The Aviator's Wife

And realizing this set me free. Why should I be concerned about any impression I might make on the colonel, when I knew I would make none? Soon I was seated on a sofa in front of the fireplace next to Elisabeth, Colonel Lindbergh on her other side; I knew I was invisible in this situation, and so I behaved as such. I let Elisabeth take up the ball of conversation, while I indulged in my favorite pastime—people watching.

Daddy was in the center of a group of men his age, some of whom I recognized from the board of directors at J. P. Morgan & Co., where he had previously been a partner. They were all talking animatedly—but Daddy was the most animated of all. The smallest one by at least a head—he was only five-foot-three inches tall—he more than made up in energy what he lacked in height and background. He was the only one of his crowd who came from poverty, a fact he never bothered to hide; he was fiercely proud of his humble background, and never let any of us children forget it. Education, education, education: those were his watchwords; so much so that once, a family friend asked me, puzzled, “What is it with you Morrows and education?”

But education had served my father well as he graduated with honors from Amherst, then Columbia Law School, where he met many of the sons of the bankers who would summon him to J. P. Morgan. And now, he was a diplomat; at the beginning of what many felt was a promising political career. Some even predicted he could reach the White House!

Mother was swimming about, soothing and greeting and smoothing over any turbulence caused by Daddy’s occasional outbursts. It was her usual role. She was as silky as he was rumpled; even tonight, his tuxedo looked two sizes too big. Daddy always claimed that he had married up, and nights like this gave merit to that claim. I was proud of my mother, despite our misunderstandings; she looked every inch the diplomat’s wife in her tasteful green gown, long gloves, and ability to be everywhere at once without seeming to break her slow, regal glide. She always appeared taller than Daddy, even though she was an inch shorter. Both of them were graying now; Daddy’s hair was thinning, while Mother’s wiry curls were captured in an old-fashioned Edwardian sweep. She claimed she had no time for the weekly visit to the hairdresser that the newer styles required.

Assured of my invisibility, I didn’t even mind the stares, not entirely furtive, that continued to be directed toward Colonel Lindbergh. He really was a magnet; a raw, yet strangely charismatic figure, direct and true. No polish, no practiced weariness; watching him, you couldn’t help but sense the impossibility of what he had accomplished—and yet also the inevitability of it. He exuded such a quiet self-confidence; every movement he made was so graceful, so deliberate. Even if his speech occasionally faltered while conversing with my sister, his eyes never did. They seemed fixed, always, on something important, something serious, just beyond the horizon.

“Would you like to, Miss Morrow?” The colonel was leaning forward, addressing me; surprised, I instinctively moved away from him. I couldn’t help but notice that he colored a little when I did.

“Would I—would I like to what?”

“Go up in an airplane. Your sister has requested that I take her up, and naturally I would like to extend that courtesy to you. If you’d like to.”

“Flying? Me?” I couldn’t help it; my mouth flopped open like a fish. But I had never even imagined such a thing!

“Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe,” the colonel said with a smile—the first genuine one I had seen from him. Suddenly he looked quite boyish; he ducked his head, and his hair fell out of its careful part so that it brushed his forehead. “Flying is perfectly safe. Up there on the currents, like the birds—it’s a holy thing. Nothing has ever made me feel so—so in control of my own destiny. So above all the petty strife and cares of the world. It’s down here where the danger is, you know—not up there.”

I had thought the colonel capable of many things, but not of poetry. And listening to him, I realized, with a thrill, that I did want to fly; to experience this holy thing, to soar above the earth as he had done. To be above all; to be above worry and fear and, yes, petty strife, but mainly, simply to be above myself —this awkward body, this mind full of doubt and heart full of longing.

“Oh, I would—” I began, but then realized a mob of people was standing in front of us, listening to our conversation as if we were actors in a play. Suddenly my tongue felt thick and clumsy in my mouth, and I simply shook my head, knowing that I was disappointing him, but unable to respond as I wished with so many people watching.

But this time, he didn’t color or withdraw; his blue eyes looked at me with a curious expression. Literally curious—as if I was a new species he had just discovered. Blushing, I turned away, and was grateful to see Mother hurrying up to us, a tight smile on her face—imperceptible worry in her eyes.

“What do I hear? Are you going to take my daughters up in your plane, Colonel?”

“If they would like to go. Naturally, I extend the invitation to you, Mrs. Morrow.”

“What an honor! Elisabeth, are you quite sure? Anne?”

“Of course!” Elisabeth laughed and tossed back her head. “I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather have take me up for my first flight!”

“I’m not—I’ll think about it,” I mumbled, wishing that all eyes weren’t still on me; knowing that were I to go up in his plane, even more eyes would be watching: newspapermen, photographers, newsreel cameras.

To my relief, the music started up again—songs from Show Boat, the most popular show of the year—and instantly the entire attitude of the room relaxed. Waiters were busy running to and fro with trays of cocktails—there was no Prohibition in Mexico!—and people were beginning to pair up and dance. Dwight pulled me off the sofa, squeaking, “Come, Anne—let’s do a Virginia reel! I’ll get them to play one, just like we used to.” And I, too, was out on the dance floor, linking arms with my brother and cousins as we flew about to a Mexican trumpet attempting to warble its way through “Arkansas Traveler.”

I loved dancing! I loved the freedom, the silliness of the Shimmy, the absolute joy of the Charleston; for some reason I could lose myself to the music and the rhythm in a way I couldn’t lose myself otherwise. The more crowded the dance floor, the more fun I had, and soon Dwight and I were bumping into bodies, tripping over feet, but we didn’t care. We used to perform this silly little dance at birthday parties when we were young; Elisabeth would pound the piano, playing some Stephen Foster song, and Mother and Daddy, seated side by side on the sofa, with Con on Mother’s lap, would laugh and applaud as if they’d never seen us before.

But it had been ages since the last time we’d danced like this; ages in which we had both grown up, gone to school, attempted to leave behind our childish ways. I flashed a grateful smile at my brother for giving me this gift of a self I had just recently begun to mourn. And for helping me imagine, if only for an instant, that we were all back home in New Jersey.

Only for an instant. I was in the middle of a turn, one arm linked in my brother’s, the other arm holding up my skirt, when I caught Colonel Lindbergh watching me. He wasn’t smiling; he was studying me, a faint frown creasing his forehead. Even from all that way across the room, I felt the weight of his obvious disapproval. Of course, I was being ridiculous! A girl my age, dancing a child’s dance, when he, not so much older, had crossed an entire ocean!

Suddenly my face was so hot I felt as if an aura, like the sun, was encircling my head; dropping my brother’s arm, I whispered, “Oh, Dwight, how silly we are! We’re not so little anymore; we’re not children.”

“So what, Anne? We’re just having fun!”

Just then my cousin Dickie threw a black lace doily on my head, like a mantilla, and stuck a rose in my hair; pulling me by the arm he dragged me in front of Colonel Lindbergh.

“Doesn’t Anne look like a senorita, Colonel?” He laughed. For a moment, I felt like a senorita in my red dress, flushed skin; I had a fragmentary glimpse of my hair in a mirror, dark and shining with that red rose against it, and I tilted my chin to meet my gay reflection, smiling.

But in that mirror I saw the colonel sitting there, watching me. He looked uncomfortable, as if his shirt collar was too tight; when our gazes met, he turned away, frowning.

“Oh, Dickie!” I pulled the flower out and threw it to the floor. “How silly!” And then I stumbled off, leaving them all to laugh at me. It was absurd, carrying on like that—what was I thinking? Embarrassed tears filled my eyes, and I pushed through the crowd, ignoring a matron who peered, fish-eyed, at me through a crystal wineglass and intoned, “Goodness, I’ve never seen a face so scarlet!”

Was it? I pressed my hand to my cheek as I fled; it was like touching an oven door. Finally finding myself in an empty hall, I ran as far away from the reception room as I could until I discovered a back staircase. Stumbling up the stairs to the second floor, I wildly bounced from hall to hall, room to room, like a billiard ball. I was so lost as to be truly frightened. All the doors looked exactly the same. How on earth would I find mine? Oh, I wished I was back home! And that I had never met Colonel Lindbergh, so smug, so arrogant—yes, that was it! His