The Wright Sister
Page 10
November 20, 1927—My One-Year Anniversary
Dear Orv,
For one’s one-year anniversary a gift of paper is expected, so you would have been the perfect gentleman if you could have written me a letter, rather than silence for over a year. But Carrie says you are thinking of making a surprise visit. I would like nothing more. I would race down the stairs to greet you! No, I would meet you at the railroad station, anywhere. Just say the word, or don’t say a word—just appear like a rabbit in a magician’s act.
Looking forward,
Katharine Wright Haskell
P.S. Harry gave me the most beautiful bamboo rake as a gift. Sometimes he understands me perfectly. He knows I don’t want jewelry. He knows how I love to rake leaves (but not being told to rake leaves by other people!).
P.P.S. I am missing so many people. Sometimes I don’t think we thanked Amos Root enough. Harry thinks it’s crazy that Gleanings in Bee Culture got the scoop on our first flight in 1905. But you boys trusted him. In a way you were not unlike that man, with your shared love of bees, bikes, and aeroplanes. Sometimes when I cannot sleep, I sneak out of bed and read from the few clippings I took with me. We had several copies of that article, and I thought I could steal one away, about you “Ohio boys” and your first successful trip of an airship, without a balloon to sustain it . . .
We did it, Orv, yes, we did.
November 30, 1927
LIFE ON EARTH
Here I am sitting comfortably, albeit in an empty bathtub, and I can’t stop thinking about the international news. One of the reporters from the Star was in Japan and reported on the Tango earthquake, with 2,956 people killed and 7,806 injured. I have little to complain about.
December 1, 1927
Orville Wright, please do not tell a soul, but the former governor of the state, Governor Hadley, died, though he was not an old man, only fifty-five, and I do not care a hoot. Who cares, you say? I second the motion. Everyone is talking about it as if he were President Lincoln. Harry is, of course, “covering the story.”
Love,
Your insensitive sister
P.S. When he died, Governor Hadley was chancellor of Washington University in St. Louis, though he visited Kansas City, his hometown, quite often. I met him and Mrs. Hadley at a social function. She seems to be a good woman, comfortable with all the social life that goes along with being married to such a man!
December 2, 1927
BEWARE SEWING IMPLEMENTS
I am sitting shivering in my flannel nightgown and robe in the empty tub. Harry didn’t come back until after midnight last night. He tried not to disturb me, but I was fully awake as he tiptoed in, took off his glasses, and laid them on the nightstand by the bed.
Covering stories might drive me to drink even more than I am. This obsession with Governor Hadley’s death is beyond me. That was why Harry was gone from 8:00 a.m. until after midnight. What did Governor Hadley invent? And all the papers clamoring around, waiting to see what will happen to the state. MISSOURI POLITICS BORES THE WRIGHT BROTHERS’ SISTER!—and the newspapers can quote me.
I did something in my anger after breakfast with those scissors, yes. Keep me from scissors, apparently, for that is my weapon. At breakfast Harry said, “Katharine dear, do you think we should invest in a new toaster?” And I wanted to scream at him, how he could stay out so late without a care in the world. And did he really think talking about the possibility of a new toasting machine would appease me? I don’t care a whit about toasting machines at this point, although I usually do enjoy a good piece of toast covered with thick butter and fresh berries. As soon as he left for work, I picked up a cigar that lay resting, not yet smoked, on his desk in the study. I slid the paper band off the cigar and on to my wedding finger, next to my ring. Then I grabbed the scissors and cut up the cigar. It’s true. Then I took the remains into the kitchen and mashed it into the jug of old potato peels and onion skins under the sink. I better find something to do here in KC!
December 15, 1927
WRIGHT SISTER LUSTS FOR AUTOMOBILE
Forgive me for I have sinned. I lust after the Model A that Ford has just created. Harry says I have lost my marbles. It includes a safety-glass windshield, four-wheel brakes, and hydraulic shock absorbers. And it comes in four different colors. I think I would like one for each season. Perhaps I am more like the ladies of the Flower Arranging Society than I have imagined. Just four hundred thousand vehicles sold in the first two weeks after its debut!
Sunday, January 1, 1928
Dear Orv, Orv dear,
Happy 1928, brother. May you have clear skies. (Although I sometimes think you deserve a good hailstorm!)
I have not written for some time. I must tell you why. I am trying not to write until I see you, but you are making that extremely difficult. Is that a fair assessment of the situation? And don’t you dare say, “Sister, your wings are not aligned.”
I have also not written because Rochelle gave birth to her baby, a beautiful little boy, with dark eyes and skin. She has been with many men, Jews and Negroes, and she said she does not keep count. When she talks to me about her men, it is as if she’s in a trance. I cannot help that I feel so protective of her. I’ve been taking care of the baby several hours a day. I simply informed Mrs. Crossbottom that I would be doing this, and remarkably, she has not said a word to me about it, and it turns out that she is a master at settling him down. She taught me how to rub his ears to get him to sleep and a wonderful technique of rocking him while rubbing his back, with your hand just so. Rochelle named the baby Psalm, isn’t that lovely? I am in love. It all comes quite naturally to me. I love to give him a bottle, but we have not gone outside because it is so cold. I’m not sure where Rochelle goes. I know she loves the child, although when she comes back, she smells of alcohol. The other day I rocked Psalm in my arms and whispered, “Here you are, little boy. You are my lost child. And someday you shall meet your uncle Orv!”
I am enjoying that Mrs. Crossbottom is not cross about something. And there are moments when the two of us are in the kitchen taking turns rocking Psalm and I wish Mother could be here too.
Sonya has not had contact with her daughter in years but has begun coming over to see her grandson, but she seems ill at ease around Psalm. Sonya is not happy in her marriage at all. It is true that Rochelle leaves the baby with me often enough for Sonya to be jealous, but Sonya does not say that. She does not use the old-fashioned term “ill repute.” Rather she says the girl has “fallen in with some rough characters.” As I sit cooing with Psalm, Sonya tells me of all the times Rochelle has written for money. I have not told Sonya that I gave her daughter money. I am quite confused.
I long so for a child of my own, and Psalm fills an empty well for me. Do you think I am batty?
And it causes my mind to go all over the map yet again.
Perhaps I am more like you boys than I should be. I do still prefer the smudges of carbon paper on my brow to the makeup the ladies are wearing now. I have been called a bluestocking, and one paper said, “Katharine Wright [although they spelled my name Katherine, with an e] could run for president if she chose, but thankfully she will not choose.”
As excited am I by the vote, I am confused by all the new fashions. Harry has teased me and said I should get a flapper dress. One day when I was not caring for Psalm, Sonya came with me to the shop—“20s,” it’s called. I tried on a dress with shimmery spangles, but by the time I had managed to zip myself up I was exhausted, and I refused to go out of the dressing room. The salesgirl, who was wearing sheer stockings and a flapper dress herself, kept saying to me, “Please, ma’am, come out. You’ll be the toast of the town!” As if I were not fully a woman if I did not have a jazzy dress, but as quickly as I could, which was not quickly in the least, I managed to pull off that flapper dress and put on my sensible clothes.
Sonya purchased the gaudy number she had tried on and made small talk with the salesgirl, who carefully wrapped it up in gold paper.
I confess I wanted to run screaming out of the store.
And when finally, mercifully, we left the store, I felt hollow, as if I had entered into a kingdom where I did not belong. But where do I belong, where do we belong, Orv? If I had not left Dayton, if I had not left you, then what?
Forgive me, for I almost forgot to wish you a healthy and robust New Year.
Bewildered,
K.
January 2, 1928
MARRIED WOMAN ON THE LOOSE
Harry and I had a terrible fight. He said I would have to choose between Orv and him. It was one more time when I couldn’t help myself and was tidying up his precious newspapers. What human being needs to keep newspapers for over six months? (At least Orv has his organized.) Is the concept of old news too much to ask? I was joking with him, because there’s someone who’s opened up a restaurant and cooks barbecue outdoors in newspaper like it’s the latest craze. I told Harry if he isn’t careful, I was going to scoop up all his newspapers and barbecue them, with no meat at all. I was kidding but not kidding. In any event, Harry grabbed my wrist as I reached for a newspaper and screamed, “You must stop, do you hear me? I can’t take it anymore!”
And then he jumped up and ran out of the house. I imagine he went “downtown,” as he calls it, although who knows. Perhaps he has a woman who doesn’t mind a mess of newspapers, or perhaps enjoys them. Perhaps they make love in a messy pile of papers! At this point I don’t care.
I had to get away from this ghost house. While Harry was downtown, I rang Sonya Rose to help me escape. I packed a bagful of my warmest clothes and bundled up for the cold. It wasn’t two hours before she was tooting the horn of her Model T and I was in my heavy overcoat and winter boots and we were running away.
I am in Ohio now.
January 15, 1928
Dear Orv, Orv dear,
I am not being entirely honest with you about all that has to do with Sonya Rose. I went on a driving trip with her. In my first vision of the trip I thought I needed to get away from the cold and we left Rochelle and dear Psalm, and Harry . . . We had wanted to drive all the way to Florida. But then I completely changed my mind and packed my warmest clothes and dressed in my winter boots and heavy coat and two scarves. I did have to get away. I realized I was getting too close to that baby and I was becoming confused.
So we did not go to Florida at all, despite the mean weather. In fact, we drove home, to Dayton. All I wanted to do was end up on the Hawthorn Street of our youth, but that would be going back too far in time. I wanted to end up at the big house, where you are now, and walk in the door and say, “Orville Wright, what is going on in that cockeyed mind of yours?”
We did get back to Dayton, can you believe it? We took turns driving on those endless snowy roads. And we were lucky we were not killed. I felt like Shackleton with his frozen toes, exploring the Antarctic. Did you see us out the window? We were driving Sonya Rose’s new black 1927 Model T. Actually, at the time we drove past the house, she was driving, and I was ready to leap out the automobile door while we were moving! There was a man I did not recognize shoveling the path. The wind was fierce and biting, and the snow was spinning around. I had such a longing to walk up the steps and into the house, such a longing I cannot tell you. But when Sonya Rose stopped the car, I suddenly screamed, “No! Keep driving! Keep driving!” and I shut my eyes and sang “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” until we made it out of the neighborhood.
That night we stayed in a rooming house in Dayton on the far side of town. Nobody recognized me, because I wore my hair down in a braid inside and I kept my hood up as much as possible as we traveled.
In some ways those days “on the road” are a blur, but in other ways, they are as vivid as the time I went up with you.
I shall not tell you all we did in those days and nights away from both you and Harry. I will tell you that we went to a sauna, yes; it was off the beaten path, in Indiana of all places. There was a sort of community, a spiritual community. I know. Please don’t laugh. Sonya had been there before. They had their own filling station. They took us in, because we were so cold, and fed us a casserole—of what I am not sure, which perhaps normally I would have not thought about, but it tasted like ambrosia. They do not believe in killing animals, but I swear there was chicken in it, but what do I know? And there was even a woman who knew more about automobiles than I did.
The sauna was a cedar building, and it was full of naked women baking themselves. I never saw so many kinds of breasts. I will admit Sonya is introducing me to all sorts of interesting people I never had met before. I stayed up all night more than once, and I drank quite a bit. The only times before I stayed up until daybreak were with you, when we sat on the dock at the lake, looking at the stars and watching the sunrise and listening to your beloved loons. Sonya’s friends are writers and dancers and singers and performers (including a contortionist)—not a scientist or inventor or journalist in the bunch! You can see why I did not sleep.
Now that we’re back in Kansas City, my mind is twisted up and I say to myself, “You have to get your fin wet.”
I keep thinking about those women. You men swim naked in the public pools, but we have to wear our heavy wool swimming costumes. In my dreams my hair is always wet. In truth, yesterday, when it was hovering near zero, I did go swimming at the indoor public pool, and when I returned home my hair was frozen in icicles. When Mrs. Crossbottom saw me, she said, “You’ll catch your death,” but did not seem overly concerned.
Next time I go to the lake, which I plan to next summer, I intend to skinny-dip. I want to feel the water change from warm to cold on my flesh. You do not have to partake, but that is what I intend to do.
When we drove up to the house in Dayton, Orv, even though the front yard was heavy with snow, all I could think of was swimming with you.
On a more serious note, someone Harry works with wants to interview me. Harry says he is pretty convinced that I helped more than I have ever admitted with the plans for the Flyer. He said he wanted to talk to me about who precisely came up with the movable rudder. I have never told anyone, Orv. I have never told a soul.
K.
January 16, 1928
HOME SWEET HOME
I think I shall knit Orv a striped sweater. They’re quite the fashion now in France, although I have never seen him wear anything with stripes. WRIGHT BROTHER WEARS STRIPES! I could even knit him a zigzag sweater to match his socks!
I wish I could have gotten a glimpse of Orv. Next time I shall knock on the door until he opens it, even if I have to sleep in the front yard. Or at least until Carrie lets me in. There was smoke coming out of the chimney, so I know Orv had built a fire with those wonderful pinyon branches that young man always sends Orv from New Mexico. I know how blowy it can get in there.
I have some yarn I bought with Sonya on our driving tour. We stopped at the farm where I always got wool for Orv’s socks, and the farmer’s wife came out to greet us. At first she did not recognize me, but when I took off my goggles and hood, she said, “The Wright brothers’ sister is here! The Wright brothers’ sister is here!” and I had to laugh, because she made us feel so welcome. She ushered Sonya and me in and helped us pull off our wet clothes, and we sat by their fire as she served us a hearty chicken and barley soup. Real chicken! She even insisted that we stay the night, and we did, up a ladder in the loft. I thought I might not be able to get back down, but I did.
I was happy to be back in Harry’s arms after running away, but I don’t feel I belong in Kansas City, in Isabel’s house, and I can feel he is still angry at me for leaving. Mrs. Crossbottom sniffed at me, when he wasn’t in the kitchen: “Aren’t you a bit old for such high jinks?”
I almost had the courage to tell Harry that I cannot continue living here, but I know how much this house means to him. I want to be with him, but I want to move. At Oberlin I felt I did belong, always, not that there wasn’t the drama of love and love lost with the boys, but we did not focus on such thin
gs as fashion. We went to prayers, we went to classes, we went for long walk-and-talks about philosophy and spirituality. I don’t recall anyone talking about dresses or patent leather dancing shoes. I did have one friend, Charlotte Anne, who had grown up on a farm and was brilliant at Latin and literature. She brought her sewing machine with her and would sit at it with her bobbins and all while reciting Shakespeare. We sat behind her as if she were backward onstage, and if she wasn’t quoting the Bard, we all would chat and sing, while she was sewing clothes for her pig back home. Yes, I said pig.
January 17, 1928
FORBIDDEN FRUITS
Harry recently surprised me when he brought home a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. He took it out of a brown paper sack. “Ta-da,” he said, “the forbidden fruit.” The book is banned in England, because of all the scandalous language, but the Kansas City Star is a modern newspaper and all kinds of things are sent to the paper. Books arrive from around the world. Harry winked and said, “We Americans are not prudes.”
I know Orv doesn’t read such books. There is not a mention of wingspan or draft or speed or torque. There are no accounts of bird migration or wind velocity, but forgive me, I cannot put it down. And even though I’m reading it at home, I have taken off the dust jacket for fear that Mrs. Crossbottom or the postman or even someone other than Harry will see me reading it. You would think I have a pistol under the covers, it feels so fraught and quivering with danger. I suppose I’ve picked up the word “quivering” from what I just read. I should cross that out, just “fraught with danger” will suffice, although it is even a thrill to pen the word “quivering.”