“I’d like to walk the rest of the way,” I explained, as I removed my coat, for it had turned unexpectedly warm in the May sun.
Henry pulled over and carefully put the car in park; despite the fact that he was the only person who drove it, Henry treated the Rolls as if it was on loan to him, as if he didn’t quite have a claim to the driver’s seat. His whiskered chin was set in a stubborn square, just like a cartoon character. Daddy required all the staff to be clean-shaven, yet for some reason he allowed Henry to be the one exception. “Miss Anne,” Henry began, with the familiarity of an uncle, and indeed, that’s how I thought of him, “Mr. Charles won’t like this. Neither will your parents. I was told to take you directly to the agency. That’s where you’re supposed to be, not in this—part of town.”
“Yes, and I’m telling you to let me out here, because I’d like the exercise. And the air.”
“In your condition, Miss Anne, I don’t think—”
“In my condition I require exercise.”
“You know how people can get, now. You know how Mr. Charles—”
“Yes, Henry, I know. But it’s been so long since I was out on my own like this. It’ll be an adventure, and our secret. I promise I won’t tell a soul! And if there’s any trouble, I’ll make up some story for Charles. No one will blame you.”
“Miss Anne.” Henry shook his head, then sighed. He did not know how to treat me now that I was expecting; no one really did. Mother was the only person in the family who didn’t look at me as if I was about to break into pieces at any moment. All the men—Charles included—were suddenly very afraid not only for me but of me. And while I didn’t feel fragile—indeed, now that I was nearing my eighth month, I felt more invincible than I ever had in my life—I was slyly learning to take advantage of their reluctance to contradict me.
“Henry, please. I need to walk for a bit—it’ll do me and the baby good. You understand, don’t you? That it’s for the baby?”
Henry removed his spectacles—a recent necessity, and he was very embarrassed by it—to give me one last paternal squint. Then he put them back on, sighed again, just in case I hadn’t quite registered his disapproval, and opened his door, walking around to open mine. “I’ll be in front of Miss Elisabeth’s office in exactly one hour.”
“Thank you—you’re a dear!” I pushed myself up and started to skip down the teeming sidewalk, feeling like a student just released from school—until I felt that wave of nausea, that panicked, crowded feeling. I would have sat down on a stoop had I not been aware that Henry was patiently following me in the Rolls, staring so intently at me he failed to notice the jeers and cries of the neighborhood boys who ran alongside the car, daring to touch its gleaming surface with their grimy hands.
So I walked on, keeping my eyes focused straight ahead, on the backs of people’s heads, and soon that closed-in, hot feeling passed and I was able to relax. What was I afraid of? I’d flown through countless storms, never once doubtful of the outcome.
Yet why did I always feel danger lurking around every corner, when my feet were firmly planted on the ground?
I did not meet anyone’s gaze, acutely aware that I was not wearing my disguise, and wouldn’t allow myself to smile. For whenever I was photographed, that was how I was recognized: by my cheerful, tomboyish grin that never failed to surprise me when I saw it. Never in my life had I felt as carefree as that smile implied.
Someone jostled my elbow, trying to pass; as he did, he stopped and stared right at me. It was a man, unshaven, wearing a torn black overcoat. I heard the sharp intake of breath, the heavy step toward me, and I steeled myself for the moment of recognition, the inevitable “Say, aren’t you—you look just like her—is it Mrs. Lindbergh?”
I hurried on, walking quickly but not allowing myself to break into a run, which would only call more attention. And nothing happened. Heart thudding, I slowed, and then I couldn’t stop myself from turning and looking back at that man. He was still staring at me, but he did not smile, did not ask for an autograph, did not bless me or wish me well. His face was a blank. Then he spat on the sidewalk, unmistakably in my direction; he scratched his nose, gave me one last bleak stare, and turned and went on his way.
He had recognized me, I was sure of it. Yet the fact that he hadn’t done anything about it, had simply watched me instead, felt more sinister than if he had shouted my name.
Then I shook my head, laughing at myself. Well, I didn’t want anyone to cause a fuss, did I? This was precisely why I needed a good stroll out in the open: to reacquaint myself with life back on the ground—real life, as most people called it.
I also needed, perhaps, to rid myself of some of the darker thoughts that seemed to intrude, much more than they used to, now that I was about to bring another life into the world.
Still, when I reached a narrow brick building with determinedly cheerful yellow chintz curtains hanging in the front window, tender young geraniums in neat pots on the scrubbed stoop, I hurried up the steps, eager to hide within its shelter. Opening the front door, I found myself in a room packed with tired-looking young women and small children. Every head turned toward me as I entered, and I couldn’t prevent myself from recoiling and shielding my face with my handbag; it was an instinctive gesture by now, not intended to be rude. Although I knew it appeared that way.
Head still averted, I approached a woman in a starched white nurse’s uniform seated at a desk. The nurse looked up, a helpful smile on her face, and immediately recognized me. With a small cry, she jumped up and grabbed my arm, ushering me past all the poor mothers and their children, most of whom were not adequately clothed even for this temperate day. As we hurried past, I felt their weary, resentful gazes taking me in—my fresh flowered dress, silk stockings, polished leather pumps, expensive handbag, immaculate white gloves. I even felt guilty about my scent—Chanel No. 5, a gift from the president of France.
“Mrs. Lindbergh,” the nurse whispered, but some of the women heard. I saw them sit up straighter, lean toward me with a frank, curious look. “Miss Morrow is with someone just now, but I know she wouldn’t want you to wait out here.” And she led me down a short hallway, knocked on a door, opened it, and pushed me inside.
So on edge did I feel that it took me a moment to process what she had said—and so I gave a little start at the sight of Elisabeth perched on the edge of her desk, talking earnestly to a young woman holding a small child on her lap. Both the child and the woman had red, watery eyes; all three looked up as the door closed behind me. Elisabeth smiled, a conspiratorial little smile, which I returned; we had both run away for the day.
My sister had suffered a mild heart attack two months ago. Nothing to be alarmed about, the doctor assured us; just a lingering effect from the rheumatic fever she’d suffered as a child. Elisabeth had always been a bit fragile, although, like Dwight’s illness, it was not something we Morrows ever discussed. But like me, she was supposed to be resting at Next Day Hill, not out gallivanting in the city.
Even in all the brand-new spaciousness of my parents’ home, however, I couldn’t help but feel hemmed in there, suffocated by Mother’s boundless energy; her endless committee meetings, her constant urging for me to sit in, take a role, play a part. Charles was so restless now that we were grounded due to my condition that he escaped to the city most days, attending meetings he usually avoided like the plague. And I knew Elisabeth felt the same way, which was why she and Connie Chilton planned this outing in the city. I hadn’t told her that I’d planned the same thing, though.
“Anne! What are you doing here? Mother will absolutely kill the two of us when she finds we’re gone!”
Connie Chilton rose from her seat behind the desk. “For the record, I had no part in this. Someone has to remain on your mother’s good side.”
“I arranged to interview for a baby nurse here in the city,” I confessed. “I just had to get out. And I couldn’t resist seeing what you were up to.”
Elisabeth glanced
at her slim wristwatch, a frown faintly creasing her smooth, high forehead. She shook her head, her curls—held back by a severe-looking snood—remaining in place. “We’re not up to much, I’m afraid.” She rose and escorted the woman and her child out. “Thank you so much, and I understand,” she told them, and then shut the door with a sigh. She looked at Connie, who shook her head and crossed a name off a list.
“Perhaps we were a bit misguided,” Connie said. She didn’t appear daunted, however; she grinned so that her freckles danced across her apple cheeks and broad nose.
Connie Chilton was a primitive, earthy force; had it not been for her impeccable upbringing, she would have been viewed with some trepidation by my parents. But her doctor father was a Yale graduate, her mother a Smithie; they had a penthouse in New York and a house in Saratoga. Despite all this, I often thought Connie would have looked much more at home leading a covered wagon across the prairie than she did sitting in a box at the racetrack, sipping champagne.
“We should have known better,” Elisabeth admitted. “We can’t expect people from the Lower East Side to be able to bring their children to Englewood for school. Maybe someday we can open a school here. But for now, I suppose we’ll have to content ourselves with educating the middle-class children of northern New Jersey.” She smiled faintly; she was still so awfully thin, her complexion so waxy, that I worried about her.
I wasn’t the only one. Connie firmly bustled my sister into the desk chair, and then she turned around and did the same thing with me, practically pushing me down onto the small sofa. “There! Someone has to look after you two Morrow girls—oh, excuse me, Mrs. Lindbergh.”
For some reason, Elisabeth laughed at this, and although I was puzzled, I laughed as well. Despite our shared imprisonment at Next Day Hill, we actually saw each other very little, only at mealtimes. And there was still a strangeness between us; she was polite, always, to Charles, although never completely at ease with him. I so wanted him to know the old Elisabeth—the relaxed, witty creature he first had met. Not this overly courteous, stiff acquaintance she seemed to have become around him. With me she was always careful to show her affection by draping an arm about my shoulders, hugging me before I had a chance to reach out for her, but I felt, sometimes, that it was just that—show. With Charles always looming in the background, we had yet to revert to our old, teasing relationship.
Finally here, away from Englewood, surrounded by grinding poverty, filth, and purpose, I caught a glimpse of the sister I missed. Yet as soon as I sat down and studied my ankles, swollen even from my short walk, I felt that unyielding politeness return.
“Are you well, Anne?” she asked. Connie sat next to me on the worn leather sofa. I wondered how many young mothers, like the one I had just seen, had sat here in the same condition, but in very different circumstances.
“Yes,” and I felt guilty even saying it, surrounded by so many reminders of others not so fortunate. I was; I was monitored, cared for, saw a doctor every two weeks, had a beautiful nursery already prepared for my child—more blankets, diapers, bonnets, and gowns than he or she would ever use. When I felt ill, I was urged to rest. When I craved the oddest dishes—creamed herring on toast, just last night—they were prepared for me. My child wasn’t simply expected; it was awaited, like royalty. There was even a column in the Herald Tribune devoted to speculation about the sex, name, and astrological significance of the date of the Lindbergh baby’s anticipated birth.
“You look it.” Connie patted my arm. “Plump and pretty. You’d been looking awfully thin after the wedding.” She looked over at my sister for confirmation; Elisabeth nodded vigorously, appeared to want to say something, then shut her mouth.
Connie’s eyebrows shot up, and she turned back to me. “Too thin,” she insisted. “He pushes you too far.”
“He?” I asked, knowing perfectly well whom she meant. Connie, unlike Elisabeth, did not conceal her dislike of my husband, who likewise did not conceal his dislike of her. “She’s too inquisitive,” he once grumbled after an unpleasant dinner during which Connie quizzed him relentlessly about his religious and political beliefs. “Too concerned with other people’s business.”
“Charles, that’s who,” Connie told me. “The sainted colonel himself. Dragging you here and there without asking what you want, forcing you into that kind of life. That latest flight—breaking the speed record, and you pregnant and miserable. He didn’t even consider your health.”
“I wanted to go along,” I insisted, although, in truth, I had been violently sick the entire trip. Just a couple of weeks ago, we’d picked up our newest plane, a Lockheed Sirius, in California, and then flown at a high altitude—twenty thousand feet—across the country in fourteen hours and forty-five minutes, three hours under the previous record. I’d had a pounding headache from the altitude and gas fumes, and was so nauseated I couldn’t climb out of my cockpit at first. It was only after Charles hissed that I had to because of all the cameras that I was able to climb, shaky but still grinning that unreal, jaunty grin, out to wave at them all.
But I’d wanted to do it, and was proud of my accomplishments. “I like flying, you know,” I insisted with a small laugh, trying to lighten the mood, for I had the oddest feeling that Elisabeth and Connie had been waiting patiently, like two cats, for the right time to pounce on me about this subject. “I enjoy it. I’m good at it, too,” I couldn’t help adding, defensively. “Very good. Even Charles says I’m one of the best pilots he’s known.”
“And we’re proud of you,” Connie insisted. “But it’s his life, isn’t it? Not yours, exactly. When was the last time you did anything on your own, for yourself?”
I frowned; remembering Amelia Earhart’s patronizing, “Have you ever read A Room of One’s Own?”
“It’s been ages,” Connie continued in her forceful way—as if the notion of disagreement was not to be entertained. “And Charles never goes anywhere, does anything, unless it’s related to him. And he never allows you to, either.”
“That’s not true, really, it’s not.” I glanced at Elisabeth, hoping for help. She appeared only too ready to let Connie speak for her. “He—well, he is on so many boards, you know, for aviation, and naturally he wants me to accompany him to all the banquets and dinners. And he’s been helping Daddy out with his campaign—and, of course, I should accompany him there, too. Mother does, you know.” My father had left his ambassadorship and was preparing to run for the vacant Senate seat in New Jersey. Charles had been extremely supportive, lending his name and flying Daddy about the state for appearances.
Connie snorted. “When was the last time you insisted he accompany you somewhere? When was the last time you did anything on your own—joined a committee, or a club?”
“Well, today,” I retorted gaily. “I came here, didn’t I?”
“And it’s been ages, Anne. Since before you graduated.”
“No—really? It can’t be.” I couldn’t bear Connie’s pitying, yet challenging, gaze, so I glanced down at the handbag in my lap and tried to remember. When was the last time I had initiated an outing on my own? I used to come to the city at least once a month when I was in school, accompanied by Elizabeth Bacon, seeing shows, shopping, even once patronizing a speakeasy, although the entire time I’d been terrified we’d be raided. And Bacon—why, was it possible that I hadn’t seen her since before the wedding? I’d wanted her to be my bridesmaid. But Charles had insisted only family be present, which, of course, I understood; there was just too great a risk of some member of the press getting in. But why hadn’t I seen her since? She’d sent a lovely present, I supposed. I honestly couldn’t recall; all my wedding presents were still packed away in crates, since we had no home of our own yet in which to display them. Still, that was no logical reason why I hadn’t seen her; I had some memory of her phoning, at least a few times, and none of me returning her calls. I was probably too busy studying navigation, or flying, or riding into the city with Charles for one of those inn
umerable banquets that all blurred together, always ending with the two of us exhausted in the backseat of the car, a loving cup or plaque or diploma of some kind between us, engraved with his name.
His name. Never mine.
I glanced up at the two of them. Elisabeth was studying me, sympathetically but patiently—as if waiting for me to come up with the correct answer to an unasked question. Well, what did they want me to say? That I had no friends, no life of my own any longer? That I hadn’t seen any of my classmates since graduation?
It was true, all of it; Carol Guggenheim was the only woman outside my family to whom I was remotely close, and again, that was because of Charles’s friendship with her, first.
I slumped down in my seat. No wonder I had felt such panic earlier, walking alone on the sidewalk. Charles hadn’t been there, hadn’t arranged it for me, as he arranged everything else. It was an entirely impulsive act; possibly the first one I had taken in almost two years—since I decided to become handmaiden to the most famous man in the world.
“I, that is—I have been meaning to do things,” I explained lamely. “We’ve—I’ve just been so busy. And now, with the baby—we’re finally getting our own house, you know. We’re talking with an architect about a place outside of Princeton, in the country!” I looked up now, hating myself for nodding so eagerly, for seeking their approval so obviously.
And I realized, my face burning with embarrassment and confusion, that all the time that I had been feeling sorry for Elisabeth, she had been pitying me. The rest of the world admired my husband—and admired me, for taking care of him, for keeping up with him, and now, more than ever, for providing him with an heir.
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