by Patty Dann
I keep trying to read more of Dr. Sigmund Freud, trying to figure you out, but after reading the last article I actually tossed it into the fireplace! You would have been proud of me.
Dr. Freud—I can’t imagine he’s a real doctor—was talking about young girls wanting to be lying in bed with their fathers and boys having similar thoughts about their mothers, and I really thought it was vile. If you read him, which I doubt you would, you would say, “Sister, he is full of beans, that one, he’s just Dr. Beans.”
But on the subject of obsession, when Harry broke the news to you, now that would have been an American newspaper headline!
SURVIVING WRIGHT BROTHER KILLS SISTER AND LOVE INTEREST!
Lord knows what the English would have done with it.
LOVE NEST TRIANGLE CAUSES WRIGHT SIBLING MURDER!
I thought that if you had thrown a vase filled with those summer flowers you had tenderly picked, that it was very possible you would throw something else. I know you did not possess a pistol, but at this point I’m not clear what you might have done. I know you’re not a violent man. You possess a violent temper, yes, but I don’t think you would willingly hurt another human being physically. I remember so clearly when we read the headline 16 MILLION DEAD IN GREAT WAR. We were sitting at the dining room table. Just you and me. As always, I know you and I both thought but did not say out loud, “We miss our Will, but I don’t think he would have survived this.”
If Will had not missed the whole thing by some years and the Reverend had not died the year before it began, would we have tried to do anything about it? We certainly weren’t pacifists; we did nothing to oppose it. My only marching has been for the women’s vote.
I can still see you sitting there at the kitchen table during the war, with your head down in your arms on the newspaper on the table. I could see your shoulders shaking, like a small child’s.
Even if the aeroplanes were responsible for only a small percentage of the deaths, we did try to sell them to the military—in America and all over Europe. And look what our customers did . . .
And then, without finishing your dinner, you got up from the table and moved like a sleepwalker into your study. I went to pick up the paper and it was damp from your tears, as if the print had come alive, rivers of ink, weeping for all the boys. I cleaned up the dishes, put away the uneaten food, and you did not say another word to me that evening. It was Carrie’s day off. When I went to see how you were, I stood in the doorway of the study. There was no fire going, even though it was cold, and those tiny origami paper cranes were scattered on the floor around you. You were absorbed, making another one, so I cleared my throat.
“Orv?” I said. “Orv, it’s not your fault.”
And you shook your head and cried some more. When I walked toward you to comfort you, you waved me away and I withdrew.
I heard you wandering the house that night in your pajamas and polished shoes. I always heard you, Orv.
Humbly,
Sister K.
P.S. I suddenly remember Mother taking the three of us ice-skating. It might have been the first time, because she held my hands crisscross with hers, and I skated with my double-runners by her side. What was curious was the look on your face as you turned around and skated backward in front of Mother and me. As cold as it was that day, your face was laughing and laughing in a way I’ve never seen since—your white teeth the same bright whiteness of snow falling on the frozen pond.
June 27, 1928
Dear Orv, Orv dear,
I have not written in some time because I have been writing in my journal, which I intend to burn someday. I have been spending more time with Sonya Rose. I would enclose a photograph, but she says she prefers to be photographed naked, and that I would not send you, and that I do not possess! I think the postal clerk would open the letter and lock me up.
For me, one of the most sacred days of my life was August 26, 1920, when women got the vote, another Thursday, yes, as you would say, the 239th day of the year. I had marched and asked hundreds of men and women to sign petitions, but Sonya Rose says I should be bolder in my life now. She says that simply marching is not enough, that I must do more. “Think boldly. Live boldly,” she says to me whenever she greets me and whenever we part. And last night she took my hand and I think wanted more than friendship, but that I cannot do. I don’t think she is wrong, for I know there are women like that. She believes women and men should be free to love everyone. I think I agree, although I can hear the Reverend’s screams as I write this.
Sometimes when I am in the kitchen, I will look for the rolling pin, which I did bring with me, but I forget I’m not back home. I am searching in my mind in the house on Hawthorn Street. I can remember every stair and shelf and closet. And then my imaginings take me to the big house, where you are now, and I am standing at the kitchen table, packing cans to be sent overseas to the boys, when Hoover asked for that. We did our part—those Meatless Tuesdays. I dutifully made that corn-and-cheese casserole and every-vegetable-I-could-think-of casserole. But we could have done more. Meatless Tuesdays did not save any of those poor souls.
I miss the lake house this time of year, and all that bicycle riding on the island. I still think the most perfect form of transportation is the bicycle. You always used to say that. Do you still? You and Will used to ride with arms out like wings. Reporters have asked me if I recall when you first had the thought of flying. I always thought that was too intimate a question, but I do wish I had a photograph of you, racing each other on the bicycles, arms outstretched, ready to take off.
Confused,
K.
P.S. There is to be a World Conference of Spiritual Science and Its Practical Applications in London from July 20 to August 1. Rochelle appeared with baby Psalm and wants her mother and me to attend. I am hesitant to mention it, because I know you think séances and otherworldly interests are opposed to modern science. I am a skeptic as well, but I am also a curious person. We were raised that way. Curiosity is what bonds us. Would you accompany me? Harry thinks it’s “beyond frivolous.” You can quote me on this one. Please consider it. It would be good to get away. We could sail from New York. Please let me know as soon as possible so I can make arrangements. What I would really like to do is go on the Île de France—shall I send you pictures? It’s a beautiful ship. We could go visit our friends in France first and then go to the conference in London! Please confirm!
P.P.S. I’ve found another advertisement for “The Magnificent Ships!—largest, fastest American liners offer you every shipboard comfort and luxury. Spacious interiors—furnished and decorated to create the atmosphere of a well-planned home. Staterooms—really bedrooms and living rooms combined. Broad decks. Famous food. We know what Americans want!”
P.P.P.S. The Republican National Convention was here, as I imagine you have read, and I am quite shocked Coolidge announced he would not run again. Hoover it is. I must say there is still a part of me that every time I think of Hoover, I think of our old vacuum cleaner in Dayton, which I used frequently. We have one here, but Mrs. Crossbottom guards it with her life. Yes, I know Herbert Hoover did not invent the machine. Inventions are our department.
June 28, 1928
WRIGHT SISTER IS REAL WIZARD!
I drank two gin fizzes tonight, if truth be told. If truth be told, indeed. I did help the boys with the plans for Kitty Hawk, if truth be told. I did more than help. I drew the plans on that parchment both of them preferred, with the ink they treated like mother’s milk. It had come to me one night when I could not sleep. It was all about the lift. They had not been able to figure it out. The journalists whom we accused of being crazy when they suggested I had helped were not crazy at all. They were correct on this one, even if years later they were not correct about my age at my marriage. They were correct that the plane would never have taken off without my design. I did the drawing in two hours—well, perhaps three—with all angles of the rudders, the movable rudders, yes. I had the picture
in my head so clearly, as if it were on a moving-picture screen. Was it from watching the gulls? I cannot say. It was a burst. That was all. I burst my vision onto the paper that enabled the plane to fly. Then late that night I had put the drawing on Orv’s desk and the next day the drawing was gone. We never spoke about it. Not Orv to me or Will to me. I do not know what those crazy boys said to each other. Did Will pretend he had the idea or did Orv? Or did they thank me secretly, standing over my bed at night and saying, “Thank you, dear Katharine, for inventing the movable rudder?”
I do not know. It was just the way we did things. If truth be told.
I have been wanting to say this truth out loud for many years now. I still have not said it out loud. I have simply written it here, in my marriage diary of all places.
I wonder, if the boys had just stuck with the bicycle shop, where would we all be now? Would Will be alive? Would the boys be married? Would I?
June 29, 1928
I just this moment called you and you picked up the phone! You said, “Orville Wright speaking,” and I said, “Orv, Orv, how are you?” I don’t know why I am telling you, for it just happened, and your memory is good. And when you heard my voice you did not simply hang up. Instead, you said, “Hold the wire! Hold the wire!” so I can say I heard your voice, if that is something to be thrilled about.
Rather than speaking to me, I heard you scream for Carrie, but she didn’t come, and then you hung up. Orv, you are not well in the head.
Harry and I went on the most heavenly bicycle ride on Saturday. I packed a picnic, and we rode out to the fields past farm after farm to what Harry calls “France in Missouri.” I’m not sure I would say that, but it is beautiful, and he loves my egg salad sandwiches as much as you do. Yes, there is no doubt that sandwiches, perhaps egg salad sandwiches in particular, should be on the list of best inventions.
I also made one of my “visiting lemon cakes.” I used eight lemons and more sweet butter than is called for, and after it was baked, I wrapped it in a tea towel, one that apparently Isabel embroidered.
I’m always surprised how good it is. Although it was Will who once said, “And if the people you visit don’t like it, they could build a wall outside their house with that cake!” I remember chasing him around the kitchen for that one, or was it you?
Harry has a habit that reminds me of you.
Sometimes in the evenings when he’s worked on a particularly hard story, he sits in the study next to the large globe and spins it with one hand as he holds his glasses in his other hand. Do you still do that?
What will you do for the Fourth this year? Will you be at the lake? I know how cold it can be there, even in summer, so remember to bring extra socks! As you said to that reporter, “It is true I have not flown to Antarctica, nor would I wish to, but I have spent many summers on Lake Huron, so I am well aware of freezing temperatures.”
Your loving sister
P.S. And now I’ve been asked to join yet another flower-arranging club. How is this possible? Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong body. Of course I love flowers, but how many clubs does one need to arrange flowers? In truth, I think you arranged the flowers best in our house, Orv, although you certainly didn’t need to join a club for it! SOS. Please save me.
P.P.S. I am eager to go to London in July, so please consider it. And now that there are transatlantic phone calls being made, we could even try calling London on the telephone to make arrangements!
July 30, 1928
REPORTER UNCOVERS TRUTH!
Last week I did something I had not done before, and I am concerned about my mental state. Once again it involved scissors—not injuring Mrs. Crossbottom, although that might have been more satisfying, but Isabel’s favorite tablecloth. At previous times, whenever I saw Mrs. Crossbottom ironing it, she would sigh and say, “Mrs. Haskell,” and give an artificial smile to me, because we both knew she meant Isabel. “Mrs. Haskell so loved this cloth. I believe it was a wedding gift.”
It was beige lace, pretty enough, although nothing to write home about, but last Thursday, when Mrs. Crossbottom had her day off, I took that special tablecloth from the bottom of the sideboard in the dining room. I grabbed it, took it upstairs, snatched up Harry’s special scissors for clipping his sacred newspapers, and cut the tablecloth into pieces. I then stuffed the bits into a large canvas bag Harry and I have used when we go for picnics. I put the bag into my bicycle basket and went for a very long ride. I will simply say that when I returned home the bag was in the basket, but the bag was empty. Perhaps the birds can use the bits of cloth.
I am, indeed, a sinner.
And on another note, one of the pushy reporters who works with Harry appeared at the door today while Harry was at work. I did not let him over the threshold, but he was rather insistent and said, “I know the truth, Mrs. Haskell. You must write your story. You must correct the story. It will come out eventually, you know. I hear there are drawings of the movable rudder that you might have in your possession.”
I just shut the door on him. This rumor has swirled from the first flight. But it is odd for him to come so soon after I confided in my marriage diary. But I sincerely do not believe Harry or Mrs. Crossbottom has found it.
July 30, 1928
Idiot Orville,
We do not seem to be at the World Conference of Spiritual Science and Its Practical Applications, do we? Or as you and Will liked to say, “Do we Dewey decimal system.” And Sonya Rose bowed out as well. I should have gone on my own. Instead, I am here in Kansas City. Sonya caused a scene yesterday when we went to lunch. The waiter handed us each a menu without prices! It was fancy, the way some restaurants are for no reason, and I thought maybe the place was trying to put on airs, some kind of Roaring Twenties trend. I mean I knew this was Kansas City, not Paris, but I thought they were trying.
Sonya Rose knew immediately that this was not the case. She knew, as she often does, what the situation was, and she was not pleased. She slammed her menu down on the table and declared loudly, “Ladies’ menus! We want the same menus as the gentlemen! We are quite capable of reading the prices! Please give us the gentlemen’s menus.”
I had never heard of ladies’ menus, although it’s true that after the Reverend died and we were bold enough to go out for sodas in Dayton, they would give me a straw and you boys had to (heaven forbid!) coarsely drink from the rim of the tall glasses. The waiter always said, “Straws for the lady,” although I have no idea why. Perhaps it helps our lips for kissing. I just laughed out loud. I haven’t sipped a soda with you in too long!
I wanted to quiet down Sonya Rose, because I don’t like to make a scene, but then I realized she was correct. After all, it was I who ran our business for all those years, and more. I am quite capable of reading sandwich prices. And it’s not as if there was a gentleman with us who was going to pay. So, what were they thinking? If we can read a ballot, we can read a menu.
On another note, I am concerned about all this Roaring Twenties talk. As you know, I am intrigued by some of the modern advancements (fascinated by, and I have been studying designs of new underwater boats), but the Reverend would say, “Pride goeth before a fall,” and that the fall of Rome came at times like these.
When we did get the menu, I did see that my cheese sandwich was 25 cents, which seems steep. And globally—I know you used to mock me for using that word—but globally, I do think people are buying stocks too easily now. The company has suffered far too much with all the lawsuits. So you be careful, Orv. We have made financial errors in the past, but on this one I believe I am correct.
But then Sonya began talking, as she does, about how Rochelle is not married and she is concerned about how baby Psalm will be treated, Jewish and Negro, with an unmarried mother. I don’t like it when Sonya talks that way about her own daughter. I do not like these family disagreements. If I had the chance to talk to Mother one more time, I doubt I would argue with her. I told Sonya that if she is saying she is worried about how
the world will treat baby Psalm, I understand, but if it is her own prejudice she is talking about, I will put my foot down. The child is a child of God. When, over our “ladies’ lunch,” I pointed out she was not married when she gave birth to Rochelle, she simply nodded and gave a kind of sniff.
It is imperative that I talk to you, because now I am worried about the situation with Rochelle. I am very concerned about the choices she is making. This young girl, who was born in a field near the college, thinks so little of herself that, as she has confided in me, even though she is a mother herself now, selling her body is the only way she can survive.
Respectfully,
Your only sister
July 31, 1928
Orville Wright,
Did you give the World Conference of Spiritual Science and Its Practical Applications a second thought, or a first one?
I must learn to be more independent. I should have booked passage from New York and taken the ship myself, but you two men have me caught in a tightrope between you both, and I did not. I spoke to Carrie on the telephone yesterday, and she said you are working on a new device, meaning she found many drawings on your desk, that looked like balloons hanging off the back of an aeroplane, but she was not sure what it would be used for. Weather, she surmised. I have to say, for the first time in my life I am not interested. I am going out with Rochelle now, and her sweet baby. I said I would take them for a drive.