Melanie Benjamin - The Aviator's Wife

I remembered my letter; my reward. A sly, womanly smile nudged my lips—I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I was startled by how ripe I looked, how my eyes sparkled, my skin seemed to glow. I ran back to the entry table, but the letter was not there—although all my other mail was, bills, a few letters from friends and readers—all addressed to “Mrs. Charles Lindbergh.”

“Now, where on earth?” I muttered, turning around to go back to my bedroom.

But suddenly Anne was standing before me, her face red—a piece of paper in her hand.

“What are you—oh.” It was the letter. I stared thoughtfully at her for a long moment. Then I said, “I don’t believe that was meant for you.”

“I—it said ‘Anne Lindbergh,’ and I thought it meant me, so—”

“So you opened it.” I continued to gaze at my daughter, whose face reflected an avalanche of emotions, one tumbling right after the other—guilt, horror, anger, disbelief.

While I was icy calm. Not one bit ashamed—and this did not altogether surprise me. Once, long ago—before I became the aviator’s wife—hadn’t I wanted to be an old lady with a mysterious smile, remembering the scandalous affairs of her youth? It was that girl, that passionate young girl, to whom the letter was addressed.

And it was that girl who stood erect, chin lifted, eyes gleaming with pride and triumph, when confronted with indisputable evidence of her passion. Evidence in the hands of her own daughter.

“Mother, are you—are you in love ? With Dr. Atchley?”

“Yes,” I said, then held my hand out. Ansy, her own hand trembling, placed the letter in my palm. “Now, have you tried your clothes on? Are you sure everything fits?”

“Yes,” she whispered. Then we retreated to our separate rooms. And, both excellent pupils of the best teacher in the world—

We never discussed the matter again.

AFTER THAT DINNER WITH CHARLES, I made my peace with the house in Darien. Once, I thought I had to leave him in order to be free; now, I realized, I only had to stay. So I started to invite friends out to spend the weekends. Male friends, mostly. I didn’t think it was a conscious decision, not at first, but soon, to my delight, I had acquired a coterie of admirers; men whom I had known, always, but never seen, dazzled as I was by the shining light of my hero husband.

Now, breaking free from his spell—the spell I had helped him cast—I looked beyond and saw these men, and summoned them. Enthroned upon my cushioned chair like the Queen of Sheba, no longer in the shadow of anyone—not my sister, not my husband—I thrilled to the sensation of being beguiled, instead of beguiling. I nodded thoughtfully, I smiled mysteriously. My laughter purred, my voice acquired a honeyed huskiness.

For the first time in my life, I purchased silk lingerie, luxuriating in the rich sensation against my skin as I reclined, a cocktail in my hand; giddily imagining the astonishment, the tortured gasps, if I allowed it to be discovered.

Corliss Lamont, who had carried a torch for me since we were children, came when I beckoned, eagerly reciting eccentric poetry while I did my best to keep a straight face. But I flushed when he gazed at me in his eager, puppy-dog-like way. So I asked him to recite more.

Alan Valentine, an academic, former president of the University of Rochester; he found his way to my terrace, where we would sip drinks and discuss politics and literature and, oh, just about anything we wanted; there were no subjects off-limits and my skin tingled when he grasped my hand to make a point, or brushed the hair out of my eyes if I argued too excitedly.

And Dana Atchley. He, too, came to my terrace— come into my parlor, said the spider! I was the spider, casting an enchanting web about these men who seemed to think I needed rescuing. Maybe they were right. Although I never allowed more than worshipful gazes, passionate letters. I enjoyed playing, teasing— imagining , just as I used to when I was a young girl. I also enjoyed praying at night for forgiveness, secure in the knowledge I’d not really done anything in need of forgiving.

Until Dana. My dearest Dana.

When did it start with Dana? Emotionally, with my operation, I suppose; the one to remove my gallbladder. Right before I went under the anesthesia, alone, vulnerable, sure that I was about to die, I reached for his hand because my husband wasn’t there. “Call me Anne,” I whispered, convinced that he was the last person who would ever say my name. “Please?”

“All right. Anne.” And he grabbed my hand, instinctively knowing I needed to feel someone warm and alive and reassuring. His eyes—behind his thick glasses—were the kindest I had ever seen, the most sympathetic. They did not judge; they did not challenge. They simply saw. And found beauty in everything; even a frightened housewife with unkempt hair and a sheet for a dress.

Up until that point, we had been “Mrs. Lindbergh” and “Dr. Atchley.” Afterward, we were “Anne” and “Dana.” After my regular appointments, we found ourselves lingering for hours in his office at Columbia-Presbyterian, talking about everything. Once, I even scolded him for spending time with me instead of his wife. “Don’t do this,” I cautioned him, after we’d exclaimed at the lateness of the hour. “Go home to her. Don’t make your work your life.”

“I’d hardly call this work, Anne.” He smiled. But then he removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s hell at home. You don’t know.”

Oh, we discussed—everything! Everything our hearts were weary of containing. My writing, his patients, the world, our children. It didn’t seem wrong to discuss our children with each other, at least not then. We were friends, we assured each other solemnly. Friends who corresponded almost on a daily basis, sending letters back and forth. His “blue pills,” he called mine, for I wrote on a light blue stationery.

As friends do, we even sometimes vacationed together with our spouses; Charles liked and admired him, although neither of us really cared much for his wife. The children all knew and loved him as the family doctor. And we might have gone on that way; he might have remained one of my small coterie of chaste admirers, those men who knew that they could never really compete with Lucky Lindy, but enjoyed sipping cocktails on his terrace with his neglected, charming wife and wondering, “what if?”

But there came a time when I wanted more; my skin longed to be caressed by something warmer than silk lingerie. I wanted, I desired, I sought—so I took. I took more than I thought I was allowed, for the first time in my life; no longer the disciplined little girl my father admired, or the obedient wife my husband trained. I stepped through the looking glass to find the passionate woman who had been waiting for me, all these years.

Buoyed by the slightly tipsy flattery of a few middle-aged men as unhappy in their marriages as I was in mine, one day I took the train into New York and checked in at the Plaza. I came to the city frequently, of course, but it seemed that always I was either accompanied by a child or lunching with Con at the Cosmopolitan Club.

For the first time, however, I truly felt on my own, an adult, with adult decisions to make. My heart beat fast, as if on a grand adventure. Silly , I scolded myself; you’ve visited here a thousand times before . But not since I was a girl, coming in on the weekend from Smith with my college friends, had I felt so defiantly independent. I was going to rent an apartment, and even though Charles knew and approved, still I felt reckless and daring. And I had the entire city from which to choose! I threw myself into apartment hunting as I’d never thrown myself into house hunting before, when Charles had made most of the decisions.