The policeman clung to one side of the ladder, held firmly by his compatriots on the ground.
But the sack tumbled to the ground with a sickening thud, hitting the stone facade of the house on its way down as the men whooped with accomplishment—“It’s broken like that every time, just like the ladder we found! That sack weighs what the kid weighed, right?”
I crumpled to the floor, hitting my chest with my fists, shaking from the force of the unleashed scream that echoed furiously within.
Spring had persisted in arriving, cruelly unaware of our desolation. On the walks I took about the house, accompanied by Elisabeth, I looked for meaning in everything. So did she.
“Look, Anne, look at the new leaves! The tulips are coming up,” she said one afternoon, when the sun was healing and the wind was coaxing.
“But they’re coming up wrong. All bent over.”
“Only because all the policemen stepped on them,” she chided. “They’ll be all right next year.”
“Next year.” I shook my head, unable to comprehend it. “Where will we all be next year?”
“Charlie will be almost three, and the new baby will be crawling around!” Elisabeth laughed. “Can you imagine what a mess these flowers will be then?”
I forced a smile, trying to picture it. But the new baby looked like Charlie in my mind. And Charlie at three—to my horror, I couldn’t see his face; the toddler in my imagination had his back to me, running away. Never coming back.
“Oh!” I couldn’t help it; I stopped in my tracks, terrified to go any farther.
“What? Anne, are you ill?”
“No, it’s just—silly. But for a minute I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see
Unlike my husband, unlike my mother, both of whom were relentless in their refusal to allow me dark thoughts—my sister allowed me this question.
“I don’t know, Anne. I don’t know. Somehow, you’ll go on, though. You’ll have to. But you won’t be alone. You’ll have Charles, and Mother, and Con and Dwight. You’ll have me.”
“I know.” And I grasped her hand; her frail hand, the skin so thin I could feel her pulse. I prayed for her, right then; I needed God to spare her, because if she left me, there would be no one to talk to. How foolish we’d both been, before!
“I have a secret to tell you,” she confided, as we began to stroll once more. “I’ve fallen in love. With Aubrey. Aubrey Morgan, you know him. We’re going to live in Wales, at his estate. After our—marriage.” She said it shyly, as if it were a wish that would vanish when spoken.
“Elisabeth, are you sure? I mean, what about Connie? And it’s not easy, you know. Marriage. Even if you’re —uniquely suited—to it, like—”
“Like you?”
“I believe you did call me out on that once, if you recall. Although I think you used the word ‘sweet.’ ” I raised an eyebrow, and she grinned. “You know, I always thought when we were young that you would be the one to marry, but now—I suppose I’ve grown to think of you as above it, somehow. Are you really sure?”
“Yes, Anne. Yes, this is what I want. That struggle, with Connie—I’m not strong enough for it, and so I released it. It’s simpler this way. And Aubrey is a kind man. He wants to make life easy for me. Not harder, like with Connie. But easier.”
I glanced up at Elisabeth’s face; she looked radiant. Like a bride already.
“Then I’m so happy,” I assured her. “Does Mother know?”
“No. We—we’ve thought it best to wait until—until Charlie is back.”
“Do you love Aubrey?” It was ridiculous to ask if he loved her; of course he did. Everyone loved Elisabeth.
“Yes. Oh, Anne—yes! He’s always fussing over me, saying I have to listen to my doctors. But what do they know? They want me to live like an invalid, but I won’t do it. I’ve waited too long for this—this contentment.”
I squeezed her hand, and didn’t lecture that I, too, wanted her to listen to the doctors. Or that contentment can be a prelude to tragedy. She allowed me my despair; I had to allow her happiness. So we continued to walk, arms linked; lost in our own, very different, thoughts.
Perhaps because of Elisabeth and her perfect understanding, I had begun to write in my diary again. Finally, something unspooled within me and I had to release it on the page and I didn’t care what my husband said about it. When I married Charles, he had asked me to give my diary up, for fear someone would steal it and sell it to the newspapers. And I’d agreed.
How laughable now, to remember a time when my thoughts were considered something to be guarded as closely as my child!
Now, sitting prisoner in this unfinished building, I looked forward to taking up my pen once more. I could rage, cry, pray with it, as I could not allow myself to do in real life. Sometimes I was terrified by the emotions I released, for Charles did not escape my rage. Those pages I burned, a good little acolyte. The rest I kept hidden, not ever wanting to read them again but not wanting to destroy them, either. They represented something to me; some small triumph, some battle won.
“Have you seen Colonel Schwarzkopf today?” I asked Mother the evening of May 12. I was in my room, writing in my diary; she brought me some tea.
“He got a phone call about half an hour ago and went out.”
“Maybe it was Charles?” I looked up.
My mother smiled her sad smile and shook her head. “I don’t think so, dear.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t really disappointed. I was too full of disappointments to register any more. Every note that appeared in the paper from Condon, begging for further instruction from the kidnappers now that the ransom had been paid. Every week that went by without a reply. Every crackpot who said he had some new information. Every wild-goose chase that Charles followed, with that same determined, grim set to his jaw, the heartbreakingly resolute way he put his hat on as he left—a sharp bend to his elbow, a resigned pat on the top of his head, almost for good luck, I thought.
He had been gone for several days now, piloting his plane off Cape May, searching for a boat that yet another man—this one named Curtis—with a craving for publicity had tipped him to. Why it was always a boat, I had no idea. But maybe, just maybe, this time—
“Has Charles called at all today?” I asked, but this time I did not look at my poor mother’s face. She was kindness and patience and suffering and despair; she—along with Elisabeth—was everything to me these days. Everything my husband could not allow himself to be; not until he brought little Charlie back home.
“No, dearest,” my mother said with a sigh. Then she bent to kiss my cheek, and left me alone.
Taking the teacup, I picked up a book; a book I had been reading before:
Stretching out on the bed, I tried to read. But after only a few minutes my eyes fluttered. Sleep was a refuge. Hours could pass and I wouldn’t have to know, wouldn’t have to feel. So I let the book fall off my lap, and I buried my head in the pillow, shutting out the world with eyes squeezed tight. But before I could fully surrender myself to unconsciousness, there was a knock on my door.
“Charles?” I sat up clumsily, guiltily; he did not like me to nap so often. “Charles? Is it you?”
The door opened, but Charles wasn’t there.
Mother was in the doorway, and behind her stood Colonel Schwarzkopf. I didn’t even glance at Mother’s face—I looked right past her, my gaze drawn to the colonel. And I knew, before I could even catch my breath and prepare myself; before he said a word. With shaking hands, I grabbed a pillow and pressed it to my chest, as if it could shield me from what he had to say.
“Mrs. Lindbergh,” he began, in a voice thick with unaccustomed emotion. “Mrs. Lindbergh, I am so sorry to have to tell you this.”
“Anne, Anne,” Mother whispered, and she began to cry. I began to tremble, violently.
“A body was found this morning,” the colonel continued. “By a driver. A truck driver,” he corrected himself, as if this detail was important. “Five miles away. The decompo—the body of an infant. Deceased. Approximately
