CHAPTER 4

CEILING. GAS CAPACITY. WINGSPAN. Crosswinds. Throttle. Lift. Technical terms, words I needed to absorb, definitions I needed to memorize, as part of my new role.

Well-done roast beef. No sauces. Vegetables cooked to the point of desperation. Slices of white bread accompanying every meal. A different list, but no less important. And just as vital to my new role, my new life.

Had I ever been to college? Had I ever had an education? In those first weeks of marriage to the most famous man in the world (so famous that I received tearstained letters from ingénues accusing me of stealing their future husband; so famous that instead of the groom receiving the traditional congratulations, it was I who was thumped on the back; so famous that movie stars begged us to honeymoon at their estates and directors wanted to make feature-length movies about our wedding), I couldn’t believe that I had. For I had so very much left to learn.

I went from knowing nothing about my husband to being expected to know everything about him. His likes and dislikes regarding food (all of the above), his wardrobe demands (simply tailored suits in brown tweed, starched white shirts, plain neckties, and always those battered brown boots he had worn since his days flying the airmail, no matter the occasion). I was also expected to know his daily schedule, magically, intuitively; beginning the first full day of our married life.

That first morning, I overslept. Exhausted by all the preparations, the constant strain of keeping the press misdirected—we spent the week before our wedding driving out, in full view and pursuit, to various churches just to throw them off the scent—I overslept.

I was exhausted, as well, by my first night as a wife. His reluctance to kiss me in public notwithstanding, my husband turned out to be a very ardent lover in private. His hands—those strong, elegant hands that had so fascinated me in Mexico City—were insatiably curious as they first discovered, then claimed, every part of my body, awakening me to pleasure and pain, both. But mostly pleasure.

Pleasure, repeated, several times during the night, and so I rose late that first morning. We had decided to honeymoon on a new motorboat, as the entire world would be scanning the clouds for the “blissful, daring newlyweds of the sky.” The boat rocked gently, nudging me to wakefulness. I resisted, clinging to sleep. I was dreaming of my sister, of Elisabeth; she was twelve and I was ten, and she had hidden my favorite doll and wouldn’t tell me where it was, and she laughed at my tears.

Before I was fully awake, I was angry with her, threatening to tell on her to Mother; as I was pulled further into wakefulness by the warmth of the sun baking our galley bedroom, I remembered. I wasn’t ten, and I wasn’t angry at my sister, but she had been on my mind so much these past few weeks.

First the confusion the day after our accident, when the newspapers reported that Colonel Lindbergh and Miss Elisabeth Morrow had narrowly escaped death when their plane lost a wheel on takeoff. “I don’t understand,” Elisabeth kept saying when she called me at home that next morning; I could hear the rustle of a newspaper in her hand. “Why would they say I was even in New Jersey?”

“It was me,” I told her, explaining the situation. “I kept saying I was Miss Morrow. I never gave my first name.”

“You?” She kept repeating it, to my irritation. “You? Colonel Lindbergh came calling for you? And took you up?”

“Yes,” I said, over and over—itching to tell her the rest, but knowing I couldn’t until Charles had spoken with Mother and Daddy.

And then, when I could tell her the rest, right before Daddy’s office put out the tersely worded statement that Colonel Lindbergh would be marrying Miss Anne Morrow, the ambassador’s daughter, the papers got it all wrong again. They continued to report that it was Elisabeth, not me, who was “the luckiest young woman in the world today, having been chosen by the gallant Lindy to be his copilot for life.” Daddy’s office issued an even more tersely worded correction. And finally the newspapers appeared to remember that Ambassador Morrow did have another daughter, after all.

When Elisabeth and I were able to meet, soon after we announced the engagement, I ran to her with apologies already tumbling from my lips. “Oh, Elisabeth, what an awful mix-up in the newspapers! I’m so sorry, it’s not fair to you that they would make such a mistake. It makes you look like—like—”

“The jilted lover?” She laughed breezily, tossing her head—but I could see the hurt in her blue eyes.

“No, no, of course not, it’s just that—”

“Oh, Anne, I don’t care about the press! Honestly, not a whit! It’s just—it’s just—”

“What? What is it?”

My sister grabbed me by my shoulders, looking fiercely into my eyes as tears filled her own, and whispered, “Oh, but I do so want to be happy for you! I do want to! You must believe me!” Then she ran up to her room and shut the door. And from that moment on there was an awkwardness between us; our roles had changed so significantly, neither one of us knew how to behave. Elisabeth had always been the one, the golden child. I had always been content to stand in her shadow.

Overnight, I had turned Elisabeth, the beauty, the prize, into an old maid. A jilted old maid, at that. Even though she never accused me of this, I felt it. There were things on her mind that she wanted to say to me but could not; it was evident every time she changed the subject abruptly or couldn’t meet my gaze whenever Charles was in the room.

Still, she had attended me at my wedding, even making sure that Charles’s boutonniere was secure, and smiled brilliantly all through the ceremony.

And so my sister, not my husband, was on my mind when I finally awoke that first morning of my married life. Feeling vulnerable, exposed, it took me a moment to realize that I was naked beneath the musty-smelling, scratchy wool blanket. Remembering why I was naked, I smiled and reached out to my new husband—only to find an empty pillow.

“Charles?” I searched around the tiny, dank cabin adjacent to an equally tiny, dank galley kitchen—it smelled of fish and kerosene—for something to wear; spying a flannel robe that I didn’t recognize, and not even stopping to wonder whose it could be, I wrapped myself in it, pulled on some tennis shoes, and climbed the narrow ladder up to the deck.

My husband was bent over a table, looking nut-brown and extremely handsome in a heavy white fisherman’s sweater and a blue nautical cap; as much at home on the water as he was in the air. Even as I marveled at his hands tying slipknots on a thick white rope with the assurance of a seasoned sailor, I blushed; my skin was still tender from the memory of those hands gripping me.

“You’re up late,” he said, his piercing blue gaze sweeping over me, taking me all in; the robe was not cinched tightly around my waist, causing it to gape at the top of my thighs. I clutched the worn fabric, but Charles flushed anyway. Then he smiled.

“I know. I’m sorry.” I walked over to him, and for a moment didn’t know what to do. Should I kiss him? Hug him? The dusky intimacy of last night seemed to fade in the harsh daylight, and no longer was he my husband, my lover who cried out in the dark, over and over; once again he was Charles Lindbergh, the Lone Eagle.

And I still wasn’t accustomed to the notion that I had a right to be by his side.

I decided on a fond pat of his arm; he patted me back on the shoulder, and we both exhaled in relief. I told myself that we wouldn’t always be so tentative with each other, and I wanted to tell him this, too, but couldn’t find the words. Silence, I was learning—another thing to add to my syllabus!—was the response with which my husband felt most comfortable.

We both turned and surveyed the scenery; we were about a quarter-mile offshore. The dinghy in which we had rowed out to the cruiser was tied up and banging against the side of the boat. The sky was overcast; it was late May, so the air wasn’t yet heavy with the humidity of summer storms. There was scarcely any breeze.

“What’s our schedule?” I turned back to my husband with a playful smile; it was a honeymoon, after all. There was no schedule to be followed, except for lazy breakfasts, candlelit dinners—and more nights like the one we had just enjoyed. I’d even brought some of my poems to share with him; I imagined him reading them out loud by candlelight.

“I wanted to shove off at oh-eight-hundred. But you slept in, so now we’re behind schedule. There are tins of food down in the galley, so I’d like my breakfast. After you clean up—you must scrub out the head with bleach, of course, every day—I’ll lift anchor. I expect to make it to Block Island by twelve-hundred. I thought I spotted a plane earlier, about five miles west, so we shouldn’t linger too long.”

“But—” My head was dizzy with information; I couldn’t quite process it all. “Block Island? What will we do once we’re in Block Island? I know of a lovely little restaurant there, we could—”

“No restaurants. We’d be discovered. We need to stop for more supplies, and for fuel.”

“But I—I don’t really cook, you know. I took a couple of domestic science classes at Smith, but that was ages ago. I’m not sure I know how—”

“Then you’ll learn. You’ll have to learn, anyway, for when we fly together.”

“Oh, well, I thought that we’d—”

“You’ll find eggs, a rasher of bacon, and some powdered milk and coffee.” Charles nodded back toward the stairs below. “Once we’re under way, then I’ll get out the books and charts and we’ll begin.”

“Begin what? What books and charts? Charles, please slow down and be more specific!” My voice began to rise, but I was so bewildered and, yes, disappointed. What happened to my romantic honeymoon?

My husband sighed, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re going to learn to fly, as well as navigate. I’m planning a trip to the Orient to chart the routes for passenger flights. I’ll pilot, naturally, but you’ll need to know how, as well. You’ll serve as navigator.”

“I—I, navigate?” It was such an awesome word. Magellan navigated. Columbus navigated. Da Gama navigated. How could I do such a thing? “Are you sure?” I asked anxiously, twisting the tie of my robe in knots. “Are you sure you want me?”

“Of course. Who else would I want? Who else would I trust but you, my wife? I would like my eggs now, if you please.”

I could only stare at him, overwhelmed by all that was expected of me. Last night, I realized suddenly, had only just been the beginning. Charles Lindbergh had chosen me; that, in itself, had been enormous enough to absorb, and I hadn’t quite finished doing so. But now I began to understand what that really meant. I would be not only his wife but his copilot. I would not only make his eggs but steer his course to the Orient.

I started to say, “I’ll try,” but stopped myself just in time. I understood that “try” would not be an acceptable answer.

Instead I said, “Of course. How do you like them?”

“Over easy.”

“Perfect. That’s just how I like my own eggs.”

I did not like my eggs over easy. But it would be simpler, I knew, to pretend that I did.

Yet another thing I was learning. And so soon.

WE WERE DISCOVERED on Block Island. We went ashore to purchase more supplies, and a man said, “Hey, ain’t you that Lindbergh fellow? And his new bride?”

I tensed, ready to flee; to my great surprise, Charles simply scratched his nose and spit—two things I had never seen him do before.

“That Lindbergh fellow? Nah. What would he be doing here? I heard they flew to Maine, that’s what I heard.”

“Huh. Now that I think of it, you’re right. That’s what I heard on the radio, too.”

Charles turned to me with a wink, and I smothered a smile; I caught his joy, his mischievous delight at his deception as he grabbed my hand, for the first time ever in public. He held it tightly, even while we strolled leisurely through the little fisherman’s shack, loading up on eggs, cereal, and a can of coffee. (It had taken me three tries to make an acceptable pot that morning, and even then, all Charles would do was grunt and close his eyes as he drank it.)

I thrilled to be claimed in such a manner; that was the moment I felt well and truly married. Even the night before had not made me feel so possessed. I had surely only imagined Charles’s frozen look when I tiptoed up for my wedding kiss; I had misunderstood all those awkward poses for the photographers in the days leading up to our wedding, when Charles had never once touched me, never once smiled down at me, never once behaved in any way like a man in love.

Finally, here, in this rambling shack with buckets of worms in every corner, my husband did reach for me; he held on to me and at last all the tense, public weeks leading up to our wedding vanished, and we recaptured the intimate magic of the night he asked me to marry him. My heart did that crazy, weightless leap, like an airplane catching wing, and I could not stop myself from grinning. I even rubbed my face in the scratchy wool of his sweater, like a cat marking its territory. And I think he was surprised, and touched, when I did.

I never wanted to leave that shack; I didn’t want to break the spell of this miraculous, ordinary moment when a man and wife discussed the merits of cornflakes versus shredded wheat. I think I knew, even then, that moments like this between us would be too rare.

Oh, how did I know? Did I smell it, like an animal smells an intruder in the wind? Hear it, like an animal hears danger in a branch snapping? For we were animals, Charles and I, trapped, caught; as soon as we left the shack, still clinging to each other in the haze of our astonishing, teasing intimacy, we were surrounded by people and reporters and photographers.

“It’s them!” somebody cried, and we sprang apart, caught—doing what? I didn’t know; I felt only the shock of confusion, of guilt, as my heart beat wildly and my knees began to shake.

“Charles! Charles Lindbergh!” “Colonel!” “Anne!” “Mrs. Lindbergh! Annie!” “Look here!” “Look over here!” “How’s married life?” “Get any rest last night?” Guffaws, applause, questions, questions, and everywhere, people looking at me, staring at me, gaping at me from my head to my toes, and I blushed, knowing why. I’d heard of old-fashioned shivarees, when relatives and friends spied on newlyweds, rousing them out of their beds, making crude jokes of their intimacy. This was a shivaree, a most public shivaree, and I was mortified by what I knew they were all thinking.

“Charles? Charles?” I spun around, blindly; the flash powder was exploding and I could feel the crowd pressing closer and closer. What would happen when they got to us? Would they chew us up and spit us out, our bones picked clean? What was it Shakespeare had said about “a pound of flesh”? I couldn’t control my fears; I was imagining us both trampled on the dock, and I knew I was on the verge of my very first hysterics. I could feel everything moving faster and faster, utterly out of control, and I reached, blindly, for my husband.

“Move, Anne! Now!” Charles was pushing me ahead of him, simultaneously trying to shield me from the crowd and using me to clear a path. I twisted around to look back at him, but he hissed, “Go on!” His eyes were wild, but his face was that closed-off mask that I had first glimpsed in Mexico City.

I clutched the soggy bag of groceries to my chest, worried that I might break the eggs. Absurdly, I wondered if my hair was combed and knew that it wasn’t; it was streaming down my back, unkempt, like my clothes—a baggy sweater, dungarees, tennis shoes. I would be seen like this in every newspaper in the land. My heart sank. For this, ironically, would be my official wedding portrait. We had taken none at the ceremony, for fear someone would sell them.

So this was to be the photographic evidence of my marriage—this mad sprint through a shrieking, clutching gauntlet of reporters, fishermen, businessmen, women, and a startling number of children; people who, for some reason, had run to see us, who felt they had a right to see us, on our honeymoon. No one would remember my exquisite pale blue gown of French silk, the bouquet of lilies of the valley picked from the garden at Next Day Hill—all was a dream, a beautiful dream, now. So I ran, my head bowed, tears streaming down my cheeks.

Finally we reached the Mouette—the crowd chasing us as if we were fugitives—but discovered any escape was impossible. A mismatched flotilla of vessels—dinghies, canoes, fishing boats—were bobbing in the water just beyond the dock, boxing us in, their passengers standing on the decks and even, in one case, hanging from a mast. Simply to get a look at us.

“What do we do?” I turned around, sniffling, wiping my tears.

“Now I wish we had a plane,” Charles growled. “We’ll have to wait them out. Surely some policeman will eventually come and make them go away. I’ll radio for help once we’re inside the boat.”

A woman broke through the crowd and ran up to me.

“Charles!” Before I could understand what was happening, she reached out to me; Charles tried to step between us, but not before she had wrapped her arms around me and smothered me in an embrace.

“You dear girl, you! You keep him safe and happy, you hear? And may God bless you with a little Lindy as soon as possible!”

“I—I—” I squirmed out of her arms; she was round and smelled of fresh yeast, and her handbag kept hitting me on the side of the head.

“Please,” Charles said, pulling her away from me. “Please, leave us alone, all of you. We appreciate your good wishes, but we’d like to be left alone now.”

I stepped onto the slippery deck of the cruiser, miraculously managing to hold on to the groceries while falling hard on my knees. Charles helped me up and followed me down to the galley. He assisted in putting the groceries away, not commenting on my trembling hands, the tears that kept springing to my eyes even though I tried to blink them away.

I waited for him to comfort me, to wrap me in his arms and tell me it would be all right. He didn’t; he looked at his watch instead.

“Try to have dinner on the table at eighteen-hundred,” he said, ducking his head as he disappeared into our little cabin bedroom, where the ship-to-shore radio was. After a moment I heard his voice, calm, soothing, as he transmitted. Outside, there was still a great scuffle of feet on the dock, muffled, excited voices, but miraculously, no one came aboard the boat. Apparently everyone was content merely to stand on deck and watch and wait.

I twisted my hair into a knot at the back of my neck and splashed some water on my face. Charles came back into the galley with his arms full of books and charts; he spread them out on the little wobbly table while I cooked, or rather heated a tin of beef stew over the tiny gas burner and opened a loaf of that awful white bread.

“Don’t let them get to you, Anne,” he said, as he studied a page in one of the books and scribbled something on it. “Don’t let them make you cry. Never let them win.”

“I didn’t know we were at war.”

“Well, we are. I have been, ever since Paris. I’m sorry that you have to get caught up in it, too. But I’m also grateful that I no longer have to go through it alone.”

“You are?”

“Yes.” Then he did look at me, and smiled; it did what all his smiles—so few, I was beginning to understand; so precious—did to me. It made my heart soar, my skin prick with warmth and attention; it dried my tears and gave me courage.

So I served up our dinner in that impossible wobbly galley, illuminated only by one battery-powered lantern hanging from the ceiling, swinging hypnotically, casting long shadows across our faces.

After I cleared up, my husband began to teach me how to fly.

Once, I leaned over to get a better look at a diagram of an engine, and paused, ever so briefly, to rub my face in the sleeve of his sweater. With a soft sigh, he stroked my cheek and hugged me to him before he continued his instruction.

Meanwhile, just outside the boat, strangers kept chanting our names, an eerie incantation that plucked at my nerves.

And I knew that this was the bond we would share, that would bind us together forever. Not the experience of losing a wheel on takeoff. Not the passion of the night before, nor even the vows we had uttered, the promises we had made before our families.

No, it was the experience of being hunted. Of being two animals, prey, trying our best to fight off those who would do us harm, even as they wished us well.

TAILWIND. Vertical stabilizer. Longitudinal axis. Yaw.

Keep moving. Eyes down. Never smile. Never engage.

The list of things I needed to learn grew longer with each passing day. Yet I mastered them all. I had to. Without them, I never would have been able to survive in my new role as the aviator’s wife.