elisabeth?”

“What?” She wouldn’t turn around, and all at once I realized how fully our roles were reversed; she looked defeated, small, bending over her nephew.

“You’ll be fine—” I sounded exactly like my father, with Dwight, and stopped. “I mean, please know you’re welcome here, always. This is your home, too—more than it is mine. And you know that we’ll be moving, anyway— it’s just, I want my son to have his family, just as we did when we were growing up. I want him to know what family means—I want him to know his aunt Elisabeth.”

Her face lit up at that, and then she smiled, rushed over to kiss me, and whispered goodbye.

That was the last time we’d had a real conversation. Almost a year ago, now. While dutifully present at most family gatherings, Elisabeth managed to remove herself from the rest of us, even Mother. And her health was not improving; the doctors warned her that her heart was permanently damaged from her rheumatic fever.

I felt my mother’s piercing gaze upon me, but I looked away, smiling at my son. My blissfully innocent infant son, who looked up, recognized me, and beamed. I felt myself being pulled toward him. It was as if there was an invisible thread between his lips and my heart.

“I think we’ll be able to leave in a month,” my husband said, snapping that thread. My chest tightened; why did he have to bring this up today, of all days—on his son’s birthday? On my birthday, too—for today was a twin celebration; there would be champagne and cake for me later that evening.

“Oh, Charles, let’s not talk about it today.” I had to look away from my baby’s bright, trusting gaze; I wasn’t worthy of it.

It had been four years since Charles’s historic flight to Paris. The Spirit of St. Louis, now hanging from a rafter in the Smithsonian, looked flimsy and old-fashioned compared to the huge, gleaming new planes and ships. Despite his fame, which seemed only to increase with each passing year, Charles worried that there were few routes left uncharted; few things left for him to conquer. After all, he wasn’t even thirty.

So he was planning a bold, dangerous expedition to chart an air route over the Arctic, and then to the Orient. Naturally, I would be his copilot. This was what I had been training for since we were married; I understood that now. Charles had been training me not only to fly and navigate, but also—to leave those I loved, to loosen the ties of my family, to divorce myself from anything and everyone, except him. Including, even, our son.

And I was an excellent student. I always had been; after all, I was a Morrow.

I learned Morse code, so that I could earn my third-class radio operator license. I mastered celestial navigation. I had learned to fly our massive new Sirius seaplane, by far the largest aircraft I had flown.

My heart was proving more difficult to conquer, however. Lately, whenever I had to say goodbye to my baby, I couldn’t do so without tears.

“Charles, how long do you think we’ll be gone?” Nervously, I began to play with a cloth napkin, embroidered with an M, for Morrow. Charles had yet to reveal the true extent of the trip to anyone, least of all me. The Lone Eagle—sometimes I wondered if he would always be that, even with a wife and a child. In so many ways, he still lived his life as that young airmail pilot, alone in his cockpit, planning his future without regard to others’ expectations.

“At least six months. I’ve been thinking that if we get to the Orient safely, we might as well try to circle the rest of the globe. It would be foolish not to continue.”

“What?” The baby, startled, began to cry again. “Six months? The entire globe? When did you decide all that?”

“Just recently. There’s no rational or technical reason why we can’t undertake something of this scale. Juan Trippe at Pan Am is salivating at the opportunity.”

“You discussed this with Trippe before me? Then let him do it! No rational reason? What about Charlie?” Reaching for my son, I kissed him on his cheek, tasting the salt of his tears. My arms were wrapped fiercely about his squirming body.

“What do you mean? The baby will be adequately cared for by Betty. Isn’t that the whole point of having a nurse?” Charles turned to Mother, genuinely puzzled.

“Well, of course, but—this is rather a long time to be away,” she replied, even as she looked at me, her eyes wide with sympathy.

“I think it’s a bully idea,” Con said, her eyes dancing. “What fun! Will you bring me back a kimono?”

“It’s a fine, fine thing.” Daddy’s voice was approving, although he looked wistfully my way, as if already missing me. “You’ll do our nation proud.”

“Anne.” Charles moved his chair closer to mine. “You’re overwrought. We’ve been planning this trip for months.”

“I know, but—it’s just that I didn’t realize we’d be gone quite so long. And, oh, Charles, the baby! He’s at an age where he’ll—he’ll know when I’m gone. He didn’t before, he was too small, and so it didn’t seem to matter whenever we flew away. But now—” Stifling a sob, I buried my face in my son’s soft curls.

“Anne.” My husband’s voice was low and coaxing, like a well-tuned engine. “Come, now—I don’t want you to become a slave to domesticity. We’re too fine for that—you’re too fine. I don’t want to