When I woke, Paul was sitting next to me on our bed, holding my hand, while Ruby mopped my forehead with a cool cloth and Mama peered anxiously at me from over the footboard.
“That’s better,” Ruby said soothingly. “You’ll be all right now. You sure scared us, though. You’ve been out for a good half hour. Paul caught you before you hit the floor, but when you didn’t wake up we called for Dr. Townsend. He’s on his way. “
I looked up into Paul’s troubled eyes. “I’m sorry ...” I started to apologize, but the words wouldn’t form in my mind. There was only one word left in my vocabulary. “Morgan,” I whispered searchingly.
In the face of a crisis, Mama rallied her strength and took charge. Her voice sounded as firm as it had in the old days, as though Papa were standing right next to her. Maybe he was. “Don’t worry, Eva,” she commanded. “It’s bad, but its not the worst news. They’re looking for him. You’ve got to keep your mind on that and not give in to despair. There’s reason to hope. Tell her, Paul. “
Paul nodded and reached into his pocket. “There were two telegrams, Eva. You fainted before we had a chance to open the other. Here.” He handed me the second message, which was already rumpled and creased from handling. They must all have read it several times.
I’LL FIND HIM.
SLIM
Time slowed to a tenth of its normal pace. I tried to keep on a brave face, think positive thoughts, do normal things. Paul went into the church to work as usual, but not until I insisted, convincing him that I was fine and promising to call him if I heard anything. Still, he was home early every night, sitting next to me and holding my hand while we all pretended to listen to the radio.
Mama decided that we should keep busy and prodded me into cutting out fabric for several Churn Dash blocks with the idea that the three of us, Mama, Ruby, and I, would piece it together and have it finished to give to Morgan once we got word he’d been found. Despite Mama’s prodding, I could tell she was just as worried as the rest of us. More than once, she sewed the pieces with the wrong sides facing each other and had to take out the whole seam and start over.
Ruby fidgeted in her chair and got up from her seat every five minutes, peering out from behind the calico curtains to see if the Western Union man was coming up the road. That whole week, she didn’t finish a single quilt block. Cooking would probably have been a better choice than sewing as a distraction, but the minute news of Morgan’s disappearance got around town, the ladies of the church had descended on us with casseroles and fried chicken and an assortment of pies. There was no need to make anything ourselves, and most of what people brought got thrown out anyway; worry dulls the appetite.
Though I had begun the project only to appease Mama, working on the quilt helped more than I can say. After a time, I found a rhythm of rocking and stitching and thinking, every stab of the needle a plea, a prayer, a supplication to God, to Slim, to the winds that blew over my head and halfway round the world to wherever Morgan might be.
On Sunday Paul said it would be all right if I preferred to stay home from church. “People will understand if you aren’t feeling up to it,” he said. I went anyway. I worried about Paul worrying about me. I sat in my regular seat and prayed without words, with groans and aches rising from the deep places in my soul until there was no way to contain them and tears ran silently down my face, so many I didn’t even bother trying to stop them with my handkerchief.
I was grateful that people didn’t try to talk to me much after the service, though many of them squeezed my hands tenderly and said they were praying for us. I thanked them sincerely. Mrs. Hutchinson found me and gave me a little bookmark with lace edging and an embroidery of a dove and olive branch she’d made herself. “I meant to save it for you for a Christmas present, but then I thought, why wait? At my age, it doesn’t pay to put things off.” Everyone was very kind and very careful with what they said. When I got home I’d never felt more exhausted.
As long as the days were, nights were longer. The house had never seemed so still and quiet, and my mind couldn’t help filling the void with doubt. Lying in bed, the curve of my shoulders spooned tightly against his chest, Paul and I spoke in whispers, the same conversation every night.
“What if he didn’t make it?”
“You mustn’t think like that. You and Morgan were so connected, if he were gone, I think you would already know.”
“Ruby didn’t know when Clay died. Her own husband had been dead for days and she never knew it until the telegram came.”
“Morgan is your child, your own flesh. It’s different.”
“What if they can’t find him?”
“Slim said he would. He promised.”
“He’s said a lot of things before. Why should I believe him?”
“Because he’s your best hope. Because he’s the best flier in the world. Because he’s a father who’s seen his child face to face. He’s already lost one son. He won’t let it happen again. Only death could keep him from it.”
Only death could keep him from it. I repeated that sentence over and over in my mind and twisted it in new directions; only Slim could keep Morgan from death, only death could keep Slim from Morgan, a poem to chant to the darkness. When the moon rose so high that no more light cut through the black, I felt the muscles in Paul’s arm soften and go slack with sleep. I waited out the night alone, relieved when the clock finally ticked off the million minutes to morning and I could rise and use my hands instead of my mind.
Finally, late Wednesday afternoon, more than a week after the telegrams had arrived, Ruby got up from her chair to go look out the window for the hundredth time, but before she could pull back the curtain, I heard the tinkling of a bicycle bell. I dropped my sewing to the floor and went running out and down the road without even thinking to bring my cane, flying faster than I’d ever done before. Paul came running after me. I snatched the telegram away before the delivery boy could even ask if I was Eva Van Dyver. My hands trembled as I read.
MORGAN FOUND SAFE. BROKEN LEG, BRUISES, NO MAJOR INJURIES. HOME IN SIX WEEKS. SLIM
Chapter 25
Dear Slim
Thank you for your letter and your good wishes to Paul and me, though I assure you I’m the lucky one, not Paul. But the deed has been done and now he’s stuck with me for good! We really are very happy together and every day I marvel at my good fortune.
It is truly so good to hear from you and know you are well too. We should have handled it this way all along. Morgan says thanks for your most recent letter. He’ll be answering it soon, but in the meantime sends his love. Thanks to you, he is recovering quickly and will be his old self in no time.
It bothers me too when you say that even though you are now so happy to know Morgan and want to find where you fit in his life, you are still filled with remorse about not doing it sooner. Please, don’t punish yourself that way. It took great courage, greater courage than I have, to sit down with a son who was a stranger to you and introduce yourself as his father. If there is blame to be handed out, I certainly must claim a share of it.
Oh, we have been through so much, together and separately, made so many mistakes and changed so much in the past twenty-odd years! It’s a wonder we bear any resemblance at all to what we were; two children, innocent and trusting, heedless and hopeful, walking hand and hand through a sea of wheat, ripe for harvest. Slim and Evangeline. I had begun to think of them as just shadows, memories or myths long dead, but now I think I was wrong. They are buried in us somewhere still. Perhaps the peace and the wisdom of years will yet wipe out some of our mistakes and bring those two innocents back to the surface. That is my hope for us all.
Sincerely,
Evangeline
The propeller sputters and hums quick and smart, as though it had been cranked only yesterday instead of sitting in mothballs for three years. It’s almost as if the old girl has been expecting him all this time and now wants to show him she’s fit and lively, as good as any fancy plane
he’d flown for the military. Watching him grin and yell, “Atta girl!” as the engine comes to life, talking to her encouragingly as he checks the tires and struts, leaning against her body and smiling with pleasure as he feels the purring vibration within, it’s clear Morgan sees his plane as more human than machine.
He hobbles carefully but confidently over to inspect the wing. He needs only one crutch now, more for balance than strength. Dr. Townsend sawed the heavy plaster cast off his right leg this morning. A beige-colored bandage is still wrapped around his foot where the two small toes were amputated because of gangrene. The doctor says once he gets the feel of walking without those toes, he’ll be right as rain, probably won’t even need a cane, though I’ve joked about lending him one of mine. Still, because of the injury, he’s classified 4-F for combat and is entitled to a discharge. So he’s pursued, and gotten, a position as a flight instructor at the new training base right up the road in Liberal.
He will start training P-38 pilots in a month, showing them how to mix their fuel the way Slim taught him, stretching their range another three or four hundred miles. It was that extra range that gave Morgan time to find an island where he could ditch his plane and wait for help. He was farther out than anyone thought possible, but Slim insisted the search area be expanded, knowing that Morgan would remember what he had been taught. Now Morgan will pass that knowledge on, and maybe another life will be saved. It makes me proud that after all he’s been through, he’s more determined than ever to keep flying.
Still, my heart beats a bit faster when I think of him flying again and all the things that can happen if a person is not careful.
“Now, Mama,” he hollers over the roar of the propeller, which has become a spinning blur, seemingly as anxious as Morgan himself is to be up and off, free of the weary earth. “I’ve got a box set up on that side for you to climb on after I’m in. Paul will give you a hand. If you’ll just let me steady myself on your shoulder, I think I can boost myself up.”
He lays a big hand on my shoulder and pushes himself backward onto the wing while I stand as still as I can, worried that one wobble will send us both tumbling to the ground, a tangle of weakened legs, crutch, and cane.
“Are you sure you’re up to this, Morgan?” I have to shout to make myself heard. “We’ve hardly got one good set of legs between us. Maybe we should wait until you’re stronger.”
“Mama, I’ve waited three years and I’m not waiting any longer! I feel better than ever. I’m young, I’m strong, and the wind’s behind me!” He yells even louder with the sheer joy of being alive, a wolf howling at the moon. “Look up there, Mama! This is my sky! I own it! Now, get up here, old woman, or I’m taking off without you!”
After climbing aboard I turn and wave at Paul, who smiles and waves back, his hat blown off and his hair standing on end in the bluster. “I’ll be right back,” I shout as we begin to pull away.
“I’ll be waiting right here!” His smile breaks into laughter, and I laugh with him, filled to bursting with the surprise and joy of that special knowledge that the man I love will be waiting for me.
We shudder down the landing strip, working and hopping and straining to break loose of the ribbon of runway that lies beneath us and upward into the cool, limitless edge of heaven. I see how right he is.
Everything is just as I left it, perfect. The view from above is unchanged, as miraculous as it was twenty years before, fresh and humbling as seeing it for the first time. I can barely make out Paul standing next to the car below, his face turned skyward, scanning the clouds for a look at me as I search the ground for a glimpse of him.
We fly southeast toward the farm. I see the house and barn outlined in shadow against the rich red and gold of the earth, just as I remember it from years before. I see Ruby run out of the house, alerted by the noise of the engine, and Mama following more slowly behind. Their faces aren’t clear from so far away, but their silhouettes are as dear and familiar to me as if touching their hands. I would know them perfectly were I standing on the surface of the moon.
I stitch my quilt from memory. People it with those I love. Ruby and Mama. Morgan, a boy with his father’s eyes. Papa, young again, his purple work shirt like a flag of courage. And Slim. And Paul. And me. Room enough for everyone, and the work not finished if even one is left out.
I reach out my hand to touch the wind, and the splendor of the skies reaches back, cool and welcoming, as though it had all been imagined for us and sits waiting patiently, rich and deep, waiting for those with hunger enough to journey on and heart enough to rise up, those who love life enough to be ready to lose it in the barest hope of seeing things from God’s perspective, the world new and unblemished, without war, or malice, or boundaries, or blame. Things as they might be.
Slim’s sky. Morgan’s sky. Mine, too.
Acknowledgments
There are probably few things more presumptuous than sitting down in front of a blank sheet of paper and saying, “I think I’ll start writing a novel today.” This is why books have acknowledgment pages, because every writer knows they never write alone.
Dozens of people were with me on this bold, exciting, frightening journey from idea to printed page. I wish to take a few lines to thank those who helped me reach the destination.
Many thanks to David Milofsky who first told me I was a writer and helped me to become a better one; to my husband, Brad, whose unseemly optimism helps me believe that anything is possible and truly believes, however wrongly, that everything I write is the best thing he ever read; to my mother, Margaret, and my sisters Betty, Donna, and Lori, who never hang up the phone without asking me if I wrote today and scolding if the answer is no; to my gallant sons, Alex, Trey, and Jackson, whose humor and zest for living bring me joy and endless inspiration; to my many encouraging friends who endured the reading of early drafts, especially Susan Witkow, Raynor Cunningham, Jane Burke, and Julie Naughton.
Thanks to the warm, welcoming, and generous people of the Oklahoma panhandle region; to the curators and volunteers of the Mid-America Air Museum and the Seward County Historical Museum; to librarians in towns big and small, especially those at the University of Oklahoma Library and the Liberal Memorial Library; to the nice people at the Bluebird Inn in Liberal, Kansas, who make the best breakfast in town.
Thanks to those who showed me the path through the no-man’s land that lies between finished manuscript and printed page; to my agent who has become my friend, Jill Grosjean, the patron saint of first-time novelists; to my editor, Audrey LaFehr, whose unfailingly kind and courteous manner always brings the word “lady” to my mind; to the good people at Kensington Books—publishers, editors, artists, copy editors, administrators, and support staff—who work so hard to put good books into reader’s hands.
Finally and foremost, thanks to the God of creation, my Heavenly Father, who gives me, and every writer, a world worth writing about.
A Special Chat with Marie Bostwick
I love to read almost as much as I love to write. If you came to visit me at my house in Connecticut, the first thing you’d notice is books: books on shelves, piled on desktops and nightstands, stacked on floors, with more arriving every week. It is impossible for me to walk by a bookstore without going inside, and once inside I’m sure to find just one more volume I can’t live without. One of the best things about reading is discussing a story with friends. I love that moment when someone says, “I really like the part when ...” and everyone gasps because that was their favorite part, too, and they all start talking at once, throwing out questions and observations, arguing over character choices, delighted to discover that someone else understands exactly how they feel.
One of the most satisfying things about writing FIELDS OF GOLD was finding that my reading friends were so eager to discuss the book. Though I have fielded a wide variety of questions about the book, readers do seem to have some common enquiries. I thought this might be a good place to address some of them, just in case you’ve h
ad some of the same questions as my other reading friends.
Whenever I read a book that is historically based, I always want to know which of the events really happened and which were the author’s invention. Many readers have wondered the same thing about this story so, first things first.
Charles Lindbergh did barnstorm in Texas and parts of Oklahoma for a couple of years in the early twenties. There’s no evidence that he had any romantic liaisons with any young women during that time; in fact, he seems to have been reserved and even a bit prudish as a young man. However, he was very good-looking, and it is not hard to imagine that the sight of the dashing young aviator may have brought a flutter to the heart of many a small town girl. Surely they tried to flirt with him, but did he respond? Who is to say? This is absolutely a work of fiction, though I have tried not to take literary license beyond the point of the believable. My historical standard was not so much what did happen as what could have happened. Lindbergh did go on a victory tour after his flight to Paris, and he did make a stop in Oklahoma City; who is to say that he couldn’t have stopped off to see Eva on the way? Of course, the conversations between Eva and Slim were invented, and my attempts to explain some of his less admirable actions and character traits are purely personal conjecture. However, in the arena of actual events such as the kidnapping, Lindbergh’s interest in eugenics, his work on developing an artificial heart, his involvement with the America First organization, and unofficial contributions to the war effort, including flying combat missions as a non-uniformed civilian and teaching pilots how to stretch their flight range, I tried to stay true to the historic record. The reality of his life was so fascinating that there was little need for imaginative embellishment.
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