The Aviator's Wife

to.”

Charles winced, but I didn’t care.

“Don’t you see?” I asked hoarsely. “It’s already happened. Now we need to get him back. They’ll have to give him back to us, once we pay. Won’t they?”

“Of course they will.” Charles picked up the note and studied it again. “It’s simply a matter of communication and trust. Spitale—one of the New York men—is certain he knows who is responsible. I’ll respond through him—I’ll give him this letter as proof, and my reply. I don’t know why the colonel wants to make it into something else—like an army invasion! Does he really think he can post men all over Brooklyn and no one will notice?”

“You’re going to give this—character—this letter? The actual letter? But—that identifying mark, should you let anyone else see it?”

“Anne, as I said, it’s a matter of trust. I may not like these men, but there is a certain honor among thieves.”

“What does Colonel Schwarzkopf think about this? Are you going to tell him you’re releasing the letter?”

Charles’s face flushed. “I’m in charge, Anne. I’ve told you.”

“And I’m your wife, and Charlie’s mother. I’m telling you to run this by Colonel Schwarzkopf.”

Charles didn’t reply. His fury was different than mine; it was coiled, so tightly wound you might miss it until it sprang out, cutting deeply. I didn’t often see it. But I sensed it now, and while once it might have terrified me, today I had no fear to spare for my husband. Only for my son.

When finally Charles spoke, his words were measured, precise. “Anne, I believe I’ll include the baby’s diet with our response. Would you write it out now?”

“Yes, of course.”

I got to my feet, then I paused behind his chair. Leaning over, I kissed Charles on the cheek. He didn’t respond. As I pulled away, hurt, he put his hand on my cheek for a moment, drawing me close before releasing me.

Then he returned to his study of the note, as if he might see something in those crudely written letters that the rest of us could not.

I started up the stairs; Colonel Schwarzkopf was seated on the landing, his head in his hands. He looked up. And suddenly I knew what I must do.

“Colonel! You can’t stop him!” The colonel rose in alarm. “Listen to me. You can’t stop Charles in this. He must do this his way—he always has, and it’s always been the right way before. That’s what he can’t understand now—that he’s wrong, that this is too big for him. But please, I beg of you. Do whatever you have to do.”

“Behind his back?”

“If possible, yes, but Colonel, I am serious. I’ll answer to Charles. I’m not afraid, like the rest of you.”

“Are you saying—”

“Colonel, listen carefully. I’m saying my husband has no idea how to proceed, but he will never admit that. So I’m admitting it for him. I’m saying that I authorize you to do whatever you have to do. Interview the servants. Post men at mailboxes. He wants to release the latest letter to those New York men, and I believe that’s a terrible mistake. Just—do whatever you have to do to bring my boy back home.”

The colonel stared at me. Then he cocked his huge head—like a bulldog’s, square and jowly—toward Betty’s closed door at the end of the hall. Her light was on; it spilled out from beneath the door. When had I last seen her? I couldn’t remember. “Can I question Miss Gow again? Colonel Lindbergh said—”

“Ask her anything,” I instructed Colonel Schwarzkopf. “Give her the polygraph. Betty loves the baby, but maybe someone near her doesn’t. Ask her about Red. Then talk to Elsie and Ollie. Ask them anything. Anything you need to. All of the servants. Here and at Next Day Hill. Start with Violet Sharpe—she’s the one I spoke with on the phone that day. She knew we would be staying here.”

He studied me skeptically, perhaps looking for the hysterical mother. Then, to my surprise, he cupped his big hands around mine and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Lindbergh. I know this wasn’t easy for you.”

I let my breath out in a surprised laugh. Oh, men! How little they knew, after all. “No, Colonel, you’re wrong. This is my child we’re talking about. It was very easy.”

ONE WEEK PASSED. Eight days. Ten. Fourteen.

Two weeks since that terrible night. Two weeks with only one additional communication, increasing the ransom amount again.

The house had taken on a rhythm now, a busy, purposeful hum, although it was not even close to being back to normal; I couldn’t remember what normal felt like. The switchboard was still in the garage, ringing with tips and cranks and people hoping to hear my voice, or Charles’s. Our lawn was churned to mud. Colonel Schwarzkopf still showed up every morning, his men still camped out in droves, and I never knew at what hour I might be asked to leave my bedroom for yet another conference between detectives or policemen. Politicians drove up our drive simply to have their photographs taken on a broken ladder they’d found lying outside my child’s empty nursery.

Only the baby’s room remained untouched, after that first frenzied night of searching. A fine layer of dust had settled on every surface, undisturbed save for whenever I went inside. I did so once a day, at the time he would normally be put to bed. It was habit, it was routine—and I would not relinquish it. If I did, I was terrified that I’d never get a chance to resume it.

Surprisingly, I did not mind the chaos. The constant activity meant hope—all these people were working to bring my Charlie home because they believed there was a chance.

As the days dragged on, my surroundings grew more bizarre; cloistered in my new home, I was aware that, at the end of my driveway, people sold photographs of my missing son as souvenirs. Planes flew low overhead, full of eager onlookers. Sightseeing tours launched from a nearby airfield.

But nothing could have prepared me for the headline I saw one frigid afternoon, when a few late-season snowflakes fell halfheartedly outside my window. “Spurned Sister Suspected in Lindbergh Baby’s Disappearance. Why Hasn’t Miss Morrow Been to Comfort Mrs. Lindbergh?” And next to it was a jarring photograph of Elisabeth taken years ago; uncharacteristically, she was not smiling. Instead, the ink so smudged and dark, she looked almost malignant.

Oh, Elisabeth! How had she been dragged into my nightmare? All of a sudden the months fell away; I forgot the awkwardness between us, forgot how sick and frail she had been lately. I remembered, instead, the sister who had always been there to laugh with me, coax me, pull me into the bright sunlight constantly surrounding her, even when I insisted I was happier in the shadows. She was the one who urged me to try to stand up to Mother when I wanted to go to Vassar instead of Smith. She was the one who insisted, when I was ten and wanted to put lemon juice on my hair so that it would look more like hers, that brown hair was prettier than blond.

She was the one who was supposed to marry the hero, not me. I needed to tell her that I understood why she hadn’t, now.

I started toward the telephone in the front hall, but when confronted with its black, solid efficiency, I wavered; I couldn’t pick up the receiver. Fortunately, my mother chose that moment to bustle around a corner with a pile of blankets in her arms.

“Mother, I was thinking. Could you—do you think Elisabeth could come down? Is she strong enough for all this, do you think?”

“You saw the newspaper.” It wasn’t a question, and I realized I still was gripping it in my hand.

“Yes. But that’s not the reason, truly. I miss her, and I want her here with me. I need her.”

Mother put the blankets on a bench and sank down next to them. She rubbed her eyes until they were red, and the lines around them carved themselves even deeper into her skin. I realized suddenly how selfish I had been. So many people’s lives, not just mine—all tainted forever. Like the ripples on a pond when you toss a pebble in; the aftershocks kept moving farther and farther away from the center.

“Anne, I know something happened between you two. I’ve never asked what it is.”

I couldn’t reply. What on earth could I tell her?

“So I think you should call her yourself. Don’t you?”

“Oh, Mother, I—” But even as I protested, Mother had dialed the number and handed me the telephone receiver. “Next Day Hill,” a wary voice answered. Violet Sharpe’s.

“This is Anne—”