Melanie Benjamin - The Aviator's Wife

Below, crowds of schoolchildren, families on holiday, a few stray men, gazed up at it. A schoolteacher read aloud the words from a plaque beneath it:

“On May twenty-first, 1927, Charles Lindbergh completed the first solo nonstop transatlantic flight in history, flying the Spirit of Saint Louis three thousand six hundred and ten miles from Long Island, New York, to Paris, France, in thirty-three hours, thirty minutes.”

I studied Charles as the teacher spoke; his face did not betray any emotion. He gazed at his plane with that clear, determined look of his, unchanged despite the fact that the boy was finally an old man. But his skin did flush, faintly. I wondered what he was thinking; what he was seeing. Did he look at this plane—an antique now, almost a toy, inconceivable that it had once represented the most modern of technology—and wonder at himself, at his bravery, at the impudence of that boy? Did he wish himself back to that time? Did he wish it had never happened?

I gazed at it, and couldn’t help but think of the launch site in Florida, and Mission Control in Houston; of the hundreds of men, the computers, the constant contact between the earth and the spaceship—the final destination, the moon itself, always in sight. Then I thought of Charles, flying alone in a fog most of the time with no clear view out of his side window. And with no one to talk to, no one to monitor his position, his coordinates, his vital signs. He had no one but himself to rely on; no one but himself to blame if something went wrong.

And I knew, as I had always known but somehow forgotten to remember in these past years, that I could never have done it, that no one else could ever have done it. That I would never know anyone as brave, as astonishing—as frustrating, too, but that was, I was forced to admit finally, part of his charm—as the slightly stooped elderly gentleman standing beside me in the shadows, listening while schoolchildren read of his exploits. The man who was, for better, for worse, my husband. The man who I loved, in spite of himself.

“No,” I said softly, so as not to call attention to us.

“No, what?” He turned to me, startled out of his own contemplation.

“No, I’m not sorry I married you.”

“Oh.” After a long moment, he smiled, almost in surprise; as if recognizing in me a long, lost friend.

Then he turned back to look at his plane. And he reached for my hand, as he did.

A CUTE PROMYELOCYTIC LEUKEMIA —that was the diagnosis. For months, Charles had been tired—so uncharacteristic for him. He’d lost weight, sweated profusely at night. With his attention to detail, his methodical way of dealing with things, he made a list of his symptoms, monitored them over time, then checked himself in for tests.

He called me, late one evening in 1972. I was in Darien, relaxing in the living room, a fire burning in the fireplace. Charles spent fifteen minutes asking how the weather was, if I had enough firewood stacked, were the raccoons getting into the trash cans, if I had remembered to get the mail in. He wanted to know if I had eaten an early dinner (much better, in his view), or would I dine late, how much it had cost, and reminded me to enter the amount in my accounting book.

All that settled, there was a pause on the other end of the phone line. Through my kitchen door I heard the sound of cocktails being made; the tinkle of glassware, the cracking of ice cubes. Impatiently, I glanced at the clock over the fireplace; I didn’t want to spend this precious time on the phone.

“Charles, if that’s all—”

“I have cancer. Acute promyelocytic leukemia. The doctors were very forthcoming in their prognosis, at my insistence. It is in the early stages, and they recommend radiation treatment.”

“My God.” I plopped down on the davenport as if someone had kicked my legs out from under me.

“I know this is an inconvenience, but could you come into the city tomorrow?”

“Where are you? When did you get in? I thought you were in the Philippines!”

“At Columbia-Presbyterian. I arrived two days ago. Can you get in touch with Dr. Atchley? Apparently he’s not on call today.”

“Yes, I believe so.” Even though he couldn’t see me, my face glowed.

“Could you please ask him for the name of the best oncologist in New York? I think my doctors are adequate, but given the diagnosis, I would feel it shortsighted not to get another opinion.”

“Of course, Charles—are you… are you all right? I mean, of course you’re not. But how are you taking this?” Although I knew how. After forty-five years, I knew.

He was making a list of the things he wanted to ask the doctors. He probably already had contacted Pan Am to rearrange his schedule. I was sure he had his battered traveling bag, with its small medicine kit and a couple of changes of old clothing that he planned to wash out in the bathroom sink, for he didn’t believe in unnecessary baggage. Although none of his clothing—island clothing; threadbare shorts and tennis shoes—would be appropriate for New York in March. I would have to bring him some things from here.

“I’m fine. I’ve known for a few hours now, so I’ve had time to absorb it.”

“A few hours? That’s all you need?” And despite the sick, cold terror filling the pit where my stomach used to be, I laughed.

“Yes.” His voice was stern now; he did not understand my laughter.

“Charles, try not to worry. It may be the wrong diagnosis. Let’s just wait until the doctors here see you.”

Now he was annoyed; he snarled into the phone, “It’s not the wrong diagnosis. I asked for a medical book and researched the symptoms myself. My hope is that it will respond to the radiation, as many cancers do.”

“All right. Do you want me to—I don’t know, what else can I do?”

“Nothing. I don’t want you to come here until tomorrow because I don’t like you driving in the dark. Please don’t tell the children. There’s no reason to worry them and of course we don’t want any publicity. If anyone asks, just say I have a virus I caught in the jungle.”

“I will. Charles, I—have a good night. Try to get some sleep. I’ll be there in the morning.”

“You, too. And enjoy your evening.”

I hung up the phone, and laughed again.

The door to the kitchen swung open and Dana greeted me with a merry smile on his face, a tray of cocktails in his hand.

“Do you want to see a show tomorrow in the city? A patient of mine offered tickets to A Little Night Music . Finally, I’ve wanted to see this for—What? What’s wrong, Anne?”

I shook my head, and tried to catch my breath, but let out a ragged sob instead. “It’s Charles. He just called. Dana, he—he’s sick. Leukemia. I don’t remember what kind. But he’s in the city and he asked me to ask you—to ask you , of all people!—if you could recommend—”

But I broke down, unable to say the words, falling into Dana’s familiar arms. He held me to his chest, and clucked soothingly before settling down with me on the sofa.

I laid my head on his shoulder, waiting for my tears to dry.

And I tried not to think about my husband.

CHARLES RESPONDED WELL to the initial treatments, and we had a few good months. Months in which we were finally together, as I had desired, so long ago. But I couldn’t help but remember the old adage: Be careful what you wish for . I was the caretaker, now; the healthy one. And Charles was not a compliant patient; he envied me my strength when he couldn’t even climb a staircase without needing a nap. He wanted to keep up his hectic schedule but when he no longer could, he goaded me into his newest project: the extensive editing of my diaries for publication. I’d stopped writing them, years ago—after the war. But observing Charles’s urgent interest in them now, I couldn’t help but think he was writing his own obituary using my words. Rearranging them, pruning them until they portrayed someone I no longer recognized.