But I did love it, our home on four hundred acres atop a rocky mountain outside of Hopewell, New Jersey. The reason we’d chosen this location was precisely because it was so challenging to find. Charles and I still sometimes got lost ourselves, driving out—even though the newspapers had “helpfully” printed a map of the location, complete with the names of the few marked roads. Still, we no longer feared people simply “dropping by,” as they did at Next Day Hill; our driveway alone was a mile long. Charles hoped we could give our children a taste of the carefree rural childhood he had known, unencumbered by security details and guards.
I paused for a moment in the entryway of our first real home together. It was a big house, although somehow cozy; a center hall with two perpendicular wings, one for the drawing room and study, the other for the kitchen and dining room. The staircase led up to five bedrooms and a nursery—I blushed when Charles insisted, saying that we would need them for our “dynasty.” The nursery was in the room adjacent to ours, although Charles had not liked this. I’d held my ground, and insisted.
Most of the house was papered and painted by now, although a few bedrooms remained unfinished. Not all the rooms had a full complement of rugs for the stone floors, some of the furniture was still delayed, and we’d hired only two people so far who lived here full-time—Elsie and Ollie Whateley, a middle-aged English couple.
Charles was due back from the city at any moment; while he wanted a chauffeur so that he wouldn’t waste even a minute of the day, for the time being, he was driving himself in his old roadster. We had a new Ford on order, although it hadn’t yet been delivered.
“Elsie?” I stepped into the kitchen; it was snug and bright, everything painted white, with the exception of the sunny yellow tiles for the backsplash. Tonight, with the March wind howling outside, it positively glowed with warmth and security.
“Yes, Mrs. Lindbergh?”
“I think we’ll eat in the dining room tonight, so can you please light a fire?”
“Yes, ma’am. When will Mr. Charles be back?”
“Any minute, I’d think.”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Lindbergh.” Ollie popped his head into the kitchen. “Colonel Lindbergh called. He’ll be late tonight.”
“Well, keep dinner for as long as you can. I’ll wait for him.”
I started back upstairs, pausing halfway up; I heard thumping against the side of the house. “Ollie?”
“Yes’m?”
“Do you hear that?” Something banged against the house again.
“Oh. Must be a shutter that’s not fastened. Or maybe that flagpole bangin’. I’ll look at it first thing in the morning.”
“Thank you.” I continued upstairs to the nursery, papered with blue sailboats, a pattern that Charles had picked out. “What will we do if the next one’s a girl?” I’d teased him.
“It won’t be,” he’d growled, with a proud, masculine swagger, and I’d laughed.
Betty was on the floor, a needle in her mouth, a piece of flannel in her lap.
“The poor lamb spit up on his sleep shirt,” she explained, removing the needle. “I was afraid he’d ruin this new one with all that oil on his chest, so I made him an undershirt. I used an old flannel petticoat of mine.”
“Very clever.” I went over to the baby, who was standing in his crib clad only in his diaper.
“Mama!” Charlie crowed, reaching up to me. Then he coughed, a barking little cough that turned his face red.
“Poor little lamb!” I rummaged around in a cupboard until I found a jar of Vicks VapoRub; I was surprised that we had it, actually. I was forever leaving things behind while we juggled the two households. “Now Mama must rub some on his chest.”
“No—no!” He pushed my hand away with surprising strength, and I laughed, holding his sturdy little body down on the changing table and rubbing the greasy, camphor-smelling stuff all over his chest. Betty handed me the new shirt, and I pulled it over his head.
“There. All better.”
“Bettah,” he agreed, immediately compliant.
“Now we go night-night,” I cooed, as I bundled him into his new Dr. Denton sleep suit, gray wool.
“Nigh-nigh,” he agreed again, with a crooked, dimpled smile.
I carried him over to his crib, placed against the interior wall so that he had a lovely view out the windows. His room faced east, out of the back of the house, so the sun was the first thing he saw every morning.
“Go right to sleep, baby boy, and Papa will come in and kiss you when he gets home,” I promised. Charles sometimes spent more time in the nursery than I did; he delighted in lining up all the baby’s wooden soldiers, and then watching as little Charlie knocked them all down with a rubber ball—a military version of bowling. And this man who was so restless that not even the skies seemed big enough for him spent countless hours teaching his son the names of all the animals in his menagerie. The sight of the two heads bent together in such serious contemplation never failed to cause my heart to swell, as if to capture and contain them both.
Part of this paternal interest, though, still took the form of toughening up his son; once, Charles placed the playpen outside and left the baby out there for an hour, all alone. Fighting back tears, I watched the entire time, knowing I couldn’t rescue little Charlie as he first played, then tired, then wailed once he realized no one was there. He stumbled around the playpen, clinging to the rails and shaking them in his rage and fear, until finally he collapsed in a corner and fell asleep sucking his thumb for comfort. Only then would Charles let me rush outside and pick him up, tears still wet on his hot cheeks, his sweaty curls plastered to his head.
“It’s good for him,” my husband insisted, as he followed us upstairs to the nursery. “The sooner he learns to rely on himself, the better. You coddle him too much.”
I couldn’t speak. He honestly believed what he said. After all, he had been treated much the same way, he assured me—and look what he had accomplished!
How could I answer that? I couldn’t. I was sentimental, I was weak—I was a mother. And I no longer wondered why Charles’s own mother preferred to live her life away from her son; Evangeline lived in Detroit, and visited us only once a year. When little Charlie was born, she sent him a set of encyclopedias. She, obviously, had not coddled her son—and so she had his admiration, as well as the admiration of an entire country. What she didn’t have, as far as I could tell, was anybody’s love.
Would my son love me, when he was old enough to know what love meant? I smiled down at him as I covered him up with his quilt; I couldn’t resist touching that dimple in his chin.
I bent down to kiss his forehead, then carefully pulled my finger out of his moist grasp, and let Betty ease the metal thumb guards over his thumbs; Charles insisted we try to cure him from sucking them in this way. They looked like medieval torture devices to me, but they didn’t seem to bother the baby; they clamped to his sleeves, and the metal caps fit neatly over his thumbs. Betty turned off the overhead light, switching on a soft night-light, of which Charles did not approve. But he wasn’t home yet; wordlessly, the two of us agreed that it wouldn’t do the baby any harm if it was left on until then. There was a chill in the air, so I went to pull the shutters over the windows. But the ones at the corner window were warped. Maybe that’s what I’d heard, banging against the house.
Betty came to help, but even the two of us, leaning out the window and tugging with all our might, couldn’t shut them, so we left them open and closed the windows. Outside, I could see the low moving clouds, occasionally giving up a glimpse of the moon. We shut the door softly behind us, then paused in the hall. As always, when faced with a Betty who was not busy caring for my child, I didn’t quite know what to say to her.
“Well, I’ll wait downstairs for the colonel,” I said. “If the nursery gets stuffy, open one of the windows halfway.”
Betty nodded and retreated to her own room adjacent to the baby’s, while I went downstairs to the study, where Elsie had lit a fire. I sat down at my desk and pulled out my notes. I was trying to shape a narrative out of our trip to the Orient, at Charles’s urging.
“You’re the writer in the family,” he reminded me after we returned, and magazines began to clamor for articles about the trip. “I’m busy, and besides, you need to start writing something more substantial than your endless letters to your family. This is something you should do, Anne.”
So, as always when he urged me to do something, I was doing it. Or, rather, attempting to. Hazy with
