The Aviator's Wife

And so we began to work together, for the first time in years, even if we were seldom in the same space. He would be gone, I would read what he had left behind and make notes, filling in gaps; he would return, taking my notes with him when he left, and work while he traveled. He would deliver his next draft to me, and so forth, like a duet; we were writing in tandem, just as we had flown, so long ago.

I saw his heart on the page, and wondered if he knew he had left it there. The plane—the Spirit of St. Louis—was his true mistress. He spoke of it almost sadly, with the regret of a long-lost lover, and I had to correct that, for it was the one part of his narrative that did not feel immediate. But he had trusted this machine in a way he had never trusted anything, or anyone, ever again. Including, I knew, me.

I wondered why this memoir was written so much more clearly, straightforwardly, than anything else he had written, including his speeches before the war. And I had to conclude that it was because he was writing about a machine. But the others were about ideas, and people—and Charles had always had trouble understanding them.

The time we worked together on what would be called, simply, The Spirit of St. Louis; the notes that flew back and forth, the evenings, toward the end, when we huddled together in my cabin, leaving the children to take care of themselves—it was the best time in our marriage since our early flights. He allowed himself to be guided. I allowed myself to hope, once more, that we could share space on this earth, share goals, share happiness—and also tenderness, vulnerability.

He dedicated the book to me. “To A.M.L.—Who will never know how much of this book she has written.”

My heart soared, just like the stars on the cover, when I read these words. Rarely did Charles ever speak of me in print, and when he did, it was almost always in answer to an interviewer’s question as to why he married me. Charles usually replied that it was important to choose a spouse of good stock. Like a broodmare.

I was always furious, even though he insisted he meant it as a joke.

But this—this was truly the first time he allowed the world to see that I mattered to him. And that meant something to me; it meant more than it should have, more than it would have had he been a mere man. But he was Charles Lindbergh, still and always—and I felt like an old biplane that had been left to rust in a barn; once useful—once the newest of technologies!—but forgotten as of late. Neglected.

But now that biplane had been remembered, dusted off, shined and tuned up. Old-fashioned, yes—but still able to brush the clouds.

The book sold a million copies in the first year; Hollywood bought the rights, and later, a too-old Jimmy Stewart played Charles in the movie. (We took Reeve to a showing of it at Radio City Music Hall; halfway through, she turned to me with big eyes and whispered, “He makes it, doesn’t he?”) Life magazine visited our home, photographing the two of us, side by side on the sofa, reading the book; Mrs. Lindbergh, ever devoted, approves of her husband’s newest endeavor, the caption read. The success of the book opened the floodgates to a deluge of awards and accolades; America, it seemed, needed heroes more than it needed villains, and was willing to let bygones be bygones. President Eisenhower presented Charles with a medal for his war work. Once again, almost every town had a Charles Lindbergh Elementary School; many had changed their names during the war, only to revert back to them now.

I beamed for the photographers beside Charles when he was notified he had been awarded the Pulitzer Prize for biography/autobiography.

My beam diminished, however, when he neglected to thank me, thanking the Wright Brothers, instead.

It vanished completely when he was given a contract for another book, sight unseen.

JEALOUSY IS A TERRIBLE THING. It keeps you up at night, it demands tremendous energy in order to remain alive, and so you have to want to feed it, nurture it—and by so wanting, you have to acknowledge that you are a bitter, petty person. It changes you. It changes the way you view the world; minor irritations become major catastrophes; celebrations become trials.

I was proud of Charles. He had done this—it was his story to tell and he had told it, brilliantly. No matter how much I had worked on it, it was, at its essence, his.

And I hid in the shadows once more, only this time I paced, finding no comfort in my invisibility. Wondering what was wrong with me, wondering what was keeping me there; keeping me from writing my story. Wondering if I’d ever have a story worth telling that was my own, and not merely reflected or borrowed from him; a story that had nothing to do with our flights or his politics.

You’re the writer in the family, Charles always said, and he’d even built me a cabin to prove it, when there was no real evidence of my ability other than long ago dreams, my classical education. And I had always clung to that, grateful that there was something that he felt I could do better than him. I could no longer cling to that fiction. He was the writer in the family, now.

So bitter was the constant taste of failure in my mouth, so narrow my vision, I fled. To a place that had always restored me to my best self.

I fled to Florida, to Captiva Island; a healing, nourishing wilderness that Charles and I had discovered before the war, when our friend Jim Newton urged us to come explore this untouched island off the Gulf Coast of Florida. I’d gone there several times since, sometimes with Charles, sometimes with my sister Con.

Now I went there alone. I had to find my own courage, and stop borrowing his. I had to find my own voice, and stop echoing his. I had to find my own story. And tell it. And if I failed doing so, I still would be stronger for the attempt than if I continued to sit beside Charles on the dais.

I packed my bags, bought paper and pencils, kissed the children, and let Charles drive me to the train station.

He sent me on my way with a handshake; the only sign of parting he could allow himself in public. But he told me, earnestly, that I was doing the right thing. He said it in the exact same way he had once told me that I could learn to fly a plane, master Morse code, figure out the stars.

And some of my jealousy melted away right then, because I knew he meant it. He had always been certain I could do more than I thought I could do. He had always pushed me to try, even if sometimes he confused bullying with encouragement.

I thanked him, then boarded the train with a jaunty wave. I was off to Florida, to a ramshackle beach cottage. I did not know when I would return. I only knew that somehow, for both our sakes, for the sake of our children, as well—

I needed to return with my own story to tell.

CHAPTER 17

ONE DAY, WHEN SHE WAS ABOUT TEN, Ansy came into the kitchen with an envelope in her hand.

It was one of those days when every appliance in the house decided to go on strike—the sink was backed up (again); the washing machine wasn’t draining right; the toaster was mysteriously burning one side of the toast and leaving the other limp and white. Even one of the clocks was acting up, the chime suddenly tinny and flat.

So I was bustling about, calling repairmen, mopping up suds and water, and stopping in front of the clock every fifteen minutes, as if I could fix it with the power of my gaze. I was wearing a housedress, an apron, bobby socks, and saddle shoes. I hadn’t had time to go to the hairdresser in weeks. I had taken to simply shampooing my hair and gathering it in a net, so that I resembled a truck stop waitress.

“Mother, is this you?” Ansy asked, thrusting the envelope out to me. On the outside was written Anne Lindbergh.

“Of course it is,” I answered, irritated. “You’re a big girl. You can read.”

“So this is yours, too?” She pulled out a small yellowing card and began to read. “This certifies that Anne Lindbergh has successfully completed all tasks necessary to pilot an aircraft for personal use.”

“Where did you find that?” I put down the bucket I was carrying, heavy with sopping wet towels. I reached