The Aviator's Wife

lose you to the nursery forever.”

“I know, I know, and I don’t want to let you down! But we’ve never been away from Charlie for more than two weeks before—and now you’re talking about six months!”

“Anne, this is our life—flying. It’s what we do. It’s why I married you, because I knew you were meant to be my copilot. I thought it was what you wanted, too. I thought you liked flying with me.”

“Oh, I do! Of course I do—I love it!” As I met his genuinely confused gaze, I remembered the trip to Mexico, when we photographed the ruins; the intimacy, the purity of our love, too fine for words. How could I ever give that up?

“I suppose I could fly with someone else.” Charles said it thoughtfully, as if puzzling out a complicated problem. “Of course, any number of pilots would leap at the chance to accompany me. Wiley Post wired me this morning, in fact.”

“No!” It was as if he’d suggested taking a lover; that’s how betrayed I felt. “No, no, of course, you can’t fly with anyone else except me! But Charlie—he needs me, too!”

My husband grabbed my hand and said the one thing that made sense only when he said it. “I need you,” he murmured. “Anne, I need you. You’re my crew. You’ll always be my crew.” Then he let go of me and settled back in his seat, waiting.

That was it, was all; Charles Lindbergh wouldn’t beg, he wouldn’t plead. He had said all he would on the matter, and it was up to me. Bending my head down to caress my baby’s hair, as golden and silky as corn tassel, with my cheek, I felt my heart begin to form a fault line, and I knew that it would forever be split in this way. Charlie needed me—of course he did. He was my child. He didn’t even know how much.

Charles needed me—and, oh, it was a miracle that he did! Once more I felt that giddy disbelief that he had chosen me, of all the people on earth. He’d given me the world and all the sky above it; he was also capable of taking it all away from me with a single gesture. Who on earth would I be without him?

I knew, with a weary resignation, that whenever he asked, wherever he went, I would follow. Charles was the wind that blew me hither and yon, that lifted me off this earth, kept me aloft, pulled me along like a helpless kite, but also gave me wings with which I could touch the sun.

What chance did a baby have against him?

“Of course,” I said, still resting my cheek against my son’s downy head. “Of course, you’re right. We should go as far as possible, and it will be tremendous. You simply took me by surprise, that’s all.”

To my astonishment, Charles kissed me on the cheek. He never did that in front of anyone—not even my parents. “Good girl,” he said softly, and I looked into his approving eyes, and felt everyone else—even the child in my arms—fade away.

Everyone, except for him. I smiled and reached out to touch the cleft in his chin that so enchanted me; the happiest moment of my life had been when I realized our baby had one just like it.

“Excuse me? Mr. Charles?” The head gardener, Johnson, came running around the corner of the house. All the help deferred to Charles now, instead of Daddy; it had happened slowly, but inevitably, and Daddy didn’t even seem aware of it.

“Yes, Johnson?”

“It’s—it’s—” The older man stopped to mop the sweat from his brow with a large, dirt-streaked handkerchief.

“What is it?” Charles’s voice sharpened.

“There’s an intruder, sir. Some poor woman demanding to see little Charlie. Said she has something she has to tell him on his birthday.”

“Oh, not again.” I tightened my grip around the baby even as Betty Gow ran up, as if to do the same. I smiled, touched by the concern in her eyes. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” I assured us both.

Betty nodded, unable to prevent herself from holding on to the baby’s chubby leg.

“I’ll deal with it,” Charles said grimly. He patted his breast pocket—I knew there was a pistol in a holder. There was always a pistol in a holder.

The shadows had fully encroached on us now; I shivered, and not entirely from the chill in the air. Without the bright, transporting sun to trick us, it was all too evident that this was no idyllic fairy tale after all.

For we were under siege, pure and simple—and we had been since our son’s birth. Since before, even; I’d given birth here at Next Day Hill, my bedroom fitted as an operating theater, because we couldn’t risk a hospital; there were too many reports of staff being bribed to allow reporters and photographers into the delivery room.

And now people showed up at our door—they simply showed up, as if we had invited them! As if we would welcome them into our home and say, “Thank you so much for coming!” I hadn’t answered the door myself in so long, I wasn’t sure I remembered how. We paid private detectives to do so now, and there were police camped out at the end of the drive. Even so, people sometimes got past by climbing over neighbors’ fences, or hanging from trees. There were the usual reporters and photographers with no assignment other than to capture a shot of Charles Junior. But there were others; people who, as the Depression wore on and on, had nothing else to do. And no one else to turn to.

One man said that he had to touch the baby in order to be cured of cancer. One woman swore that her own child had been stolen from her at birth, and that she was sure we had done it, and that the baby was hers. Countless clairvoyants insisted on looking at Charlie’s palm, touching his head, or reading his chart. Most were simply confused people looking to my child for help in some way, although there were others who were less confused.

For mixed in with the thousands of cards and letters congratulating us on Charlie’s birth were requests for money; letters that told of deprivation, desperation, punctuated with tears. And requests were sometimes followed by threats; threats to kidnap my child and hold him for ransom. Although Charles tried to shield me from this knowledge, I was aware that more than one person with a weapon had been apprehended at the end of the drive. As the mood of the country grew darker, the resentment I had first glimpsed in Elisabeth’s waiting room had turned on the First Couple of the Air. We were blessed, we were successful; what had been celebrated two years ago was now a source of anger and resentment. The qualities that had brought Charles such acclaim—his stoicism, his dogged pursuit of perfectionism, his ability to float above the ordinary details of mere mortals’ lives—were ridiculed and debated now. “What more do they want of me?” Charles had grumbled recently, showing me a headline that asked the sour question, “What Has Lindbergh Done for Us Lately?”

It appeared now they wanted his happiness. Or, barring that—his child.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, but take the baby inside, just in case.” Charles spoke to me soothingly—exactly as he had when we were in the plane, so long ago, and we lost the wheel on takeoff.

I must have looked more worried than I intended to show, for his features softened. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and he smiled gently, warmly, down at the two of us—his son and his wife. “It will be all right, Anne. Don’t worry. You know I will protect you and the baby, always. I’ll reason with whoever is here—if we can only keep reasoning with them, surely they’ll leave us alone eventually. But you see, now, that this flight couldn’t be timed any better? You see how important it is? It will divert attention from the baby, and back to us. We can withstand it. He can’t.”

“Yes, but—oh, Charles! This is why I’m so afraid to leave him! What if something happens while we’re gone? While I’m—you’re—not here to protect him?” I nodded at the gun in his pocket.

“We’ll hire additional detectives, and the police will step things up. I’ve already planned it all. We can’t live our lives in fear, Anne. You do know that?” He searched my face anxiously, testing me, as always. And for a moment I faltered; my child in my arms, I knew only that he would be safe as long as he remained there.

Then I nodded, even as I couldn’t quite stifle a sob, and so I had to lean into Charles’s chest to muffle it. I felt his strong arms reach awkwardly around and hug me to him until I dried my eyes and pushed myself away. With a bright, understanding smile—that same carefree grin that I always flashed to the photographers—I shifted the baby in my arms.

My son waved at Charles and said “Bye” so happily that I thought my heart would shatter right then. I followed Mother, Daddy, and Con through the French doors into Daddy’s study. Charles strode off, his hand still inside his vest, around the side of the house; Johnson followed a few paces behind. I had to smile at the sight of the gardener wielding a small spade, as if that could help.

Some of the servants crowded into the study with us; Violet Sharpe, one of the housemaids, cried out, “Oh,