The Aviator's Wife by Melanie Benjamin
That my own family did not admire me for this stunned me.
“A new house? That’s wonderful,” Elisabeth enthused. “Connie, isn’t that wonderful?”
Connie nodded, not nearly so excited. “Yes, it is. It’s about time.”
“And I can’t wait to see the drawings,” Elisabeth gushed, her smile fiercely bright. I looked away, then glanced at my wristwatch. I rose in a great huff, which was somewhat marred by the fact that I had to hold on to Connie’s shoulder to get my balance.
“It’s getting late, and I should be going. I need to interview for a nanny, at some office on Park Avenue. A friend of Mother’s recommended a service—they specialize in Irish nursemaids, which Charles—which I gather is the thing to do.”
“Of course it is. And we must get back to interviewing these poor families, although I don’t really think we’re going to find anyone willing to travel to Englewood.” Elisabeth became animated, as if everything was all right again. “You know, Anne, you really should consider hiring someone from this neighborhood. Don’t you think it’s a good idea, in these terrible times? Everyone needs work, and Mother’s always so snobby about the servants. But you’re in a position to do some real good, you know.”
“Do you really think Colonel Lindbergh would allow such a thing?” Connie snorted with amusement, almost as if I wasn’t there. She was right—Charles never would allow such a thing. But my cheeks blazed with anger at hearing Connie say so in such a derisive way.
“I will be making the decisions concerning the household staff,” I told them coolly, if not entirely truthfully.
“That’s marvelous! Then you’ll consider it?” Elisabeth slid her arm about my nonexistent waist. “Anne, dearest, please don’t go away feeling as if we were ganging up on you.”
“I’m afraid I do feel that.” I sniffed, fussing with my gloves.
“I know, and I’m so sorry, dear. It’s just that we hardly ever get a chance to talk with you alone. And you know I am very—fond—of Charles, but—well, he’s such a strong personality, while you’re—”
“Weak?” I met my sister’s gaze head-on; she was the one who looked away first, her cheeks flushing prettily.
“No, of course not, Anne. Just sweet, and eager to please. What Connie and I are really saying is that you’re in such an important position now—you, on your own. Think what you could do with it—how much you could help others.”
“I had planned on an Irish nursemaid,” I repeated weakly—or, rather, sweetly.
Connie sat on the sofa, looking at me, her thick eyebrows arched in amusement. At that moment, I despised her solid self-righteousness. I also quaked at the idea of hiring a girl with no training, from a questionable background, to look after my baby.
“I’ll consider it,” I finally said, desperate to get away, to rush back to my refuge—back to Charles, who would be waiting for me. We always dined together; it was a rule. If one of us had to leave the house, we were always back in time for dinner unless we both went out; he said it was important for a husband and wife to establish this habit early. I agreed, of course. Why shouldn’t I agree to my husband’s desire to spend time with me? It was what I wanted, too.
“Fine, that’s all we’re asking,” Elisabeth said, as she walked me to the door. “I’ll see you back at home tonight.”
“No hard feelings, now, mind you,” Connie added. “You know I think you Morrows are the tops.”
“Good. Then take care of Elisabeth, will you? Make sure she gets home in plenty of time to rest.” I couldn’t help it; I wanted to treat my sister as childishly as she had treated me. Although I was worried about her. She seemed so delicate, so temporary, somehow. So wispy that even memory couldn’t hold her.
I hurried away from the two of them, standing side by side, framed by the doorway. Rushing down the hall to the reception room, I was truly worried now; I was going to be late for that appointment.
Just outside the window, Henry and the Rolls were waiting to whisk me away in luxury. I wouldn’t have to worry about a taxi. I never had to worry about a taxi. Or the subway. Or even dinner—of course, it would be waiting for me when I got home. I never had to worry about anything these days.
Our flying trips, when I had been so strong, so independent—so vital—seemed like a dimly recalled dream to me now. Could Charles and I be true partners only when we were in the sky, cut free from everyone else’s expectations?
I suddenly stopped in the middle of the crowded, stale room, and I made myself look around, meeting the gaze of every woman there. I needed to look at these women, these normal, earthbound women, with lives so very different from my own. I needed to see what they were like; who I might be if I were one of them. And I needed to see through my own eyes, not Charles’s. I was so used to seeing the world from behind him, or beside him; our view was always exactly the same. It was as if there was only one set of goggles between us.
So I took in the old-fashioned dresses, the head coverings, some tattered lace, others simple black. Most had dark eyes, thick hair, sallow skin; there were a few fair Irish-looking faces. But they were all women, tired women; women simply wanting help, wanting more for their children. Just as I would want for mine—with a warm flush of recognition, I felt a kinship with them that I could never feel while flying above them, looking down.
My coaxing smile only made them uneasy; most looked away. The few that did not stared at me with unconcealed resentment flickering in dark, hungry eyes. A couple looked frankly at my stomach; one wagged her head and said something that I couldn’t understand—and then she laughed.
“What’s she doing here?” I heard someone else mutter. “She’s rich.”
“She’s Colonel Lindbergh’s wife,” another whispered. “What’s she want?”
“I should go visit her,” a woman said loudly. “I bet they don’t have nits in their house!”
Several women burst into knowing laughter. I was rigid with mortification. There was no way I could walk outside the door and get into the Rolls now, for everyone would see that it belonged to me, and I was sick with shame for it; shame for who I was. Elisabeth and Connie ridiculed me for being a wife; these women ridiculed me for being rich.
Was it any wonder I stayed safely in my husband’s shadow, where, if anyone noticed me, they only admired me for keeping up with him? Was it any wonder I took refuge in the clouds, where I was strong and capable, more myself than I had ever been, could ever be, here on earth?
And what did two spinsters know, anyway? If I were married to a physician, I would be Mrs. Doctor. If I were married to an attorney, I would be Mrs. Lawyer. No married woman had a separate identity, not even my own mother, with all her education and energy. She was the senator’s wife, first and foremost. That I was married to an aviator made me different but no less dependent on my husband. That was one thing these women and I knew that my precious sister, with all her education and lofty ideals, did not.
Spurred by this discovery, I spun around and marched back to Elisabeth’s office. Without knocking, I opened the door.
“Elisabeth, what you don’t understand is—”
I froze, unable to speak; unable to absorb the scene before me.
Elisabeth was sitting in Connie’s lap, their arms about each other, their lips—their lips—upon each other’s. They didn’t spring apart—oh, why didn’t they spring apart? They remained where they were, only turning their heads to look at me for the longest moment. A moment in which I gasped, my insides lurching and plummeting as if I had just plunged down an elevator shaft. And I felt that I must have; I must have fallen into another world, another reality. This was not my sister. This could not be my sister.
And yet even as we three gazed at one another, and Elisabeth finally slid off Connie’s lap, her face scarlet, her body trembling, so many things suddenly made sense. The secret looks they always shared, the insouciance with which Elisabeth had always treated men, as if she had no use for them at all—and now, I saw, she hadn’t.
What I had assumed to be her jealousy at my marriage to Charles I now realized was her distaste for him, pure and simple. The strained awkwardness, the brutal shifting of our relationship, was not because I had stolen something from her that she wanted. But this realization was accompanied by a childish sense of disappointment. For deep down, hadn’t I enjoyed thinking that I had?
“Anne, please,” I heard my sister say, in a voice that sounded a million miles removed. “You mustn’t—”
I never heard what I mustn’t do; I turned and stumbled blindly through the lobby and out the door. Henry tucked me into the backseat with a rug, as if I was an invalid.
As we drove away, my mind still reeled from the image of the two women so entwined. Elisabeth? Kissing a woman—Connie?
No irregularities, Charles had said that night, when we camped out under the stars. Our children will be pure. I laid my hand upon my unborn child; it swam within my flesh, restless, innocent—
Pure.
“Are you all right, Miss Anne? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”
I shook my head. “Just drive, please, Henry.”
And I knew I could never tell anyone what I had seen. Not even—especially—Charles. Too many people could be hurt. For the sake of my child, my marriage, myself, no one must ever know. For the sake of my sister, most of all.
I had to protect Elisabeth as I had never been able to protect Dwight—but as I would have to protect my child when it was born. And I could. Like a magnet, I felt it pulling my thoughts and fears inward where they could be guarded, this strength, this steel that Charles had seen, that my mother had seen, but that had taken me so long to acknowledge.
And in acknowledging it, an unaccustomed contentment warmed my shaking limbs, calmed my rapid breathing, and I no longer worried about being late to the appointment, or whether or not Charles would be waiting dinner for me, or what those women in the reception room thought of me. None of that mattered, for I felt ready, now; ready for this baby.
Ready for motherhood; the one journey I must take where my husband could not accompany me.
CHAPTER 7
“LOOK AT THE CAMERA! Sweetheart, look at the camera!” I stood behind Charles, beaming at my son. Little Charlie sat in a high chair, waving a spoon, a tiny cake with one candle on the tray in front of him. Daddy and Mother stood behind me; we all waved and cooed and acted much more foolishly than the baby. He simply scowled at us all with comical gravity, his plump fist clutching the silver spoon, until finally he cocked his head as if pondering what strange creatures adults could be.
“Perfect,” Charles said, as he clicked the camera. “That’s a keeper.”
“Should we release it, then?” I walked over to the baby. Now that we had all stopped acting like trained monkeys, he had turned his attention to his cake and was demolishing it with his spoon, cooing and giggling at the mess he made. My heart soared, watching his complete bliss; how marvelous to be utterly content with a spoon and a pile of crumbs! How innocent, how sweet, my baby was! I longed to pick him up and wrap him in my arms as a way to preserve his innocence—to catch it, even, as if it were a giddy virus—but I fought the impulse by picking up a tea towel instead.
The maternal instinct must be smothered; I repeated this phrase to myself a hundred times a day. Charles and I had agreed to raise the baby according to the Watson method, then much in fashion. It was a strict scientific method—Charles Junior’s schedule was planned to the minute, feedings coming precisely the same time each day, along with nap time, playtime, et cetera. Nothing was left to chance, and, most important, the child was encouraged to develop on his own, without the unnecessary, potentially harmful, influence of maternal love and anxiety.
Immediately after his birth, I had been relieved to relinquish control of my child to this method; I couldn’t wait to resume my life with my husband, just the two of us, my body miraculously light and easy again, as if it could fly on its own accord. The nurse I had hired was given precise schedules and charts by which to run the temporary nursery at Next Day Hill. When we were home, we saw the baby only a few times a day; he was presented to us, much like an exotic specimen of flora or fauna to be admired. And when he was placed in my arms, wrapped and pinned into a neat little bundle, I didn’t know what to do. Because I felt no attachment to the squalling, red-faced creature whose greatest desire appeared to be a myopic determination to suck his fist.
I knew he was mine; I remembered struggling out of the fog of ether after he was born, seeing the deep cleft in the chin, exactly like Charles’s, and smiling in relief that he did not look like me; his nose was button-perfect, and his eyes did not slant downward. I felt a bit like a princess, actually, as I fell back against my pillows with a contented sigh; I had done my job. I had produced the heir that Charles—the entire world—had so desired. While I recuperated upstairs, downstairs my parents’ doorbell kept ringing for days, as bushels of congratulatory telegrams were delivered, along with flowers and gifts—Louis B. Mayer sent a small movie camera; Al Jolson offered to come to the house and sing “Sonny Boy” to him in person; Will Rogers sent him a pony. The Sunday after his birth, churches all across the land singled out my child for special prayers; musicians composed lullabies in his honor; schools were named after him. Some in Congress suggested his birth be declared a national holiday.
And Charles, that day—I’d never before seen him so worried, and then so proud when it was all over. Even more proud than when I first soloed in an airplane. He had held my hand until the pains got too much for me and I was put under—and the memory of him beside me, never wandering off to have a cigar or do any of the distracting things men usually did at a time like that, remained with me, each detail etched in my heart. His worried brow, usually so smooth and implacable; his soothing murmurs, not real words at all, and this from a man who was usually so economic with his speech.
And then his face, when I awoke—his mouth open in astonishment as he held his son, gazing down at him as if he were a miracle, as if he’d never believed this could be the logical result of the previous nine months. Charles’s face was stripped of that polite mask he wore so much of the time, naked with hope and wonder.
So it was my husband’s behavior, his vulnerability and concern for me, that I most cherished that day—not the miraculous fact of our child. Little wonder, then, that it took me a while to appreciate him.
By now, his first birthday, I had. I had fallen in love with my son in approximately the same time it had taken me to fall in love with his father. Not immediately, but over a series of increasingly precious events. The first time he smiled and we were sure it wasn’t gas. The first time he waved when he saw me enter a room. The first time I could brush his curls—reddish blond, just like Charles’s. The first time he sat in my lap and peered intently into my face, patting me on the cheeks, studying me almost as clinically as his father sometimes did—as if trying to memorize me.
I had my heart shattered, as well—just like any woman who falls in love: the first time he said, “Mama,” and looked at the nurse instead of me.
“I suppose I should release one of these photos,” Charles said now, as he put the lens cap back on our Kodak. “Perhaps it would satisfy those vultures, those newspapermen. At the very least, it would give them something new to write about except breadlines and Hoovervilles.”
It was June 1931; the Depression was no longer a nightmarish notion but a grim reality. Yet here in the beckoning warmth of the early summer sun, it was easy to imagine that we were removed, charmed, as if in a fairy tale of our own at Next Day Hill. Mother and Daddy were temporarily home from Washington, where he was now the junior senator from New Jersey. Dwight was doing better, working with a tutor while he continued to stay at a sanitarium in Massachusetts. Con was home from school for the summer.
The gardens seemed to have exploded overnight, struggling early shoots replaced with enormous blossoms and garishly-flowering bushes. The lawn was so green as to look artif
icial, tidy and manicured, dutifully cared for by an army of gardeners. My baby’s birthday cake had been lovingly frosted by the cook. Betty Gow, our new nurse, was hovering in the background in her light denim nurse’s dress, a blue sweater around her shoulders, ready to remove the baby, should he begin to fuss.
But there were shadows gathering near the manicured borders of our little world. “If you don’t release a photo for his birthday,” I told Charles, as the others went inside to get the presents, “the newspapers are sure to start up that nonsense again about the baby being deformed.”
“I don’t like offering up my son like ransom,” Charles muttered, looking about the garden as if, even now, a photographer might be lurking behind a tree. “Why do they care?”
“If we don’t give them some information, they print the most awful things on their own. We didn’t release a photograph after he was born, so they retaliated by saying he was—he was a freak.”
“You shouldn’t care what they print. I’ve told you so many times.” Charles scowled down at me. Against the brilliance of this sky, his eyes did not look quite so blue, although they were clear and steady as always. His brow was still forbidding and noble; unlined, even though he was almost thirty. He looked very much like the earnest young man who landed in Paris, except that his reddish-blond hair was beginning to recede a little. And he had faint crinkles around his eyes.
“I’m his mother. Naturally, I care what is said about my child, Charles. Naturally, I don’t want people saying that he’s deformed,” I explained, wondering why it was necessary to do so.
Did I look any different to him, after two years of marriage? I was a trifle more plump after the baby, mainly around my hips. I was glad that the fashions had changed, that the slim, boyish figure prized in the twenties was no longer in vogue.
“I know you care.” Charles looked bewildered, shaking his head. But his expression changed as he gazed at his son; it softened, then turned impish in a flash; his lips curled up into a gremlin’s grin. Before I could stop him, he had snatched the spoon out of the baby’s hands.
“A new house? That’s wonderful,” Elisabeth enthused. “Connie, isn’t that wonderful?”
Connie nodded, not nearly so excited. “Yes, it is. It’s about time.”
“And I can’t wait to see the drawings,” Elisabeth gushed, her smile fiercely bright. I looked away, then glanced at my wristwatch. I rose in a great huff, which was somewhat marred by the fact that I had to hold on to Connie’s shoulder to get my balance.
“It’s getting late, and I should be going. I need to interview for a nanny, at some office on Park Avenue. A friend of Mother’s recommended a service—they specialize in Irish nursemaids, which Charles—which I gather is the thing to do.”
“Of course it is. And we must get back to interviewing these poor families, although I don’t really think we’re going to find anyone willing to travel to Englewood.” Elisabeth became animated, as if everything was all right again. “You know, Anne, you really should consider hiring someone from this neighborhood. Don’t you think it’s a good idea, in these terrible times? Everyone needs work, and Mother’s always so snobby about the servants. But you’re in a position to do some real good, you know.”
“Do you really think Colonel Lindbergh would allow such a thing?” Connie snorted with amusement, almost as if I wasn’t there. She was right—Charles never would allow such a thing. But my cheeks blazed with anger at hearing Connie say so in such a derisive way.
“I will be making the decisions concerning the household staff,” I told them coolly, if not entirely truthfully.
“That’s marvelous! Then you’ll consider it?” Elisabeth slid her arm about my nonexistent waist. “Anne, dearest, please don’t go away feeling as if we were ganging up on you.”
“I’m afraid I do feel that.” I sniffed, fussing with my gloves.
“I know, and I’m so sorry, dear. It’s just that we hardly ever get a chance to talk with you alone. And you know I am very—fond—of Charles, but—well, he’s such a strong personality, while you’re—”
“Weak?” I met my sister’s gaze head-on; she was the one who looked away first, her cheeks flushing prettily.
“No, of course not, Anne. Just sweet, and eager to please. What Connie and I are really saying is that you’re in such an important position now—you, on your own. Think what you could do with it—how much you could help others.”
“I had planned on an Irish nursemaid,” I repeated weakly—or, rather, sweetly.
Connie sat on the sofa, looking at me, her thick eyebrows arched in amusement. At that moment, I despised her solid self-righteousness. I also quaked at the idea of hiring a girl with no training, from a questionable background, to look after my baby.
“I’ll consider it,” I finally said, desperate to get away, to rush back to my refuge—back to Charles, who would be waiting for me. We always dined together; it was a rule. If one of us had to leave the house, we were always back in time for dinner unless we both went out; he said it was important for a husband and wife to establish this habit early. I agreed, of course. Why shouldn’t I agree to my husband’s desire to spend time with me? It was what I wanted, too.
“Fine, that’s all we’re asking,” Elisabeth said, as she walked me to the door. “I’ll see you back at home tonight.”
“No hard feelings, now, mind you,” Connie added. “You know I think you Morrows are the tops.”
“Good. Then take care of Elisabeth, will you? Make sure she gets home in plenty of time to rest.” I couldn’t help it; I wanted to treat my sister as childishly as she had treated me. Although I was worried about her. She seemed so delicate, so temporary, somehow. So wispy that even memory couldn’t hold her.
I hurried away from the two of them, standing side by side, framed by the doorway. Rushing down the hall to the reception room, I was truly worried now; I was going to be late for that appointment.
Just outside the window, Henry and the Rolls were waiting to whisk me away in luxury. I wouldn’t have to worry about a taxi. I never had to worry about a taxi. Or the subway. Or even dinner—of course, it would be waiting for me when I got home. I never had to worry about anything these days.
Our flying trips, when I had been so strong, so independent—so vital—seemed like a dimly recalled dream to me now. Could Charles and I be true partners only when we were in the sky, cut free from everyone else’s expectations?
I suddenly stopped in the middle of the crowded, stale room, and I made myself look around, meeting the gaze of every woman there. I needed to look at these women, these normal, earthbound women, with lives so very different from my own. I needed to see what they were like; who I might be if I were one of them. And I needed to see through my own eyes, not Charles’s. I was so used to seeing the world from behind him, or beside him; our view was always exactly the same. It was as if there was only one set of goggles between us.
So I took in the old-fashioned dresses, the head coverings, some tattered lace, others simple black. Most had dark eyes, thick hair, sallow skin; there were a few fair Irish-looking faces. But they were all women, tired women; women simply wanting help, wanting more for their children. Just as I would want for mine—with a warm flush of recognition, I felt a kinship with them that I could never feel while flying above them, looking down.
My coaxing smile only made them uneasy; most looked away. The few that did not stared at me with unconcealed resentment flickering in dark, hungry eyes. A couple looked frankly at my stomach; one wagged her head and said something that I couldn’t understand—and then she laughed.
“What’s she doing here?” I heard someone else mutter. “She’s rich.”
“She’s Colonel Lindbergh’s wife,” another whispered. “What’s she want?”
“I should go visit her,” a woman said loudly. “I bet they don’t have nits in their house!”
Several women burst into knowing laughter. I was rigid with mortification. There was no way I could walk outside the door and get into the Rolls now, for everyone would see that it belonged to me, and I was sick with shame for it; shame for who I was. Elisabeth and Connie ridiculed me for being a wife; these women ridiculed me for being rich.
Was it any wonder I stayed safely in my husband’s shadow, where, if anyone noticed me, they only admired me for keeping up with him? Was it any wonder I took refuge in the clouds, where I was strong and capable, more myself than I had ever been, could ever be, here on earth?
And what did two spinsters know, anyway? If I were married to a physician, I would be Mrs. Doctor. If I were married to an attorney, I would be Mrs. Lawyer. No married woman had a separate identity, not even my own mother, with all her education and energy. She was the senator’s wife, first and foremost. That I was married to an aviator made me different but no less dependent on my husband. That was one thing these women and I knew that my precious sister, with all her education and lofty ideals, did not.
Spurred by this discovery, I spun around and marched back to Elisabeth’s office. Without knocking, I opened the door.
“Elisabeth, what you don’t understand is—”
I froze, unable to speak; unable to absorb the scene before me.
Elisabeth was sitting in Connie’s lap, their arms about each other, their lips—their lips—upon each other’s. They didn’t spring apart—oh, why didn’t they spring apart? They remained where they were, only turning their heads to look at me for the longest moment. A moment in which I gasped, my insides lurching and plummeting as if I had just plunged down an elevator shaft. And I felt that I must have; I must have fallen into another world, another reality. This was not my sister. This could not be my sister.
And yet even as we three gazed at one another, and Elisabeth finally slid off Connie’s lap, her face scarlet, her body trembling, so many things suddenly made sense. The secret looks they always shared, the insouciance with which Elisabeth had always treated men, as if she had no use for them at all—and now, I saw, she hadn’t.
What I had assumed to be her jealousy at my marriage to Charles I now realized was her distaste for him, pure and simple. The strained awkwardness, the brutal shifting of our relationship, was not because I had stolen something from her that she wanted. But this realization was accompanied by a childish sense of disappointment. For deep down, hadn’t I enjoyed thinking that I had?
“Anne, please,” I heard my sister say, in a voice that sounded a million miles removed. “You mustn’t—”
I never heard what I mustn’t do; I turned and stumbled blindly through the lobby and out the door. Henry tucked me into the backseat with a rug, as if I was an invalid.
As we drove away, my mind still reeled from the image of the two women so entwined. Elisabeth? Kissing a woman—Connie?
No irregularities, Charles had said that night, when we camped out under the stars. Our children will be pure. I laid my hand upon my unborn child; it swam within my flesh, restless, innocent—
Pure.
“Are you all right, Miss Anne? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”
I shook my head. “Just drive, please, Henry.”
And I knew I could never tell anyone what I had seen. Not even—especially—Charles. Too many people could be hurt. For the sake of my child, my marriage, myself, no one must ever know. For the sake of my sister, most of all.
I had to protect Elisabeth as I had never been able to protect Dwight—but as I would have to protect my child when it was born. And I could. Like a magnet, I felt it pulling my thoughts and fears inward where they could be guarded, this strength, this steel that Charles had seen, that my mother had seen, but that had taken me so long to acknowledge.
And in acknowledging it, an unaccustomed contentment warmed my shaking limbs, calmed my rapid breathing, and I no longer worried about being late to the appointment, or whether or not Charles would be waiting dinner for me, or what those women in the reception room thought of me. None of that mattered, for I felt ready, now; ready for this baby.
Ready for motherhood; the one journey I must take where my husband could not accompany me.
CHAPTER 7
“LOOK AT THE CAMERA! Sweetheart, look at the camera!” I stood behind Charles, beaming at my son. Little Charlie sat in a high chair, waving a spoon, a tiny cake with one candle on the tray in front of him. Daddy and Mother stood behind me; we all waved and cooed and acted much more foolishly than the baby. He simply scowled at us all with comical gravity, his plump fist clutching the silver spoon, until finally he cocked his head as if pondering what strange creatures adults could be.
“Perfect,” Charles said, as he clicked the camera. “That’s a keeper.”
“Should we release it, then?” I walked over to the baby. Now that we had all stopped acting like trained monkeys, he had turned his attention to his cake and was demolishing it with his spoon, cooing and giggling at the mess he made. My heart soared, watching his complete bliss; how marvelous to be utterly content with a spoon and a pile of crumbs! How innocent, how sweet, my baby was! I longed to pick him up and wrap him in my arms as a way to preserve his innocence—to catch it, even, as if it were a giddy virus—but I fought the impulse by picking up a tea towel instead.
The maternal instinct must be smothered; I repeated this phrase to myself a hundred times a day. Charles and I had agreed to raise the baby according to the Watson method, then much in fashion. It was a strict scientific method—Charles Junior’s schedule was planned to the minute, feedings coming precisely the same time each day, along with nap time, playtime, et cetera. Nothing was left to chance, and, most important, the child was encouraged to develop on his own, without the unnecessary, potentially harmful, influence of maternal love and anxiety.
Immediately after his birth, I had been relieved to relinquish control of my child to this method; I couldn’t wait to resume my life with my husband, just the two of us, my body miraculously light and easy again, as if it could fly on its own accord. The nurse I had hired was given precise schedules and charts by which to run the temporary nursery at Next Day Hill. When we were home, we saw the baby only a few times a day; he was presented to us, much like an exotic specimen of flora or fauna to be admired. And when he was placed in my arms, wrapped and pinned into a neat little bundle, I didn’t know what to do. Because I felt no attachment to the squalling, red-faced creature whose greatest desire appeared to be a myopic determination to suck his fist.
I knew he was mine; I remembered struggling out of the fog of ether after he was born, seeing the deep cleft in the chin, exactly like Charles’s, and smiling in relief that he did not look like me; his nose was button-perfect, and his eyes did not slant downward. I felt a bit like a princess, actually, as I fell back against my pillows with a contented sigh; I had done my job. I had produced the heir that Charles—the entire world—had so desired. While I recuperated upstairs, downstairs my parents’ doorbell kept ringing for days, as bushels of congratulatory telegrams were delivered, along with flowers and gifts—Louis B. Mayer sent a small movie camera; Al Jolson offered to come to the house and sing “Sonny Boy” to him in person; Will Rogers sent him a pony. The Sunday after his birth, churches all across the land singled out my child for special prayers; musicians composed lullabies in his honor; schools were named after him. Some in Congress suggested his birth be declared a national holiday.
And Charles, that day—I’d never before seen him so worried, and then so proud when it was all over. Even more proud than when I first soloed in an airplane. He had held my hand until the pains got too much for me and I was put under—and the memory of him beside me, never wandering off to have a cigar or do any of the distracting things men usually did at a time like that, remained with me, each detail etched in my heart. His worried brow, usually so smooth and implacable; his soothing murmurs, not real words at all, and this from a man who was usually so economic with his speech.
And then his face, when I awoke—his mouth open in astonishment as he held his son, gazing down at him as if he were a miracle, as if he’d never believed this could be the logical result of the previous nine months. Charles’s face was stripped of that polite mask he wore so much of the time, naked with hope and wonder.
So it was my husband’s behavior, his vulnerability and concern for me, that I most cherished that day—not the miraculous fact of our child. Little wonder, then, that it took me a while to appreciate him.
By now, his first birthday, I had. I had fallen in love with my son in approximately the same time it had taken me to fall in love with his father. Not immediately, but over a series of increasingly precious events. The first time he smiled and we were sure it wasn’t gas. The first time he waved when he saw me enter a room. The first time I could brush his curls—reddish blond, just like Charles’s. The first time he sat in my lap and peered intently into my face, patting me on the cheeks, studying me almost as clinically as his father sometimes did—as if trying to memorize me.
I had my heart shattered, as well—just like any woman who falls in love: the first time he said, “Mama,” and looked at the nurse instead of me.
“I suppose I should release one of these photos,” Charles said now, as he put the lens cap back on our Kodak. “Perhaps it would satisfy those vultures, those newspapermen. At the very least, it would give them something new to write about except breadlines and Hoovervilles.”
It was June 1931; the Depression was no longer a nightmarish notion but a grim reality. Yet here in the beckoning warmth of the early summer sun, it was easy to imagine that we were removed, charmed, as if in a fairy tale of our own at Next Day Hill. Mother and Daddy were temporarily home from Washington, where he was now the junior senator from New Jersey. Dwight was doing better, working with a tutor while he continued to stay at a sanitarium in Massachusetts. Con was home from school for the summer.
The gardens seemed to have exploded overnight, struggling early shoots replaced with enormous blossoms and garishly-flowering bushes. The lawn was so green as to look artif
But there were shadows gathering near the manicured borders of our little world. “If you don’t release a photo for his birthday,” I told Charles, as the others went inside to get the presents, “the newspapers are sure to start up that nonsense again about the baby being deformed.”
“I don’t like offering up my son like ransom,” Charles muttered, looking about the garden as if, even now, a photographer might be lurking behind a tree. “Why do they care?”
“If we don’t give them some information, they print the most awful things on their own. We didn’t release a photograph after he was born, so they retaliated by saying he was—he was a freak.”
“You shouldn’t care what they print. I’ve told you so many times.” Charles scowled down at me. Against the brilliance of this sky, his eyes did not look quite so blue, although they were clear and steady as always. His brow was still forbidding and noble; unlined, even though he was almost thirty. He looked very much like the earnest young man who landed in Paris, except that his reddish-blond hair was beginning to recede a little. And he had faint crinkles around his eyes.
“I’m his mother. Naturally, I care what is said about my child, Charles. Naturally, I don’t want people saying that he’s deformed,” I explained, wondering why it was necessary to do so.
Did I look any different to him, after two years of marriage? I was a trifle more plump after the baby, mainly around my hips. I was glad that the fashions had changed, that the slim, boyish figure prized in the twenties was no longer in vogue.
“I know you care.” Charles looked bewildered, shaking his head. But his expression changed as he gazed at his son; it softened, then turned impish in a flash; his lips curled up into a gremlin’s grin. Before I could stop him, he had snatched the spoon out of the baby’s hands.