CHAPTER 19
I’D LEFT IT IN A STACK of mail on the table in the entryway. Later, I had to wonder if I’d done it on purpose, but then, that’s where I always left the mail. I’d glanced at the envelope, saw my name in the familiar handwriting,
My daughter was about to leave for Radcliffe and she needed a new wardrobe. Of my two daughters, she was the one who was the most feminine; she was tiny and blond, with eyes that looked mischievous because of the way they turned up at the ends. But she was not mischievous; she was the most solemn of my children, even more solemn than Jon.
She was also the one who hated being a Lindbergh the most; the one who sobbed when a reporter wrote a story about her classroom picnic when she was ten, simply because she was Charles Lindbergh’s daughter. The one who, when she was a teenager, cut off her long blond braids because a newspaper article mentioned them. And because her name happened to be Anne Lindbergh, she got double the dose of unwanted, reflected glory; every Mother’s Day, some magazine wanted to interview the two of us, the “two Annes.”
I wondered if that was why, when she got over her adolescent embarrassment, she made herself so determinedly fashionable, so delightedly girlish. Those were two traits I had never possessed, and these were ways she could establish her own identity, separate from mine.
That afternoon we’d burst into the house, bags hanging from our arms, and went our separate ways until dinner; she, to try on everything all over again; me, to collapse for half an hour. Shopping was exhausting; I was too much my own mother’s daughter. I preferred to order five of the same kind of dress or sweater or skirt in different colors, and be done with it. But Ansy had tried on every outfit she saw, even if she had no intention of buying it, just for fun.
I removed my hat, my gloves—my daughter had pronounced them so “terribly dowdy, Mother.” It was true that I hadn’t bought a new hat in years, although some of the ones I’d seen today—smaller, with darling wisps of veils, little in the way of flowers or feathers—had looked very tempting. Maybe I’d buy one next time I was in the city; next week he and I were going to the theater, then dinner after—
I remembered my letter; my reward. A sly, womanly smile nudged my lips—I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I was startled by how
“Now, where on earth?” I muttered, turning around to go back to my bedroom.
But suddenly Anne was standing before me, her face red—a piece of paper in her hand.
“What are you—oh.” It was the letter. I stared thoughtfully at her for a long moment. Then I said, “I don’t believe that was meant for you.”
“I—it said ‘Anne Lindbergh,’ and I thought it meant me, so—”
“So you opened it.” I continued to gaze at my daughter, whose face reflected an avalanche of emotions, one tumbling right after the other—guilt, horror, anger, disbelief.
While I was icy calm. Not one bit ashamed—and this did not altogether surprise me. Once, long ago—before I became the aviator’s wife—hadn’t I wanted to be an old lady with a mysterious smile, remembering the scandalous affairs of her youth? It was that girl, that passionate young girl, to whom the letter was addressed.
And it was that girl who stood erect, chin lifted, eyes gleaming with pride and triumph, when confronted with indisputable evidence of her passion. Evidence in the hands of her own daughter.
“Mother, are you—are you in
“Yes,” I said, then held my hand out. Ansy, her own hand trembling, placed the letter in my palm. “Now, have you tried your clothes on? Are you sure everything fits?”
“Yes,” she whispered. Then we retreated to our separate rooms. And, both excellent pupils of the best teacher in the world—
We never discussed the matter again.
AFTER THAT DINNER WITH CHARLES, I made my peace with the house in Darien. Once, I thought I had to leave him in order to be free; now, I realized, I only had to stay. So I started to invite friends out to spend the weekends. Male friends, mostly. I didn’t think it was a conscious decision, not at first, but soon, to my delight, I had acquired a coterie of admirers; men whom I had known, always, but never seen, dazzled as I was by the shining light of my hero husband.
Now, breaking free from his spell—the spell I had helped him cast—I looked beyond and saw these men, and summoned them. Enthroned upon my cushioned chair like the Queen of Sheba, no longer in the shadow of anyone —not my sister, not my husband—I thrilled to the sensation of being beguiled, instead of beguiling. I nodded thoughtfully, I smiled mysteriously. My laughter purred, my voice acquired a honeyed huskiness.
For the first time in my life, I purchased silk lingerie, luxuriating in the rich sensation against my skin as I reclined, a cocktail in my hand; giddily imagining the astonishment, the tortured gasps, if I allowed it to be discovered.
Corliss Lamont, who had carried a torch for me since we were children, came when I beckoned, eagerly reciting eccentric poetry while I did my best to keep a straight face. But I flushed when he gazed at me in his eager, puppy-dog-like way. So I asked him to recite more.
Alan Valentine, an academic, former president of the University of Rochester; he found his way to my terrace, where we would sip drinks and discuss politics and literature and, oh, just about anything we wanted; there were no subjects off-limits and my skin tingled when he grasped my hand to make a point, or brushed the hair out of my eyes if I argued too excitedly.
And Dana Atchley. He, too, came to my terrace—
Until Dana. My dearest Dana.
When did it start with Dana? Emotionally, with my operation, I suppose; the one to remove my gallbladder. Right before I went under the anesthesia, alone, vulnerable, sure that I was about to die, I reached for his hand because my husband wasn’t there. “Call me Anne,” I whispered, convinced that he was the last person who would ever say my name. “Please?”
“All right. Anne.” And he grabbed my hand, instinctively knowing I needed to feel someone warm and alive and reassuring. His eyes—behind his thick glasses—were the kindest I had ever seen, the most sympathetic. They did not judge; they did not challenge. They simply saw. And found beauty in everything; even a frightened housewife with unkempt hair and a sheet for a dress.
Up until that point, we had been “Mrs. Lindbergh” and “Dr. Atchley.” Afterward, we were “Anne” and “Dana.” After my regular appointments, we found ourselves lingering for hours in his office at Columbia-Presbyterian, talking about everything. Once, I even scolded him for spending time with me instead of his wife. “Don’t do this,” I cautioned him, after we’d exclaimed at the lateness of the hour. “Go home to her. Don’t make your work your life.”
“I’d hardly call this work, Anne.” He smiled. But then he removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s hell at home. You don’t know.”
Oh, we discussed—everything! Everything our hearts were weary of containing. My writing, his patients, the world, our children. It didn’t seem wrong to discuss our children with each other, at least not then. We were friends, we assured each other solemnly. Friends who corresponded almost on a daily basis, sending letters back
