“Bounces right off.” He pretended to flick something into the air. “Because I’m strong. I’m a man. Don’t bother me. Not a bit. That guy, he’s a punk. And if I ever see him, I’m gonna show him what kinda punk he is.”
“Charlie,” Mabel said, and exhaled tiredly, “take me to Cuba. But first, get me another drink.”
* * *
Charlie did get her another drink; in fact, he got her another four, and by the time he got her back to the car, she had missed her mouth with the last martini, one shoe was missing, and her dress was caught in the car door. Charlie slapped the car roof twice to signal that it could go when most of Mabel was in the car. He decided she would be Marcelle’s problem tonight.
Anger had a way of simmering with Miss Boll; it would start at a low boil and stay there until the moment was precisely right for an explosion.
And Peggy Hopkins Joyce ended up being the right ingredient for Mabel to rumble with all night until she got home, lighting the fuse and then leaving it to sizzle with fury and hate. It was not Peggy Hopkins Joyce who she hated, however; the rage had just tapped into a vein of petulance and cracked it open, like a molten artery in a volcano.
Who she really hated, who she really wanted to incinerate, was a little heiress on the other side of the Atlantic with a perfect nose and velvet brown eyes and tiny feet and the utmost in breeding, manners, and poise.
Miss Elsie Mackay.
* * *
After Marcelle got Mabel cleaned up, into her peignoir, and ready for bed, she begged Madame to just go right to sleep.
“You will look better in the morning once you get some sleep—not so puffy,” Marcelle told her just before Mabel pushed her out of the room and slammed the door behind her, locking it.
“That’s it! You’re not getting paid next week, either,” Mabel said as she kicked the door, and then murmured, “Don’t call me or my fingers puffy.”
The next thing she knew, she was sitting at her desk with a pen in one hand and a piece of her stationery, headed with her name in all capital letters and an illustrated diamond sparkling in the background.
She wasn’t sure where to start, so she began at the beginning.
Dear To Elsie Mckays Father;
You may or may not be aware that your daugghter Elsie Mckay stole my pilot. She took him even thow he was going to fly with me, because I am not that fat. She is planning a flight right udder your knowse and you dont even sea it. You should look there. He only has one eye so it he is not hard to find. I only telll you this becuse I think you should know so you can stop her and give me my pilt back. Im sorry she married a pouf but that is not my problem and I wouldn’t have known it either, relly. He was enchanting. How small are your feat?
Mabil Boll
Then Mabel sprayed it with perfume. She was of the belief that you should always send a gift when you sent news. And the smell of Mabel Boll was indeed a gift.
She found an envelope, addressed it, and then made her way down the curving stairway in the dark to Marcelle’s room right off the kitchen.
“Mail this for me,” she slurred into the sleeping face of Marcelle, who woke up fully six seconds after that when Mabel tried to crawl into bed with her. Marcelle sighed as Mabel stole the only pillow and then smeared waxy lipstick all over it. She then pulled Mabel out of the bed, escorted her back to her own room, and dumped her on her own bed already stained with waxy lipstick, even on the headboard.
The next morning, Marcelle woke up and saw an envelope on her nightstand that read:
LORD ELSIE MCKAY’S RICH FATHER
LONDIN, ENGLAND
She scrambled to the post office on Fifth Avenue and mailed the letter transcontinental airmail, because if she wasn’t going to get paid again, she could at least get a little revenge.
* * *
Elsie couldn’t wait to see the plane. It had arrived on the Aquitania several weeks before, and Captain Hinchliffe had been overseeing its assemblage out at Brooklands, the aerodrome where he had first taken flying lessons before the war.
She drove out there eagerly with Chim nearly standing upright—his ears flapping back in the wind as he stuck his head out the window—and making Elsie laugh.
Entering the hangar from the light into the dark, Elsie required several seconds for her eyes to adjust, but when they did, she was taken aback by the sight of the Stinson Detroiter, long, sleek, and so very regal.
It stood eight feet tall, with a sweeping wingspan of forty-five feet, an enclosed cockpit, and a fuselage measuring thirty-two feet. The construction was steel covered in fabric. Captain Hinchliffe smiled proudly and put his hands on his hips.
“Well, what do you think, Miss Mackay?” he asked.
“Oh,” Elsie started. “Oh, it’s so . . . beautiful. It’s breathtaking.”
She had never seen such a glorious plane before. She could fly to the moon in it.
“Come, come, come,” Hinchliffe said, waving his hand for her to follow him. Elsie gladly did so, her velvet coat trimmed in fluttering grey sable trailing behind her in the autumn draft that seemed to fill the chilly hangar. She pulled the high collar closer around her chin and looked where Captain Hinchliffe directed.
“Again, thank you for the nurse,” he said. “Emilie has remarked about a thousand times that she doesn’t know what she would have done without another pair of much more experienced hands. The new baby has her exhausted.”
“No thanks necessary.” Elsie smiled. “A new baby is a joy, and Emilie should get enough rest to enjoy these moments.”
Elsie peeked into the fuselage and couldn’t believe it: dual controls. She could fly the plane half the time. The cockpit had enough room for six passengers, but, as with the American Girl, the seats had been removed so that the plane could carry more fuel.
“I’ve never flown a monoplane before!” she exclaimed, taking off her leather gloves and running her fingers along the aircraft’s body.
“Eddie Stinson claims that biplanes are obsolete,” Hinchliffe said. “But it will fly like a dream. Just about every one that’s built is off on some record-breaking flight.”
“When do we get to take it up?” Elsie suddenly said, excited and beaming. “When do I get to fly this exquisite machine?”
Captain Hinchliffe laughed. “We have to finish putting her together first. We’re about to install the large fuel tank that we took out the seats to accommodate, and that holds 225 gallons. The wing tanks carry 180 gallons, and the remaining fuel we’ll carry in aluminum cans that we can stack behind the seats, so that gives us a range of fifty hours of flying time and five thousand miles.”
“More than the American Girl flew,” Elsie said, nodding. “Good. Good. I’m glad to hear that.”
Secretly, one of Elsie’s biggest fears was getting lost in the fog, bogged down by a storm, and running out of fuel. The thought of freezing water was abominable, and she’d had several nightmares about Princess Löwenstein’s last moments, seeing her swimming, gulping, her eyes wide and frightened as waves washed over her in the whole darkness.
“If we plan this flight properly,” Hinchliffe said, sensing her unease, “there’s no reason we can’t make it across. I’m completely confident. In fact, it would be comparatively easy going in the spring.”
Elsie nodded and took a deep breath. She had faith in Hinchliffe; she had more faith in him than she did anybody else on earth. She believed in his preparations, the charts he pored over, the calibrations he was making. She agreed to his battery of strenuous flying tests that he insisted they both undertake, and the training he was going to subject her to in reading instruments and long-distance compasses.
The east–west crossing was infinitely more dangerous, he reiterated. The west winds were powerful, and while the American Girl, the Spirit of St. Louis, and the Miss Columbia all had those winds at their tails, Hinch and Elsie would be fighting them through the entirety of the flight. They must be prepared.
“I think we’re good to aim for
the first week in March,” he said. “Historically, it’s been the clearest and the calmest before big March winds kick in by the middle of the month. I think that’s our window.”
“So in several months. Good, good,” Elsie agreed. “Then that will work. That fits nicely. There’s actually something I’ve been concerned with even more, however.”
“What is it?” Hinchliffe said, leaning against the plane.
“My brother, my father, and my former husband all suspect,” she said in a rush. “I’ve had to admit that we are planning a flight but that I only have a financial interest in it, and that it may be to India to break that record instead of transatlantic.”
“Yes, Levine suspected as well,” he said. “Buying this plane in America certainly raised eyebrows and chatter. Are we in danger of your father closing the account?”
“No,” she said. “It’s all in Sophie’s name: no strings or trails that lead to me. But it is only a matter of time before the press come calling. We need a story—a cover that satisfies all of them—when there is newspaper interest. It will be to our advantage.”
“Yes, I quite agree,” Hinchliffe said. “A guise as in . . . another passenger? Another pilot, perhaps?”
“Another pilot,” Elsie said quickly. “Another pilot is perfect. Do you know someone who we can trust? Of course, I’d be willing to offer compensation.”
“Sinclair,” he said. “Sinclair would be perfect.”
“You know,” Elsie said quietly and with a devious smile, “I’m quite confident of our little endeavor.”
* * *
Ruth had spent her first day in Paris soaking.
She took the longest bath of her life, scrubbed every crevice and fingernail. When she was done, she did it all over again. The water was hot, the bubbles were foaming, and she was happy. She was in Paris. Ruth Elder from Anniston, Alabama, was in Paris.
When she had reached the hotel, a stack of telegrams was waiting for her, but in the fuss of her delightful new wardrobe she had tossed them onto the table without a second thought. It was only when she woke in the middle of the night that she remembered and flipped through them quickly: various messages from businesses asking for her endorsement—toothpaste, lipstick, and stockings; a lovely note from Aunt Susan; and several from Cornell telling her not to accept any offers until she spoke to him. Then, at the very bottom of the pile, was one she never expected.
She sat up and brought it closer to the light in case she had read it wrong.
It was from MGM Studios, asking her if she would like a film career. She called Cornell first thing in the morning to tell him, but he had more news for her. Columbia Pictures and Warner Bros. had also called. An offer from Florenz Ziegfeld was on the table for a lecture tour: one hundred thousand dollars for one hundred days. Ruth screamed with delight; she had understood that if the flight was a success, she’d have her opportunities to pick and choose from, but this was far beyond. She had already spent the money in her head: she would buy Mama and Daddy a sweet little house in a better neighborhood; make sure Alfred, Hughey, Milton, and Oscar Jr. went to college, and Pauline, too; get herself the sleekest, fastest car she laid eyes on; and slip into the thickest, plushest full-length fur coat she could find. This was after Mr. Cornell and Mr. McArdle got their cuts, of course.
She met George in the lobby of the hotel after choosing a Patou and the fur cape. They weren’t steps from the door when the waiting admirers instantly mobbed them. Someone thrust Ruth a newspaper with a photo of her and asked for an autograph; then the deluge of autograph requests began. George tried to intervene—they were going to be late for dinner—when two women walked up. One took his face into her hands and smacked him with a kiss, and then the other did the exact same thing. Ruth burst out laughing. George was as flushed as a ripe tomato and had been rendered speechless.
Later that afternoon she was able to escape for a moment, donning a hat to hide herself so she could enjoy some uninterrupted shopping, and had largely succeeded when she passed the front window of a store and gasped, nearly dropping her parcels. There were twenty-four foot-tall images of her: dolls in knickers, flying jackets, helmets, and goggles, and with big painted blue eyes. Ruth wasn’t sure whether to scream or laugh, and wondered if she should buy one and send it out on her lunch dates so she could do more shopping.
At the ball held in their honor, Ruth and George were asked by French senator Lazare Weiller to visit the home of Captain Charles Nungesser, who had gone missing over the Atlantic with his wartime comrade François Coli two weeks prior to Lindbergh’s flight. Neither Ruth nor George hesitated; when Madame Nungesser, aged and hunched, opened the door, she immediately embraced and kissed both of them.
“You who were snatched from the sea, tell me that my son still lives! I know he must,” she pleaded. She led them into Nungesser’s room, which she had preserved since her son’s disappearance.
Then she broke down into sobs. Ruth moved quickly to her side and wrapped her arms around the old, fragile woman.
George looked at Ruth. The shock of the empty room and a weeping mother brought them both closer to what their own families faced. Ruth might as well have been holding her own mother. They had considered and thought about their families, certainly, but not until they were standing in the empty bedroom of Captain Nungesser did they understand the real consequences of what they had narrowly escaped and what they had asked their loved ones to accept. George and Ruth had never had a doubt that they would make it across alive, but neither had the son of the woman whom Ruth now held in her arms. But Ruth wasn’t looking at George; instead, she had her head bowed next to Madame Nungesser, and tears were streaming down both of their faces.
They had been fools, George thought. Terrible fools.
* * *
“What do you mean I’m not going to meet Wilmer Stultz?” Mabel demanded over the phone. “If I’m going to fly with the man to Cuba, I think I at least should meet him first.”
Levine, on the other end of the line, frankly wasn’t taking any chances. He had only secured Stultz because that crazy old bat Grayson had almost taken a swing at him while he was flying her lead-heavy chariot through a storm. Now he was out of a job, and the minute Levine heard he was available, he made sure he let Stultz know he was interested.
Levine’s gut told him that Stultz had only agreed to fly to Cuba to make sure he could stay out of the Grayson mess and not be lured back. But Levine asked him for his price, and then, when he named one, Levine miraculously met it. He was not, however, going to take a chance on the variable of Mabel Boll, because the last thing he needed was her ramming a stick through the spokes. His business in Cuba could be a moneymaker, and he salivated at the thought of it. He was cash poor, with no other business coming his way, and Grace was bleeding him dry out of spite or hate or probably both.
The Columbia was ready at Roosevelt Field; Levine was just waiting for the clearance papers he had filed days before.
“He’s a busy man, Mibs,” Levine said, rolling his eyes in the safety of his own office, ten blocks away from her. “It’s gonna be fine. Pack light, I’m telling you, or else your luggage will be on the runway when you’re in the air. It’s a fourteen-hour flight, and I think you need to be prepared for that.”
“If you leave me this time, I’m burning your house down with your children in it,” Mabel warned. “You can sue me again if you want. I am packing light.”
“So you’ll be ready to go by Friday?” Levine asked.
“I have a lunch appointment that day,” Mabel said in a singsong voice.
“Is it important?” he asked.
“Of course it is,” Mabel replied. “Jenny Dolly has some gossip to tell me that she couldn’t say over the phone.”
“Can you meet her on Thursday?” Levine countered, rolling his eyes again. “I don’t want to come back to a smoking pile of rubble.”
“I’ll see,” she said.
“I heard Putnam and Guest finally found thei
r lady flier,” Levine commented. “It was on page two of the morning edition.”
“Is that right?” she said, and scrambled quickly to find the paper Marcelle had left on her breakfast tray. She had never heard a word from Putnam and Guest since she sent her letter, which led her to believe that they never received it. Mabel knew she was a natural choice for that seat, but had rather forgotten about it after Hinchliffe arrived in New York and Charlie made the plans for Cuba.
She opened the paper to the second page and then scanned the whole thing.
“I don’t see it,” Mabel replied.
“It’s right there at the very top, right-hand side,” Levine guided her.
Still Mabel was at a loss. She didn’t see it.
“Maybe we have different newspapers. I have the New York Times,” she added, figuring that would solve the mystery.
“Me, too, Mabel,” he said. “Right there, on top. The headline says, ‘Girl Flier Will Join Putnam and Guest’s The ‘Friendship’ in Transatlantic Attempt.’ ”
Mabel sighed deeply. She was dying to read the story and see who beat her out, although officially, if Putnam and Guest had never seen her letter, clearly this woman was a second choice merely by default. She already felt sorry for her.
“We must have different editions,” Mabel concluded. “I see a photo of a man.”
“It’s not a man,” Levine said.
“Of course it’s a man, Charlie!” Mabel cackled. “How many drinks have you had this morning? It’s Charles Lindbergh as a child!”
“It’s a lady,” he told her. “Read the caption. It says her name right there.”
And, sure enough, Charlie was right. She read the caption identifying the fellow as Miss Amelia Earhart from Massachusetts, a social worker and amateur pilot.
“Oh, my God,” Mabel said in horror. “Do all social workers have hair like that? What an oppressive occupation! I wonder if it’s because of the lice and rummaging through those tenements. What a wretched way to make a living.”
Crossing the Horizon Page 25